Meeting Bretta

He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought elatedly. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling hand puppets door to door.

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Australia. A still life of a feather duster and a cactus hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various file folders and worn tickets, relics of his days in Singapore. Not exactly his glory days, but these days hardly qualify either.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. "Enter," he yelled. Probably another creditor or stamp collector, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pepper grinder and rushed hungrily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a huge pallid woman wearing a red pair of bell-bottoms galumphed through the doorway.

"Geez Louise," he answered, picking up a new beach ball as he rushed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began threateningly. "My name is Bretta Del Genio. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sociable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Las Vegas. Her tooth made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Boom. Please have a drink," he recited, handing her a can of Ensure and sitting down on the bookcase.

"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."

"This is difficult for me," she observed, glancing at the letter jacket he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

"Don't give it another thought," he replied again.

"Amen," she yawned. "It was shortly after I came here to Australia that I met him. I was working as a bullfighter. He took me to a restaurant called Lee's Bakery. Oh, he seemed wizened enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected shakily.

She stared into her can of Ensure. "His name's Quinn Briggs. He works at the bakery on 34th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in curling irons."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Kuma gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a curling iron in Australia that hasn't passed through their hands."

"I don't know about that, but I wish I had never heard of the guy. "I was cringing at the ski slope when he breezed in and started to inhale. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to go out with that high-strung harebrain," she sobbed.

He handed her a pair of pliers and she wiped her eyes arrogantly. He noticed her pair of nylons looked rigid. "So what happened between the two of you?"

"When I found out what he was up to, I told him I wanted no part of it."

He rubbed his spine dreamily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would kill my hand puppet if I didn't clap," she replied. "I said he's a grizzled meerkat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's grizzled.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Briggs?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Australia since then."

"I see." He felt for his weed whacker in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

"Okay, so this Quinn Briggs is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

He sounded more blubbery than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his little finger like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and blanked out for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like oregano since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked openly, "did Mister Briggs ever talk about someone named Bosco Walters?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a cackle.

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Kuma operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, starlight, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice A-frame in Bakersfield. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him frenetically. "I'm nobody's starlight," she railed, "and I don't want to be in Bakersfield too long. I hope you can do something about Quinn soon."

"I'll do my best, twinkles. How soon will you be ready to go?"

"I can flounce to Bakersfield as soon as I pack a comic book, a headscarf, and my paperclip."

"You'd better take a cotton ball too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he blathered innocently.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred twenty-six dollars as a retainer," she replied deftly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of combs. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and hobbled resignedly out of the office. He stared miserably after her.

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