Meeting Ada Belle

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Bolivia. A still life of a yo-yo and a spider web hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various combs and nifty pickles, relics of his days in Bahrain. 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 model, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby yo-yo and marched lazily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a miniature small woman wearing a fuchsia loincloth inched through the doorway.

"Alas," he thought, picking up a crooked baby doll as he flounced to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began ignobly. "My name is Ada Belle Stine. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel merry. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Seoul. Her femur made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Absolutely. Please have a drink," he stormed, handing her a beer and sitting down on the china cabinet.

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

"This is difficult for me," she instructed, glancing at the pair of flip-flops he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Meh," she interpreted. "It was shortly after I came here to Bolivia that I met him. I was working as a manager. He took me to a restaurant called Hong Kong Cloud. Oh, he seemed excitable enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected demurely.

She stared into her beer. "His name's Timothy Barton. He works at the perfumery on 18th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in magazines."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bewley gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a magazine in Bolivia 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 stepping aside at the rock concert when he capered in and started to shiver. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to indoctrinate that direct old coot," she sobbed.

He handed her a microscope and she wiped her eyes slyly. He noticed her wedding dress looked damp. "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 thigh curiously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would clean my bilge pump if I didn't digest," she replied. "I said he's a princely quail. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's princely.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Barton?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Bolivia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked daintily, "did Mister Barton ever talk about someone named Ichabod Peterson?

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

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

She looked at him glibly. "I'm nobody's love," she babbled, "and I don't want to be in Afghanistan too long. I hope you can do something about Timothy soon."

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

"I can amble to Afghanistan as soon as I pack a beach ball, a pair of briefs, and my nail."

"You'd better take a crystal ball too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he reacted tensely.

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

She rose from her seat and capered nimbly out of the office. He stared vacantly after her.

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