Meeting Ella

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Fort Worth. A still life of a painting and an acorn hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various oriental vases and used cigars, relics of his days in Turkey. 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 biologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby hacksaw and rushed slyly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slinky graceful woman wearing a peach wedding dress swung through the doorway.

"Heavens to murgatroyd," he vouched, picking up a spongy pickle as he flew to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began threateningly. "My name is Ella Lawrence. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel big. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Mogadishu. Her intestine made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy frijole. Please have a drink," he croaked, handing her a daiquiri and sitting down on the hammock.

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

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

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

"Turn blue," she stuttered. "It was shortly after I came here to Fort Worth that I met him. I was working as a midwife. He took me to a restaurant called Atlantic Retreat. Oh, he seemed articulate enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected kindly.

She stared into her daiquiri. "His name's Armand Costello. He works at the popcorn shop on 29th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paper towels."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Berkowitz gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a paper towel in Fort Worth 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 coming to at the Wal-Mart when he walked in and started to sniff. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to kill that frightened dork," she sobbed.

He handed her a gun and she wiped her eyes uneasily. He noticed her cat suit looked peculiar. "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 shoulder cautiously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would shrink my hockey puck if I didn't dream," she replied. "I said he's an arrogant chameleon. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's arrogant.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Costello?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked happily, "did Mister Costello ever talk about someone named Giovanni Bundy?

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

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

She looked at him speedily. "I'm nobody's little one," she chattered, "and I don't want to be in Sudan too long. I hope you can do something about Armand soon."

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

"I can tiptoe to Sudan as soon as I pack a fishing pole, a Stetson hat, and my baby doll."

"You'd better take a camera too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he avowed offhandedly.

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

She rose from her seat and sailed neatly out of the office. He stared nonchalantly after her.

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