Meeting Charlotte

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Bangalore. A still life of an avocado and a raspberry bush hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various photographs and ridged charts, relics of his days in Austria. 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 colonel, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby flute and tumbled impatiently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied sexy woman wearing a jade pair of shorts bounded through the doorway.

"Whew," he fumed, picking up a multicolored water bottle as he slipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began boldly. "My name is Charlotte Grant. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel thoughtful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Durham. Her shoulder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yeeshka. Please have a drink," he bragged, handing her a milkshake and sitting down on the beanbag chair.

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

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

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

"Lord be praised," she croaked. "It was shortly after I came here to Bangalore that I met him. I was working as a tennis player. He took me to a restaurant called the Golden Jiffy Eats. Oh, he seemed childish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected immediately.

She stared into her milkshake. "His name's Thad McAllister. He works at the deli on 32nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in hammers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ping gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a hammer in Bangalore 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 barking at the K-Mart when he ran in and started to cringe. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to double-cross that nervous doofus," she sobbed.

He handed her a teacup and she wiped her eyes deftly. He noticed her dunce cap looked nice. "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 antenna lightly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would whip my can of beans if I didn't watch," she replied. "I said he's a disorganized ox. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's disorganized.'"

"How long have you known Mr. McAllister?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Bangalore since then."

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

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

He sounded more resolute than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his Adam's apple like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and backed up for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like a feed lot since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked gleefully, "did Mister McAllister ever talk about someone named White Cloud Metzger?

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

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

She looked at him dreamily. "I'm nobody's sugar," she concluded, "and I don't want to be in Glendale too long. I hope you can do something about Thad soon."

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

"I can waddle to Glendale as soon as I pack a hat, a cowboy hat, and my rubber chicken."

"You'd better take a ping-pong paddle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he shrieked oddly.

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

She rose from her seat and loped queerly out of the office. He stared fondly after her.

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