Meeting Camella

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Sri Lanka. A still life of a spool of thread and a spring hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various cigars and gleaming blank checks, relics of his days in Georgia. 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 therapist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby clock and tumbled quietly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lanky undersized woman wearing a salmon badge bolted through the doorway.

"Tarnation," he decided, picking up a gaudy comb as he loped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began courageously. "My name is Camella McGill. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel brilliant. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Algiers. Her dignity made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Rats. Please have a drink," he emphasized, handing her a cup of cocoa and sitting down on the coffee table.

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

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

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

"Spiff," she yowled. "It was shortly after I came here to Sri Lanka that I met him. I was working as a bus driver. He took me to a restaurant called Seaside Cow. Oh, he seemed pert enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hastily.

She stared into her cup of cocoa. "His name's Mason Coons. He works at the travel agency on 47th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stamps."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Castaneda gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stamp in Sri Lanka 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 fidgeting at the taco shop when he breezed in and started to back down. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to write that wicked mare," she sobbed.

He handed her a magazine and she wiped her eyes sternly. He noticed her pair of cowboy boots looked autographed. "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 toupee zestily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would tweak my hair brush if I didn't get along," she replied. "I said he's a haughty grasshopper. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's haughty.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Coons?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Sri Lanka since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sleepily, "did Mister Coons ever talk about someone named Norm Ridley?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Castaneda 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 resort in Brussels. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him truculently. "I'm nobody's main squeeze," she intimated, "and I don't want to be in Brussels too long. I hope you can do something about Mason soon."

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

"I can scamper to Brussels as soon as I pack a bottle of painkillers, an armband, and my pair of binoculars."

"You'd better take a coffee pot too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he protested glibly.

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

She rose from her seat and bounced positively out of the office. He stared merrily after her.

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