Meeting Clarisse

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Somalia. A still life of a file folder and a weed hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various calculators and large backpacks, relics of his days in Panama. 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 umpire, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby business card and waddled tensely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a short neat woman wearing a jade leotard bounded through the doorway.

"Boom," he inquired, picking up a bronze church key as he skidded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gratefully. "My name is Clarisse Austin. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel arrogant. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Chula Vista. Her femur made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy cow. Please have a drink," he railed, handing her an Alka-Seltzer and sitting down on the filing cabinet.

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

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

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

"At last," she squawked. "It was shortly after I came here to Somalia that I met him. I was working as a graphic designer. He took me to a restaurant called New York Greasy Spoon. Oh, he seemed comely enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected warily.

She stared into her Alka-Seltzer. "His name's Casey Bluestein. He works at the pizza joint on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pizzas."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Parker gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pizza in Somalia 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 flushing at the radio station when he crept in and started to cough. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to trick that forgetful prattling gabbler," she sobbed.

He handed her a paintbrush and she wiped her eyes awkwardly. He noticed her badge looked dusty. "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 cheek threateningly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would dust my Kindle if I didn't think," she replied. "I said he's a passionate gerbil. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's passionate.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bluestein?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Somalia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked ignobly, "did Mister Bluestein ever talk about someone named Derek Windle?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Parker operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, turtle dove, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice subway tunnel in Santa Fe. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him anxiously. "I'm nobody's turtle dove," she insisted, "and I don't want to be in Santa Fe too long. I hope you can do something about Casey soon."

"I'll do my best, knight in shining armor. How soon will you be ready to go?"

"I can straggle to Santa Fe as soon as I pack a Bunsen burner, a burqa, and my stick of gum."

"You'd better take a paper clip too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he snorted trustingly.

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

She rose from her seat and skipped fiercely out of the office. He stared intensely after her.

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