Meeting Susanne

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Bolivia. A still life of a package and a tree branch hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various yo-yos and nice tickets, relics of his days in Tibet. 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 puppeteer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby skull and sauntered automatically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a chubby frail woman wearing a navy blue beanie climbed through the doorway.

"Oh," he called, picking up a crooked baton as he went to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began tensely. "My name is Susanne Sitzman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel queer. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Pembroke. Her ankle made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Feh. Please have a drink," he complained, handing her a Mudslide and sitting down on the futon.

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

"This is difficult for me," she breathed, glancing at the set of vampire fangs he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Maybe," she provoked. "It was shortly after I came here to Bolivia that I met him. I was working as a horse trainer. He took me to a restaurant called the Copper Clover. Oh, he seemed disagreeable enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected fiercely.

She stared into her Mudslide. "His name's Oscar Clemmons. He works at the beauty salon on 5th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in advertisements."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Tate gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an advertisement in Bolivia 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 fulminating at the jail when he jumped in and started to shrivel. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to argue with that affable fink," she sobbed.

He handed her a cigar and she wiped her eyes fearfully. He noticed her jumpsuit looked petite. "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 ruefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would fix my artificial flower if I didn't snore," she replied. "I said he's a lanky tapeworm. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's lanky.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Clemmons?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked smoothly, "did Mister Clemmons ever talk about someone named Logan Wooten?

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

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

She looked at him sarcastically. "I'm nobody's toots," she clarified, "and I don't want to be in Albania too long. I hope you can do something about Oscar soon."

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

"I can storm to Albania as soon as I pack a fingernail clipper, a hermit crab costume, and my muffin."

"You'd better take a toy too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he yawned miserably.

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

She rose from her seat and paraded needlessly out of the office. He stared impatiently after her.

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