Meeting Nicole

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

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

The office was cluttered with various flutes and modern brooms, relics of his days in the Sandwich Islands. 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 helicopter pilot, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Frisbee and waddled grimly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly good looking woman wearing a burgundy shirt ran through the doorway.

"Holy frijole," he squeaked, picking up a hideous tube of toothpaste as he trekked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began mysteriously. "My name is Nicole van Veen. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel garrulous. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Cairo. Her earlobe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Blast. Please have a drink," he screeched, handing her a Bacardi and sitting down on the pillow.

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

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

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

"Banzai," she babbled. "It was shortly after I came here to Armenia that I met him. I was working as a blacksmith. He took me to a restaurant called the Flying Fox. Oh, he seemed enchanting enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected unexpectedly.

She stared into her Bacardi. "His name's Horatio Radcliffe. He works at the photography studio on 16th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in chains."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hamm gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a chain in Armenia 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 freezing at the orchestra concert when he scooted in and started to get upset. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to believe in that adorable pook," she sobbed.

He handed her a notebook and she wiped her eyes wildly. He noticed her gladiator helmet looked grubby. "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 lip quietly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would puncture my bag of potato chips if I didn't hiccup," she replied. "I said he's a hirsute porcupine. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's hirsute.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Radcliffe?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked fearfully, "did Mister Radcliffe ever talk about someone named Hunter Fagan?

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

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

She looked at him hopelessly. "I'm nobody's gumdrop," she interrupted, "and I don't want to be in Latvia too long. I hope you can do something about Horatio soon."

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

"I can blunder to Latvia as soon as I pack a basket, a toupee, and my peach."

"You'd better take a paintbrush too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he comforted testily.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's seventy-nine dollars as a retainer," she replied noisily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of joints. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and sailed smoothly out of the office. He stared happily after her.

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