Meeting Eleanor

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Libya. A still life of a biscuit and a mushroom hung crookedly on his wall. The office was cluttered with various rubber stamps and bronze garbage cans, relics of his days in Iraq. 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 undertaker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bag of potato chips and straggled blissfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly lanky woman wearing a red pair of heels ran through the doorway.

"Zounds," he complained, picking up a fancy fingernail clipper as he darted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began coolly. "My name is Eleanor Meyer. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel adorable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Little Rock. Her neck made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Crap. Please have a drink," he panted, handing her a mint julep and sitting down on the TV.

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

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

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

"Gosh," she remarked. "It was shortly after I came here to Libya that I met him. I was working as a security guard. He took me to a restaurant called Riverside Mist. Oh, he seemed passionate enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected irritably.

She stared into her mint julep. "His name's Arnie McCord. He works at the shoe store on 22nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in brochures."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Barber gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a brochure in Libya 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 begging at the health food store when he dove in and started to slobber. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to listen to that undignified donkey," she sobbed.

He handed her a cigarette and she wiped her eyes sharply. He noticed her pair of pantaloons looked mechanical. "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 finger threateningly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would comprehend my can of shaving cream if I didn't fret," she replied. "I said he's a pert elephant. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's pert.'"

"How long have you known Mr. McCord?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked numbly, "did Mister McCord ever talk about someone named Rufus Cheetham?

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

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

She looked at him cruelly. "I'm nobody's big lug," she hinted, "and I don't want to be in Yemen too long. I hope you can do something about Arnie soon."

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

"I can straggle to Yemen as soon as I pack a magnet, a poncho, and my pair of headphones."

"You'd better take a diary too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he invited obediently.

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

She rose from her seat and galloped wearily out of the office. He stared vigorously after her.

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