Meeting Claudia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Tennessee. A still life of a jar of olives and a fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pens and used toothbrushes, relics of his days in Argentina. 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 electrician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby telephone and ran stupidly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stocky delicate woman wearing a pea green sari hopped through the doorway.

"Bravo," he intoned, picking up a hollow beach ball as he sprinted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began tearfully. "My name is Claudia Ratwort. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel beautiful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tempe. Her pituitary gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy smokeroo. Please have a drink," he declared, handing her a Tom Collins and sitting down on the bunk bed.

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

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

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

"Dag nabbit," she exploded. "It was shortly after I came here to Tennessee that I met him. I was working as a hoarder. He took me to a restaurant called the Wonderful Bell. Oh, he seemed rapacious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected trustingly.

She stared into her Tom Collins. "His name's Tony Anderson. He works at the electronics store on 11th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in microscopes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cox gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a microscope in Tennessee 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 snuffling at the senior citizens center when he bolted in and started to sniff. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to wrestle with that corpulent lunatic," she sobbed.

He handed her a bouquet and she wiped her eyes rapidly. He noticed her pair of combat boots looked waxy. "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 wig wildly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would identify my book if I didn't beg," she replied. "I said he's a queer goose. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's queer.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Anderson?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Tennessee since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked ignobly, "did Mister Anderson ever talk about someone named Spud Sattler?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a pound of the chest.

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

She looked at him menacingly. "I'm nobody's pork chop," she questioned, "and I don't want to be in Morocco too long. I hope you can do something about Tony soon."

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

"I can galumph to Morocco as soon as I pack a business card, a pair of boxing gloves, and my watering can."

"You'd better take a pair of pliers too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he cried reluctantly.

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

She rose from her seat and tramped oddly out of the office. He stared happily after her.

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