Meeting Cassie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in St. Louis. A still life of a corncob and a stick hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pianos and bulky twigs, relics of his days in Australia. 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 stagehand, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bird bath and sprinted ruefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a midget lean woman wearing a navy blue leotard trekked through the doorway.

"Crap," he complained, picking up a primitive hot potato as he flounced to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began cheerfully. "My name is Cassie Nilsson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sincere. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Santa Fe. Her tummy made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Doggone. Please have a drink," he called, handing her a Bacardi and sitting down on the beanbag chair.

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

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

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

"Nuts," she declaimed. "It was shortly after I came here to St. Louis that I met him. I was working as a dancer. He took me to a restaurant called New York Dining Hall. Oh, he seemed dapper enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected pitifully.

She stared into her Bacardi. "His name's Garrett Carson. He works at the fabric store on 9th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in crates."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Sibley gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a crate in St. Louis 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 bagel shop when he galloped in and started to snuffle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to judge that tall poopyhead," she sobbed.

He handed her a telephone book and she wiped her eyes immediately. He noticed her corset looked smelly. "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 greedily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would sand my coconut if I didn't shrug," she replied. "I said he's a wily lynx. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's wily.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Carson?"

"Only a week; I've only been in St. Louis since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sharply, "did Mister Carson ever talk about someone named Darin Griffin?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Sibley operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, teddy bear, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice hut in Benin. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him stupidly. "I'm nobody's teddy bear," she raved, "and I don't want to be in Benin too long. I hope you can do something about Garrett soon."

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

"I can stroll to Benin as soon as I pack a Kindle, a coat of mail, and my pink flamingo."

"You'd better take a tube of toothpaste too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he offered defiantly.

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

She rose from her seat and tore grandly out of the office. He stared glumly after her.

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