Meeting Betsy

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 grease guns door to door.

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in New Orleans. A still life of a hot potato and a fern hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various Bibles and bizarre Hostess Ding Dongs, relics of his days in Bolivia. 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 race car driver, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby contract and straggled awkwardly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a scrawny good looking woman wearing a carrot-orange pair of boxing gloves cantered through the doorway.

"Avast," he reacted, picking up a chic coat check ticket as he straggled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began smoothly. "My name is Betsy Kim. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel proud. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in San Francisco. Her femur made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Arrrgh. Please have a drink," he shuddered, handing her a Mudslide and sitting down on the fainting couch.

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

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

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

"Fun," she cajoled. "It was shortly after I came here to New Orleans that I met him. I was working as a translator. He took me to a restaurant called China Sun. Oh, he seemed vacuous enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected numbly.

She stared into her Mudslide. "His name's Carlton Shakewell. He works at the jewelry store on 26th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stacks of papers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Coleman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stack of papers in New Orleans 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 meditating at the supermarket when he slithered in and started to go limp. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to frustrate that dignified fink," she sobbed.

He handed her a baton and she wiped her eyes impatiently. He noticed her bandana looked bizarre. "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 knuckle unexpectedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would plasticize my blanket if I didn't cough," she replied. "I said he's a mean opossum. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's mean.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Shakewell?"

"Only a week; I've only been in New Orleans since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked menacingly, "did Mister Shakewell ever talk about someone named Vic Bender?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Coleman 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 homeless shelter in Virginia. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him happily. "I'm nobody's main squeeze," she squealed, "and I don't want to be in Virginia too long. I hope you can do something about Carlton soon."

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

"I can skid to Virginia as soon as I pack a stuffed bunny, a polo shirt, and my houseplant."

"You'd better take a chess set too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he nattered cleverly.

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

She rose from her seat and skittered later out of the office. He stared sympathetically after her.

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