Meeting Christabel

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Japan. A still life of a pail and a tree stump hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various buttons and cotton stones, relics of his days in Easter Island. 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 pianist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pickle and ambled recklessly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a skinny neat woman wearing a turquoise tam o'shanter flounced through the doorway.

"Maybe," he yelled, picking up a rough camera as he waddled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began smoothly. "My name is Christabel Shoemaker. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel conscientious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Austin. Her larynx made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Roger. Please have a drink," he maintained, handing her a glass of orange juice and sitting down on the buffet.

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

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

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

"Great balls of fire," she lamented. "It was shortly after I came here to Japan that I met him. I was working as a private investigator. He took me to a restaurant called the Magic Cafe. Oh, he seemed selfish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected ingeniously.

She stared into her glass of orange juice. "His name's Michaelangelo Berkowitz. He works at the pizza joint on 15th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in billfolds."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Durand gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a billfold in Japan 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 bagel shop when he waddled in and started to scream. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to lose that sassy pook," she sobbed.

He handed her an umbrella and she wiped her eyes curiously. He noticed her pair of overalls 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 liver openly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would clean my pair of scissors if I didn't snore," she replied. "I said he's a rugged mink. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's rugged.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Berkowitz?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Japan since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked surreptitiously, "did Mister Berkowitz ever talk about someone named Shepard Fosbury?

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

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

She looked at him sourly. "I'm nobody's dreamboat," she gasped, "and I don't want to be in Lesotho too long. I hope you can do something about Michaelangelo soon."

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

"I can slink to Lesotho as soon as I pack a teapot, a watch, and my cookie."

"You'd better take a cage too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he muttered nervously.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred eighty-seven dollars as a retainer," she replied queerly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of chains. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and paraded grudgingly out of the office. He stared awkwardly after her.

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