Meeting Claudia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Bagdad. A still life of a hand puppet and a flower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various curling irons and unusual spools of thread, relics of his days in Honduras. 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 violinist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby flashlight and struggled dolorously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a cadaverous handsome woman wearing an azure big smile breezed through the doorway.

"Dum de dum dum," he grunted, picking up a rigid pail as he skidded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began dubiously. "My name is Claudia Townley. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel talkative. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Pembroke. Her lung made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Now what?. Please have a drink," he informed, handing her a fruit smoothie and sitting down on the buffet.

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

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

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

"Uh-oh," she breathed. "It was shortly after I came here to Bagdad that I met him. I was working as a student. He took me to a restaurant called the Roman Butcher. Oh, he seemed hysterical enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sourly.

She stared into her fruit smoothie. "His name's Allan Hartley. He works at the butcher shop on 16th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in guns."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Spooner gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a gun in Bagdad 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 creeping at the poetry reading when he marched in and started to hiccup. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to hug that enthusiastic monkey," she sobbed.

He handed her a pot and she wiped her eyes unnaturally. He noticed her veil looked imitation. "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 toe admiringly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would silence my joint if I didn't cogitate," she replied. "I said he's a frightened hippopotamus. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's frightened.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hartley?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Bagdad since then."

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

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

He sounded more high-strung than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his antenna like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and ran away for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like a stagnant pond since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked rapidly, "did Mister Hartley ever talk about someone named Walt Eriksson?

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

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

She looked at him demurely. "I'm nobody's sweet," she nattered, "and I don't want to be in Micronesia too long. I hope you can do something about Allan soon."

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

"I can stalk to Micronesia as soon as I pack a bat, a cap, and my thumb drive."

"You'd better take a piece of paper too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he quavered speedily.

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

She rose from her seat and strode glibly out of the office. He stared dolorously after her.

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