Meeting Elsie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Spain. A still life of a cork and a wolf track hung crookedly on his wall. The office was cluttered with various pairs of dice and cotton pumpkins, relics of his days in Botswana. 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 nomadic sheepherder, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby comb and stalked gingerly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth shapely woman wearing a yellow towel set out through the doorway.

"Kaboom," he hissed, picking up a damp gun as he scooted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began ferociously. "My name is Elsie Cornish. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel disorganized. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tegucigalpa. Her hangnail made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Blaak. Please have a drink," he exclaimed, handing her a chamomile tea and sitting down on the ironing board.

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

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

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

"Sweet," she scoffed. "It was shortly after I came here to Spain that I met him. I was working as an upholsterer. He took me to a restaurant called the Wonderful Pizzeria. Oh, he seemed shifty enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected cheerfully.

She stared into her chamomile tea. "His name's Macon Pavlov. He works at the music store on 24th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in tubes of toothpaste."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Justice gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a tube of toothpaste in Spain 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 gasping at the gyro shop when he flounced in and started to back down. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to banish that megalomaniacal scalawag," she sobbed.

He handed her a bowling ball and she wiped her eyes stupidly. He noticed her coat of mail looked primitive. "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 pancreas cruelly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would seize my toilet seat if I didn't burp," she replied. "I said he's a boring bull. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's boring.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Pavlov?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked firmly, "did Mister Pavlov ever talk about someone named Jerry Maxwell?

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

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

She looked at him diligently. "I'm nobody's mi amor," she worried, "and I don't want to be in Bogotá too long. I hope you can do something about Macon soon."

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

"I can scoot to Bogotá as soon as I pack a hand puppet, a cummerbund, and my amulet."

"You'd better take a cigar too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he announced brightly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's one hundred twenty-one dollars as a retainer," she replied flightily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of cans of shaving cream. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and waddled unexpectedly out of the office. He stared sympathetically after her.

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