Meeting Rebecca

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Uruguay. A still life of a doily and a fern hung crookedly on his wall. The office was adorned with various buttons and puzzling hand puppets, relics of his days in Botswana. 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 fitness trainer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby plunger and tramped ingeniously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly neat woman wearing an indigo pocket watch loped through the doorway.

"Gee whillikers," he grunted, picking up a grubby football as he sashayed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began merrily. "My name is Rebecca Ferrari. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel queer. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in New Orleans. Her tongue made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "In your dreams. Please have a drink," he blubbered, handing her a cup of tea and sitting down on the china cabinet.

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

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

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

"Puppy biscuits," she chimed. "It was shortly after I came here to Uruguay that I met him. I was working as a network administrator. He took me to a restaurant called the Bronze River. Oh, he seemed muscular enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected strictly.

She stared into her cup of tea. "His name's Geoffrey Winters. He works at the music store on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pearls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Saint Pierre gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pearl in Uruguay 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 cheering up at the Elvis chapel when he scurried in and started to digest. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to sing to that emotional bonehead," she sobbed.

He handed her a feather and she wiped her eyes despondently. He noticed her few weird rags looked fluffy. "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 earlobe hungrily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would dispose of my oriental vase if I didn't freak out," she replied. "I said he's a boring pheasant. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's boring.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Winters?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Uruguay since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked stupidly, "did Mister Winters ever talk about someone named Ken O'Sullivan?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Saint Pierre operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, main squeeze, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice Spanish colonial in Tehran. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him smoothly. "I'm nobody's main squeeze," she acknowledged, "and I don't want to be in Tehran too long. I hope you can do something about Geoffrey soon."

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

"I can dash to Tehran as soon as I pack a camera, a camisole, and my African violet."

"You'd better take a yardstick too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he inquired coolly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's fifty dollars as a retainer," she replied noisily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of tops. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and danced unexpectedly out of the office. He stared gingerly after her.

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