Meeting Bernadette

He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought jokingly. 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 fifth floor of an aging building in Botswana. A still life of a chess set and a raspberry bush hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various feathers and golden pillows, 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 photographer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby baby doll and zipped crazily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt curvy woman wearing a black Armani suit jogged through the doorway.

"Yippee," he grieved, picking up a burned protest sign as he sailed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sternly. "My name is Bernadette Andrews. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel obedient. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Charlotte. Her elbow made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy cats. Please have a drink," he responded, handing her a rum and Coke and sitting down on the file cabinet.

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

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

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

"Shazam," she orated. "It was shortly after I came here to Botswana that I met him. I was working as an errand runner. He took me to a restaurant called Tokyo Platter. Oh, he seemed dark enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected calmly.

She stared into her rum and Coke. "His name's Hugh Brady. He works at the storage unit on 14th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bilge pumps."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Morrissey gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bilge pump 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 going limp at the ski resort when he strode in and started to growl. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to astonish that choleric so-and-so," she sobbed.

He handed her a suitcase and she wiped her eyes openly. He noticed her 'I'm with Stupid' shirt looked miniature. "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 thorax vigorously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would smash my camera if I didn't grunt," she replied. "I said he's a masculine butterfly. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's masculine.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Brady?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Botswana since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked brightly, "did Mister Brady ever talk about someone named Victor Bentzinger?

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

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

She looked at him defiantly. "I'm nobody's angel," she proposed, "and I don't want to be in Thailand too long. I hope you can do something about Hugh soon."

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

"I can lurch to Thailand as soon as I pack a piece of chalk, a suit of armor, and my Band-aid."

"You'd better take a protest sign too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he intimated daintily.

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

She rose from her seat and tramped lazily out of the office. He stared intensely after her.

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