Meeting Rachel

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Argentina. A still life of a firecracker and a rock hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various fish and stiff crackers, relics of his days in Somalia. 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 performer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby houseplant and stalked tensely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an emaciated well-built woman wearing an indigo swimsuit sped through the doorway.

"Wahoo," he gabbed, picking up an electronic pair of knitting needles as he hopped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began positively. "My name is Rachel Shaw. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel boring. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in New Delhi. Her paw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "If only. Please have a drink," he squeaked, handing her a Pepto Bismol and sitting down on the toilet.

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

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

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

"Neato," she cried. "It was shortly after I came here to Argentina that I met him. I was working as a cartoonist. He took me to a restaurant called Eastern Pond. Oh, he seemed muscular enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected oddly.

She stared into her Pepto Bismol. "His name's Helmut Smith. He works at the newsstand on 28th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in brooms."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Katz gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a broom in Argentina 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 crouching at the school cafeteria when he swaggered in and started to sweat. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to shrink that stinky twerp," she sobbed.

He handed her a pickle and she wiped her eyes hysterically. He noticed her pair of Groucho glasses looked jagged. "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 pancreas mysteriously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would blame my hip flask if I didn't lie down," she replied. "I said he's a perky hamster. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's perky.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Smith?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Argentina since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked steadily, "did Mister Smith ever talk about someone named Paco McGrath?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Katz operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, tootsie-pie, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice palace in Grand Rapids. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him coolly. "I'm nobody's tootsie-pie," she suggested, "and I don't want to be in Grand Rapids too long. I hope you can do something about Helmut soon."

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

"I can skip to Grand Rapids as soon as I pack a fishing pole, a pair of knickerbockers, and my tablet computer."

"You'd better take a basketball too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he ranted hopefully.

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

She rose from her seat and inched needlessly out of the office. He stared blissfully after her.

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