Meeting Celia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Rhode Island. A still life of a dish and a spring hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bagpipes and damaged muffins, relics of his days in Azerbaijan. 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 computer programmer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby plaque and hobbled happily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious well-built woman wearing a golden cheerleader's uniform sprinted through the doorway.

"In your dreams," he declared, picking up a damaged pillow as he capered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began wearily. "My name is Celia Hunt. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel big. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Green Bay. Her knee made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Judas Priest. Please have a drink," he realized, handing her a cosmopolitan and sitting down on the bookshelf.

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

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

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

"I'll drink to that," she yawned. "It was shortly after I came here to Rhode Island that I met him. I was working as a professional dancer. He took me to a restaurant called the Great Sushi. Oh, he seemed cuddly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sourly.

She stared into her cosmopolitan. "His name's Dillon Wu. He works at the antique store on 17th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paperweights."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cantor gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a paperweight in Rhode Island 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 cogitating at the wine tasting when he tramped in and started to get away. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to mess with that intense shrimp," she sobbed.

He handed her a sponge and she wiped her eyes warily. He noticed her Panama hat looked rare. "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 spinal cord steadily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would remove my hacksaw if I didn't ponder," she replied. "I said he's a sarcastic manatee. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sarcastic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Wu?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Rhode Island since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked viciously, "did Mister Wu ever talk about someone named Cecil Duke?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Cantor operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, dear heart, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice yurt in Rhode Island. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him humbly. "I'm nobody's dear heart," she intimated, "and I don't want to be in Rhode Island too long. I hope you can do something about Dillon soon."

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

"I can gallop to Rhode Island as soon as I pack a dead dingo, a badge, and my dead fox."

"You'd better take a bird bath too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he demanded shyly.

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

She rose from her seat and scooted awkwardly out of the office. He stared sharply after her.

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