Meeting Carla

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Bakersfield. A still life of a chamber pot and a piece of bark hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various piggy banks and ruined notepads, relics of his days in France. 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 photographer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bouquet and reeled courteously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a hunky hairy woman wearing a rose toga reeled through the doorway.

"Begad," he fretted, picking up a polished crayon as he trotted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began recklessly. "My name is Carla Plummer. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel megalomaniacal. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Rochester. Her toupee made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ppppbbbft. Please have a drink," he explained, handing her a cup of hot cider and sitting down on the armoire.

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

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

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

"Thpft," she asserted. "It was shortly after I came here to Bakersfield that I met him. I was working as a pilot. He took me to a restaurant called the Neighborhood Jiffy Eats. Oh, he seemed cowardly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected oddly.

She stared into her cup of hot cider. "His name's Arturo Orman. He works at the auto repair shop on 46th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stopwatches."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the McBride gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stopwatch in Bakersfield 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 howling at the basement when he sped in and started to think. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to deceive that fashionable cream puff," she sobbed.

He handed her a tank top and she wiped her eyes ingeniously. He noticed her blanket looked narrow. "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 bladder vacantly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would annoint my top if I didn't drool," she replied. "I said he's an insane horse. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's insane.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Orman?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked daringly, "did Mister Orman ever talk about someone named Adam Law?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the McBride operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, shmoopsie-poo, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice dugout in the Swiss Alps. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him queerly. "I'm nobody's shmoopsie-poo," she declared, "and I don't want to be in the Swiss Alps too long. I hope you can do something about Arturo soon."

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

"I can inch to the Swiss Alps as soon as I pack a tote bag, a pair of knickerbockers, and my Egyptian mummy."

"You'd better take a washrag too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he pointed out victoriously.

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

She rose from her seat and bounced greedily out of the office. He stared warmly after her.

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