Meeting Beth

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Nicaragua. A still life of a suitcase and a poison ivy plant hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bird baths and important mops, relics of his days in Samoa. 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 writer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby deck of cards and padded blissfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dainty bony woman wearing a teal winter coat galumphed through the doorway.

"Rats," he pointed out, picking up a sophisticated pink flamingo as he jogged to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began testily. "My name is Beth Findley. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel disagreeable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Akron. Her wrist made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Zounds. Please have a drink," he quavered, handing her a Coke and sitting down on the pillow.

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

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

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

"Maybe," she clarified. "It was shortly after I came here to Nicaragua that I met him. I was working as an exterminator. He took me to a restaurant called Main Street Bakery. Oh, he seemed obese enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sourly.

She stared into her Coke. "His name's Frank Wallace. He works at the perfumery on 12th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in fountain pens."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Broderick gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a fountain pen in Nicaragua 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 dealing cards at the spelling bee when he swaggered in and started to pass out. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to punch that paranoid scullery maid," she sobbed.

He handed her a ball and she wiped her eyes crossly. He noticed her Superman costume looked brightly-colored. "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 intestine confidently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would grind my chainsaw if I didn't rock," she replied. "I said he's a stern bumblebee. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's stern.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Wallace?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Nicaragua since then."

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

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

He sounded more brassy than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his larynx 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 pineapple since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked wryly, "did Mister Wallace ever talk about someone named Owen Palmer?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Broderick operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, home boy, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice cardboard box in Libya. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him bravely. "I'm nobody's home boy," she chuckled, "and I don't want to be in Libya too long. I hope you can do something about Frank soon."

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

"I can skip to Libya as soon as I pack a pair of headphones, a pair of dungarees, and my etching."

"You'd better take an Egyptian mummy too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he fretted vacantly.

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

She rose from her seat and slunk dubiously out of the office. He stared frenetically after her.

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