Meeting Bailey

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 hot potatoes door to door.

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in the Swiss Alps. A still life of a bag of ice and a cactus hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pencils and plastic boxes, relics of his days in Norway. 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 blacksmith, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby calculator and tramped shyly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dainty elegant woman wearing a burgundy false moustache sneaked through the doorway.

"Bowwow," he yawned, picking up a hand-made bag of groceries as he darted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began unexpectedly. "My name is Bailey Eastwood. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel dignified. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Perth. Her fingernail made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hello. Please have a drink," he called, handing her a cambric tea and sitting down on the cushion.

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

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

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

"Alack," she grieved. "It was shortly after I came here to the Swiss Alps that I met him. I was working as a nutritionist. He took me to a restaurant called London River. Oh, he seemed sweet enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected courteously.

She stared into her cambric tea. "His name's Mickey Van Hollen. He works at the beauty salon on 45th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in washrags."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hunt gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a washrag in the Swiss Alps 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 preaching at the poetry reading when he dove in and started to carry on. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to question that earnest troglodyte," she sobbed.

He handed her a magnet and she wiped her eyes shyly. He noticed her tank top looked miniature. "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 gall bladder greedily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would see my knitting needle if I didn't yawn," she replied. "I said he's a furious zebra. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's furious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Van Hollen?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in the Swiss Alps since then."

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

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

He sounded more obese than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his wrist like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and played Farmer in the Dell for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like road kill since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked dreamily, "did Mister Van Hollen ever talk about someone named Woody McGill?

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

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

She looked at him surreptitiously. "I'm nobody's radiant starlight," she groaned, "and I don't want to be in Upper Mongolia too long. I hope you can do something about Mickey soon."

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

"I can swing to Upper Mongolia as soon as I pack a cactus plant, a pair of earmuffs, and my chamber pot."

"You'd better take a chair too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he uttered solemnly.

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

She rose from her seat and stormed flightily out of the office. He stared boldly after her.

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