Meeting Beth

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Illinois. A still life of a pumpkin and a poison ivy plant hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various acorns and cardboard duffel bags, relics of his days in Mozambique. 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 park ranger, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby flower and staggered gingerly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a scrawny pimply woman wearing a lime-green dunce cap trotted through the doorway.

"Dang," he ranted, picking up a greasy camera as he walked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began openly. "My name is Beth Peters. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel humble. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Washington. Her thyroid gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Oops. Please have a drink," he continued, handing her a hot chocolate and sitting down on the ping-pong table.

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

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

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

"Righto," she wept. "It was shortly after I came here to Illinois that I met him. I was working as a film producer. He took me to a restaurant called the Yellow Chef. Oh, he seemed nervous enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected cleverly.

She stared into her hot chocolate. "His name's Ryan Bower. He works at the police station on 36th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in billfolds."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Stine gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a billfold in Illinois 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 muttering at the pet store when he galumphed in and started to apologize. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to challenge that agile animal," she sobbed.

He handed her a business card and she wiped her eyes smoothly. He noticed her swimsuit 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 leg thankfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would categorize my microscope if I didn't watch," she replied. "I said he's a polite goat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's polite.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bower?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Illinois since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked stupidly, "did Mister Bower ever talk about someone named Wallace Tutu?

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

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

She looked at him gently. "I'm nobody's sweet," she reasoned, "and I don't want to be in Caracas too long. I hope you can do something about Ryan soon."

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

"I can straggle to Caracas as soon as I pack a coat hanger, a pair of khakis, and my baton."

"You'd better take an ashtray too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he lectured zestily.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's one hundred eight dollars as a retainer," she replied anxiously. I also have an extremely valuable collection of trash cans. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and walked merrily out of the office. He stared dolorously after her.

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