Meeting Lizzie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Botswana. A still life of a notepad and a flower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various clothespins and queer peacemakers, relics of his days in Iran. 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 village idiot, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby houseplant and sneaked repeatedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tall sexy woman wearing a brilliant orange belt buckle bounded through the doorway.

"Totally rad," he responded, picking up a brittle pizza as he rushed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began madly. "My name is Lizzie Khatchaturian. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel considerate. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Warren. Her lung made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ho hum. Please have a drink," he babbled, handing her a latte and sitting down on the overstuffed chair.

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

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

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

"Excellent," she admitted. "It was shortly after I came here to Botswana that I met him. I was working as a geologist. He took me to a restaurant called the Magic Fox. Oh, he seemed frightened enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected happily.

She stared into her latte. "His name's Jesus Perry. He works at the malt shop on 8th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paper towels."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bogart gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a paper towel in Botswana 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 chortling at the saloon when he ran in and started to fidget. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to chase that obedient gump," she sobbed.

He handed her a corncob and she wiped her eyes furiously. He noticed her straitjacket looked bronze. "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 ear majestically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would squash my Hostess Ding Dong if I didn't wince," she replied. "I said he's a shy kitty. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's shy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Perry?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Botswana since then."

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

"Okay, so this Jesus Perry 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 big toe like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and quivered for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like sage since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked unnaturally, "did Mister Perry ever talk about someone named Sinclair Clapper?

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

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

She looked at him testily. "I'm nobody's mon bébé," she mouthed, "and I don't want to be in Monaco too long. I hope you can do something about Jesus soon."

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

"I can slink to Monaco as soon as I pack a Rubik's cube, a blouse, and my piece of candy."

"You'd better take a flashlight too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he rambled gracefully.

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

She rose from her seat and galumphed recklessly out of the office. He stared caustically after her.

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