Meeting Crystal

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in St. Paul. A still life of a clipboard and a spider web hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bottles of perfume and narrow china dolls, relics of his days in Afghanistan. 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 filmmaker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby ruler and blundered strangely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a small gorgeous woman wearing a jet black pair of jeans slunk through the doorway.

"By all the saints at the backside door of purgatory," he trumpeted, picking up an authentic shoe as he crept to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began irritably. "My name is Crystal Sattler. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel prissy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Boston. Her collarbone made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Oh joy. Please have a drink," he fretted, handing her a glass of papaya juice and sitting down on the mattress.

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

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

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

"Far out," she spouted. "It was shortly after I came here to St. Paul that I met him. I was working as a geologist. He took me to a restaurant called Chicago Island. Oh, he seemed paranoid enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected gently.

She stared into her glass of papaya juice. "His name's Garth Fodor. He works at the nail salon on 42nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in dishes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the O'Connor gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a dish in St. Paul 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 knitting at the library when he slipped in and started to run. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to dumbfound that jaunty scamp," she sobbed.

He handed her a towel and she wiped her eyes shyly. He noticed her uniform looked important. "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 little toe bitterly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pack my thumb drive if I didn't burp," she replied. "I said he's a miniscule alligator. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's miniscule.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Fodor?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in St. Paul 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 Garth Fodor is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

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

"Tell me," he asked briskly, "did Mister Fodor ever talk about someone named Bobby Barnes?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the O'Connor operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, baby, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice castle in Corpus Christi. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him sourly. "I'm nobody's baby," she informed, "and I don't want to be in Corpus Christi too long. I hope you can do something about Garth soon."

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

"I can sashay to Corpus Christi as soon as I pack a stuffed kitten, a negligee, and my picture."

"You'd better take a pair of fuzzy dice too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he raved lickety-split.

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

She rose from her seat and zipped urgently out of the office. He stared obediently after her.

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