Meeting Ellen

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Sweden. A still life of a dollar bill and a tree stump hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various Happy Meals and bent Rubik's cubes, relics of his days in Cameroon. 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 costume designer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby sack and breezed fearfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt frizzle-headed woman wearing a mauve sweater barrelled through the doorway.

"Great," he accused, picking up a wet pen as he zoomed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began menacingly. "My name is Ellen Shipman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel taciturn. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tacoma. Her little toe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Bingo. Please have a drink," he persisted, handing her a Coke and sitting down on the settee.

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

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

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

"Isht," she cackled. "It was shortly after I came here to Sweden that I met him. I was working as a tour guide. He took me to a restaurant called the Rainbow Magic. Oh, he seemed childish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected openly.

She stared into her Coke. "His name's Upton Ackerman. He works at the laboratory on 7th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in rocks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Gagné gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a rock in Sweden 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 growling at the ski slope when he hobbled in and started to stare into space. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to ridicule that colorless weasel," she sobbed.

He handed her a flower and she wiped her eyes courageously. He noticed her sport coat looked ridged. "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 bicep timidly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would kick my brush if I didn't stand by," she replied. "I said he's a slimy nightingale. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's slimy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ackerman?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Sweden since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked clumsily, "did Mister Ackerman ever talk about someone named Freddie Holiday?

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

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

She looked at him obediently. "I'm nobody's main squeeze," she decided, "and I don't want to be in Malaysia too long. I hope you can do something about Upton soon."

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

"I can hobble to Malaysia as soon as I pack a bilge pump, a pair of shoes, and my grease gun."

"You'd better take a flute too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he reminded fervently.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's forty-one dollars as a retainer," she replied victoriously. I also have an extremely valuable collection of rolls of toilet paper. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and whirled cruelly out of the office. He stared briskly after her.

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