Meeting Celia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Italy. A still life of a playing card and a pine cone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various air compressors and imported saddles, relics of his days in Azerbaijan. 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 invalid, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby kite and set out narrowly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stocky chubby woman wearing a khaki negligee scampered through the doorway.

"Ulp," he whimpered, picking up a gruesome cupcake as he sailed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began oddly. "My name is Celia Morrison. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel fearless. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Knoxville. Her thyroid gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Great Caesar's ghost. Please have a drink," he vowed, handing her a Seven and Seven and sitting down on the sofa.

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

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

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

"In your dreams," she rambled. "It was shortly after I came here to Italy that I met him. I was working as a television newscaster. He took me to a restaurant called the Blue Gastropub. Oh, he seemed somber enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected tenderly.

She stared into her Seven and Seven. "His name's Shane Ward. He works at the supermarket on 42nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in dishes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Dirkson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a dish in Italy 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 grumbling at the ski resort when he sprinted in and started to sniffle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to poke that sinister dummy," she sobbed.

He handed her a hot potato and she wiped her eyes coolly. He noticed her pair of cycling shorts looked narrow. "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 thumb hysterically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would rattle my toy if I didn't go limp," she replied. "I said he's an attractive basset hound. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's attractive.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ward?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked irritably, "did Mister Ward ever talk about someone named Devin Bushnell?

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

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

She looked at him clumsily. "I'm nobody's little blossom," she spouted, "and I don't want to be in Bakersfield too long. I hope you can do something about Shane soon."

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

"I can dance to Bakersfield as soon as I pack a notepad, a big grin, and my box."

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

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

She rose from her seat and went unexpectedly out of the office. He stared resignedly after her.

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