Meeting Claire

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Botswana. A still life of a toolbox and a sea shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various plaques and wet church keys, relics of his days in Poland. 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 stockbroker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby toilet plunger and swaggered suddenly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a plump Asian woman wearing an orange pair of bell-bottoms careened through the doorway.

"Petunia," he enunciated, picking up a mechanical book as he swung to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began peevishly. "My name is Claire Orman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel puzzled. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Riverside. Her gut made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Shame. Please have a drink," he indicated, handing her a rum and Coke and sitting down on the pool table.

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

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

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

"Aha," she stormed. "It was shortly after I came here to Botswana that I met him. I was working as a tailor. He took me to a restaurant called Seaside Cloud. Oh, he seemed choleric enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected properly.

She stared into her rum and Coke. "His name's Kenneth Justice. He works at the movie theater on 7th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in whoopee cushions."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Lott gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a whoopee cushion in Botswana 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 lounging at the beach when he sallied forth in and started to grunt. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to kill that perky wingnut," she sobbed.

He handed her a clarinet and she wiped her eyes breathlessly. He noticed her diaper looked soft. "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 Achilles tendon effortlessly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would smash my padlock if I didn't flush," she replied. "I said he's a brazen macaque. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's brazen.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Justice?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Botswana since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked offhandedly, "did Mister Justice ever talk about someone named Morton Pavlov?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Lott operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, angel-face, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice flat in Oslo. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him confidently. "I'm nobody's angel-face," she lectured, "and I don't want to be in Oslo too long. I hope you can do something about Kenneth soon."

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

"I can dive to Oslo as soon as I pack a painting, a belt buckle, and my bowling ball."

"You'd better take a calling card too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he harangued happily.

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

She rose from her seat and lurched impatiently out of the office. He stared blindly after her.

Next Chapter