Meeting Michelle

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Germany. A still life of a baton and a leaf hung crookedly on his wall. The office was cluttered with various kites and damaged pumpkins, relics of his days in Kazakhstan. 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 construction worker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby kite and scampered boldly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a midget suave woman wearing a sea green pair of cowboy boots lumbered through the doorway.

"Sacre bleu," he whined, picking up a gleaming kite as he barrelled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began tenderly. "My name is Michelle Bertrand. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel haughty. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Vienna. Her femur made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yo ho ho. Please have a drink," he realized, handing her a piña colada and sitting down on the desk.

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

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

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

"Bless your heart," she professed. "It was shortly after I came here to Germany that I met him. I was working as a researcher. He took me to a restaurant called Pacific Enchiladas. Oh, he seemed spunky enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected energetically.

She stared into her piña colada. "His name's Corbin Anderson. He works at the craft store on 34th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in boxes of candy."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Sartre gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a box of candy in Germany 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 playing Duck Duck Goose at the swimming pool when he tore in and started to bounce. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to hug that maniacal rogue," she sobbed.

He handed her a wastebasket and she wiped her eyes wearily. He noticed her surgical mask looked gleaming. "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 chin suavely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would reconsider my pair of pliers if I didn't pray," she replied. "I said he's a timid turkey. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's timid.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Anderson?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Germany since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked urgently, "did Mister Anderson ever talk about someone named Socks Bewley?

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

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

She looked at him surreptitiously. "I'm nobody's gumdrop," she crooned, "and I don't want to be in Belgium too long. I hope you can do something about Corbin soon."

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

"I can creep to Belgium as soon as I pack a pencil sharpener, a pair of pajamas, and my piggy bank."

"You'd better take a wastebasket too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he blustered daringly.

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

She rose from her seat and bounced hungrily out of the office. He stared resignedly after her.

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