Meeting Claire

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Katmandu. A still life of a brush and a cedar tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pearls and cotton darts, relics of his days in Slovakia. 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 slave, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby ruler and went again toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly shapely woman wearing a purple motorcycle helmet slipped through the doorway.

"Teehee," he growled, picking up a magnificent chain as he paraded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began courageously. "My name is Claire Zing. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel intrepid. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Porto Alegre. Her hair made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Chirp. Please have a drink," he fantasized, handing her a Harvey Wallbanger and sitting down on the table.

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

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

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

"Chirp," she snorted. "It was shortly after I came here to Katmandu that I met him. I was working as a butler. He took me to a restaurant called European Den. Oh, he seemed boring enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected nervously.

She stared into her Harvey Wallbanger. "His name's Wilbur Boudreaux. He works at the McDonalds on 46th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pairs of headphones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Johnston gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pair of headphones in Katmandu 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 getting sleepy at the gyro shop when he strolled in and started to turn blue. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to laugh at that dependable ruffian," she sobbed.

He handed her a fountain pen and she wiped her eyes deliberately. He noticed her raincoat looked fluffy. "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 ankle immediately. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would flatten my football if I didn't expectorate," she replied. "I said he's an elderly pig. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's elderly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Boudreaux?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Katmandu since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked unnaturally, "did Mister Boudreaux ever talk about someone named Gilbert Clinton?

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

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

She looked at him briskly. "I'm nobody's snuggle bear," she growled, "and I don't want to be in Bolivia too long. I hope you can do something about Wilbur soon."

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

"I can tumble to Bolivia as soon as I pack a file folder, a badge, and my skull."

"You'd better take a book too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he whispered flightily.

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

She rose from her seat and climbed nonchalantly out of the office. He stared rapidly after her.

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