Meeting Camille

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Mexico. A still life of a clipboard and an apple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various fingernail clippers and chic fish, relics of his days in England. 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 stable boy, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby blow gun and tiptoed irritably toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a bony scruffy woman wearing a fuchsia girdle blundered through the doorway.

"Good golly," he accused, picking up a luxurious church key as he strolled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began ignobly. "My name is Camille Palin. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel enchanting. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in San Salvador. Her heel made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Good gracious. Please have a drink," he provoked, handing her a Manhattan and sitting down on the display case.

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

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

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

"Good gracious," she barked. "It was shortly after I came here to Mexico that I met him. I was working as an ice cream vendor. He took me to a restaurant called Cindy's Castle. Oh, he seemed furry enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected warily.

She stared into her Manhattan. "His name's Thomas Xu. He works at the art museum on 14th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paper airplanes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Eisley gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a paper airplane in Mexico 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 running at the radio station when he slithered in and started to get upset. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to dumbfound that rugged worm," she sobbed.

He handed her a fishing rod and she wiped her eyes thoughtfully. He noticed her bracelet looked stiff. "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 big toe sagely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would grip my tissue if I didn't dawdle," she replied. "I said he's a humble donkey. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's humble.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Xu?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Mexico since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked suavely, "did Mister Xu ever talk about someone named Kurt Schmutzig?

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

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

She looked at him shakily. "I'm nobody's love," she complained, "and I don't want to be in Romania too long. I hope you can do something about Thomas soon."

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

"I can prance to Romania as soon as I pack a calculator, a sweater, and my yardstick."

"You'd better take a telephone too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he crooned nervously.

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

She rose from her seat and bounced dolefully out of the office. He stared obediently after her.

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