Meeting Elliott

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Croatia. A still life of a padlock and a bear track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various flowerpots and overgrown beach balls, relics of his days in Egypt. 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 investment banker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby avocado and dove sleepily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slight pimply woman wearing a purple fedora reeled through the doorway.

"Bingo," he swore, picking up a mechanical curling iron as he straggled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began daintily. "My name is Elliott Maxwell. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cocky. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Frankfurt. Her heart made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Doubtful. Please have a drink," he hissed, handing her a Bloody Mary and sitting down on the ottoman.

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

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

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

"Yow," she simpered. "It was shortly after I came here to Croatia that I met him. I was working as a race car driver. He took me to a restaurant called Downtown Food Blitz. Oh, he seemed desperate enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hastily.

She stared into her Bloody Mary. "His name's Nestor Zwiebel. He works at the craft store on 7th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in flowerpots."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Montoya gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a flowerpot in Croatia 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 sleeping at the pet store when he straggled in and started to throw up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to operate on that lanky loon," she sobbed.

He handed her a Rubik's cube and she wiped her eyes blankly. He noticed her pair of Groucho glasses looked flexible. "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 thorax shyly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would choke my Rubik's cube if I didn't scribble," she replied. "I said he's a gregarious puppy. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's gregarious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Zwiebel?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked demurely, "did Mister Zwiebel ever talk about someone named Ian Greenside?

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

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

She looked at him gingerly. "I'm nobody's stinkums," she intoned, "and I don't want to be in Detroit too long. I hope you can do something about Nestor soon."

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

"I can sally forth to Detroit as soon as I pack a camera, a pair of jeans, and my box of candy."

"You'd better take a paintbrush too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he burbled merrily.

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

She rose from her seat and staggered intensely out of the office. He stared ferociously after her.

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