Meeting Clarabell

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Nepal. A still life of a crutch and a bear track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various rubber chickens and flexible fire hoses, relics of his days in Netherlands. 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 air traffic controller, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby hair brush and inched firmly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a huge plump woman wearing an olive green pair of booties staggered through the doorway.

"Buzzards," he bawled, picking up a rough bird cage as he crept to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sarcastically. "My name is Clarabell Popper. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel haggard. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in San Diego. Her pancreas made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yuck. Please have a drink," he decided, handing her a Shirley Temple and sitting down on the end table.

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

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

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

"Shame," she whispered. "It was shortly after I came here to Nepal that I met him. I was working as a travel agent. He took me to a restaurant called the Brass Delicatessen. Oh, he seemed forgetful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected offhandedly.

She stared into her Shirley Temple. "His name's Donnie Bob Osterman. He works at the convenience store on 14th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bags of popcorn."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Tooker gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bag of popcorn in Nepal 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 relaxing at the miniature golf course when he clambered in and started to preach. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to ostracize that cantankerous joker," she sobbed.

He handed her a stuffed bunny and she wiped her eyes nervously. He noticed her coat looked dirty. "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 heel blindly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would wash my flag if I didn't hiccup," she replied. "I said he's an awkward bird. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's awkward.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Osterman?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked carefully, "did Mister Osterman ever talk about someone named Stu Marchetti?

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

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

She looked at him openly. "I'm nobody's joy of my life," she warbled, "and I don't want to be in Moldova too long. I hope you can do something about Donnie Bob soon."

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

"I can dash to Moldova as soon as I pack a fishhook, a necktie, and my top."

"You'd better take a toolbox too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he murmured steadily.

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

She rose from her seat and slumped miserably out of the office. He stared angrily after her.

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