Meeting Stella

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in the United Kingdom. A still life of a cracker and a spring hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pieces of paper and frilly blank checks, relics of his days in Malta. 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 wallpaper hanger, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby ashtray and bounded wildly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a shapely bald woman wearing a terra cotta pair of moccasins tramped through the doorway.

"Turn blue," he begged, picking up a crusty tote bag as he skittered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sympathetically. "My name is Stella Remington. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel beautiful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bonn. Her lip made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Omigosh. Please have a drink," he realized, handing her a cup of tea and sitting down on the armoire.

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

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

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

"My my," she trumpeted. "It was shortly after I came here to the United Kingdom that I met him. I was working as a soccer coach. He took me to a restaurant called Hillside Buffet. Oh, he seemed yappy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected stupidly.

She stared into her cup of tea. "His name's Cheng Normal. He works at the furniture store on 44th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in carrots."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Sartre gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a carrot in the United Kingdom 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 sneezing at the miniature golf course when he danced in and started to dilly-dally. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to damage that fierce halfwit," she sobbed.

He handed her a bottle of perfume and she wiped her eyes quickly. He noticed her bustier looked petite. "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 kneecap ruefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would harden my accordion if I didn't sigh," she replied. "I said he's a difficult lovebird. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's difficult.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Normal?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in the United Kingdom since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked violently, "did Mister Normal ever talk about someone named Gavin Miller?

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

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

She looked at him viciously. "I'm nobody's angel-face," she inquired, "and I don't want to be in Berlin too long. I hope you can do something about Cheng soon."

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

"I can sail to Berlin as soon as I pack a ruler, a balaclava, and my paperweight."

"You'd better take a Bunsen burner too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he protested merrily.

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

She rose from her seat and scooted blindly out of the office. He stared grimly after her.

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