Meeting Cecelia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Mississippi. A still life of a tennis racket and a bit of moss hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various fishing rods and decrepit hot potatoes, relics of his days in Netherlands. 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 tailor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby water bottle and scampered rapidly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a huge scraggly woman wearing a metallic red corset flew through the doorway.

"Yowee," he fantasized, picking up a petite corncob as he strolled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began immediately. "My name is Cecelia MacKenzie. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sweet. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Algiers. Her heart made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Just a minute. Please have a drink," he offered, handing her a hot buttered rum and sitting down on the canopy bed.

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

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

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

"Exaltations," she crooned. "It was shortly after I came here to Mississippi that I met him. I was working as a stenographer. He took me to a restaurant called Philadelphia Emporium. Oh, he seemed affable enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected brashly.

She stared into her hot buttered rum. "His name's Deng Phillips. He works at the office supply store on 4th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in sticks of gum."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Romero gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stick of gum in Mississippi 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 dithering at the swimming pool when he made a beeline in and started to grumble. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to sit on that melancholic shrimp," she sobbed.

He handed her a feather duster and she wiped her eyes lovingly. He noticed her pair of heels looked delicate. "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 neck elatedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would strip my spinning wheel if I didn't shake," she replied. "I said he's a fashionable falcon. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's fashionable.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Phillips?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Mississippi since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked busily, "did Mister Phillips ever talk about someone named Marvin Zmarzly?

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

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

She looked at him lamely. "I'm nobody's poopsie," she peeped, "and I don't want to be in Bangkok too long. I hope you can do something about Deng soon."

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

"I can skip to Bangkok as soon as I pack a doll, a uniform, and my cell phone."

"You'd better take a plaque too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he persisted peevishly.

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

She rose from her seat and ran nervously out of the office. He stared craftily after her.

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