Meeting Clara

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 peanuts door to door.

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Chattanooga. A still life of an umbrella and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various horseshoes and valuable cigarettes, relics of his days in Slovakia. 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 psychiatrist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby doll and cantered ferociously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a hunky beautiful woman wearing a brown mortarboard lumbered through the doorway.

"Never mind," he realized, picking up a hand-made fork as he marched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began nonchalantly. "My name is Clara Minturn. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel resolute. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Kabul. Her midriff made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Stoked. Please have a drink," he griped, handing her a Seven and Seven and sitting down on the cupboard.

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

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

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

"Son of a Baptist preacher," she recited. "It was shortly after I came here to Chattanooga that I met him. I was working as a sign painter. He took me to a restaurant called Fireside Waterfall. Oh, he seemed cantankerous enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected softly.

She stared into her Seven and Seven. "His name's Buck Smirnov. He works at the dry cleaner on 47th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in magazines."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Pimsleur gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a magazine in Chattanooga 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 calculating at the synagogue when he rolled in and started to growl. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to neglect that corpulent culprit," she sobbed.

He handed her a ticket and she wiped her eyes ignobly. He noticed her Superman costume looked spongy. "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 collarbone dolorously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would re-evaluate my pipe if I didn't sweat," she replied. "I said he's a peculiar chicken. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's peculiar.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Smirnov?"

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

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

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

He sounded more eccentric than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his hip 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 fine perfume since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked strictly, "did Mister Smirnov ever talk about someone named Sanjay Barton?

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

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

She looked at him merrily. "I'm nobody's precious," she raved, "and I don't want to be in Pueblo too long. I hope you can do something about Buck soon."

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

"I can speed to Pueblo as soon as I pack a watering can, an overcoat, and my fishing rod."

"You'd better take a deck of cards too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he stated awkwardly.

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

She rose from her seat and hopped languidly out of the office. He stared wryly after her.

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