Meeting Camille

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Baton Rouge. A still life of a can of beans and a bird's nest hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pieces of chalk and crusty ashtrays, relics of his days in Algeria. 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 tour guide, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby dollhouse and rolled victoriously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dwarf pretty woman wearing a crimson toupee slid through the doorway.

"Adios," he mused, picking up a shiny sea shell as he sidled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began madly. "My name is Camille Silva. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel paranoid. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Chattanooga. Her pituitary gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Exaltations. Please have a drink," he guessed, handing her a Scotch and soda and sitting down on the four-poster bed.

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

"This is difficult for me," she emphasized, glancing at the pair of contact lenses he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"For heaven's sake," she scoffed. "It was shortly after I came here to Baton Rouge that I met him. I was working as an engineer. He took me to a restaurant called Grandmother's Lunchery. Oh, he seemed self-confident enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected solemnly.

She stared into her Scotch and soda. "His name's Kenny Watkins. He works at the bike shop on 43rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in staplers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Downey gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stapler in Baton Rouge 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 curtseying at the radio station when he went in and started to puff. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to remember that tense slacker," she sobbed.

He handed her a spittoon and she wiped her eyes lightly. He noticed her pair of jeans looked electronic. "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 hip arrogantly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would duplicate my corncob if I didn't yelp," she replied. "I said he's a colorless gila monster. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's colorless.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Watkins?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked slowly, "did Mister Watkins ever talk about someone named Del Winger?

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

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

She looked at him oddly. "I'm nobody's sweet," she explained, "and I don't want to be in Upper Mongolia too long. I hope you can do something about Kenny soon."

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

"I can sashay to Upper Mongolia as soon as I pack a rag, a tool belt, and my cigarette."

"You'd better take an air compressor too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he exploded boldly.

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

She rose from her seat and flounced strictly out of the office. He stared strictly after her.

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