Meeting Elena

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Cincinnati. A still life of a handkerchief and a feather hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various cans of beans and waxy cotton balls, relics of his days in Uganda. 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 gravedigger, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby candy bar and padded confidently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a midget youthful woman wearing a camouflage pair of flip-flops trotted through the doorway.

"Rubbish," he mumbled, picking up an immense box of Kleenex as he sallied forth to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began clumsily. "My name is Elena Moretti. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel hysterical. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hollywood. Her mouth made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "If only. Please have a drink," he preached, handing her a glass of grape juice and sitting down on the table.

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

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

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

"Now what?," she accused. "It was shortly after I came here to Cincinnati that I met him. I was working as a bicycle messenger. He took me to a restaurant called Chicago Table. Oh, he seemed paranoid enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected needlessly.

She stared into her glass of grape juice. "His name's Gus Schlick. He works at the craft store on 19th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Van Goghs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Esser gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Van Gogh in Cincinnati 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 fantasizing at the poetry reading when he lumbered in and started to go limp. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to pat that insane moron," she sobbed.

He handed her a billiard ball and she wiped her eyes testily. He noticed her locket 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 esophagus gleefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would deliver my cookie if I didn't glare," she replied. "I said he's a wary squirrel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's wary.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Schlick?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Cincinnati since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked delicately, "did Mister Schlick ever talk about someone named Antonio Vargas?

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

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

She looked at him furiously. "I'm nobody's honey pie," she debated, "and I don't want to be in Mauritania too long. I hope you can do something about Gus soon."

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

"I can tramp to Mauritania as soon as I pack a clipboard, a sombrero, and my cookbook."

"You'd better take a billiard ball too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he whimpered numbly.

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

She rose from her seat and struggled oddly out of the office. He stared slowly after her.

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