Meeting Babs

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Croatia. A still life of a clock and a bird's nest hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various diagrams and unusual fishing rods, relics of his days in Norway. 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 infantryman, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pink flamingo and zoomed patiently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an emaciated gaunt woman wearing a sparkly bikini whirled through the doorway.

"Cock-a-doodle-doo," he moaned, picking up a multicolored smart phone as he darted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began positively. "My name is Babs Black. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel refined. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Omaha. Her tummy made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Well. Please have a drink," he whispered, handing her an iced tea and sitting down on the futon.

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

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

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

"Hello," she disputed. "It was shortly after I came here to Croatia that I met him. I was working as a street artist. He took me to a restaurant called the Floating Farmer. Oh, he seemed presumptuous enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sadly.

She stared into her iced tea. "His name's Buck Seaman. He works at the saloon on 48th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in ropes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bilgewater gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a rope in Croatia 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 sleeping at the miniature golf course when he set out in and started to look angry. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to spill a Mai Tai on that emotional imp," she sobbed.

He handed her a model airplane and she wiped her eyes vigorously. He noticed her trench coat looked speckled. "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 scalp sharply. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would freeze my iPod if I didn't grimace," she replied. "I said he's an obedient mountain goat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's obedient.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Seaman?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Croatia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked swiftly, "did Mister Seaman ever talk about someone named Vilmer Gleason?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Bilgewater operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, hot stuff, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice mansion in Orlando. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him swiftly. "I'm nobody's hot stuff," she implored, "and I don't want to be in Orlando too long. I hope you can do something about Buck soon."

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

"I can gallop to Orlando as soon as I pack a piece of chalk, a kimono, and my bedpan."

"You'd better take a sponge too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he drawled uselessly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred sixty-one dollars as a retainer," she replied demurely. I also have an extremely valuable collection of tennis rackets. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and bolted repeatedly out of the office. He stared steadily after her.

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