Meeting Bev

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Mozambique. A still life of a spittoon and a poison ivy plant hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various advertisements and fluffy etchings, relics of his days in Azerbaijan. 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 soccer coach, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby baseball and trekked narrowly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a divine demonic woman wearing a burgundy skirt bounded through the doorway.

"Alright," he hinted, picking up a stiff diary as he swung to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began dolefully. "My name is Bev Cain. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel masculine. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tripoli. Her thumb made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Be still, my beating heart. Please have a drink," he grieved, handing her a Moscow mule and sitting down on the bunk bed.

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

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

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

"Ssss," she mumbled. "It was shortly after I came here to Mozambique that I met him. I was working as a woodcarver. He took me to a restaurant called Cindy's Palace. Oh, he seemed fearful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected repeatedly.

She stared into her Moscow mule. "His name's Jude Grady. He works at the psychic reading business on 42nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bags."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Baker gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bag in Mozambique 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 grimacing at the day care center when he waded in and started to scratch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to bite that artistic hooligan," she sobbed.

He handed her a potato and she wiped her eyes dreamily. He noticed her sport coat looked primitive. "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 uneasily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would balance my gun if I didn't mutter," she replied. "I said he's an irate whale. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's irate.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Grady?"

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

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

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

He sounded more powerful than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his appendix 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 mint since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked delicately, "did Mister Grady ever talk about someone named Hendrick Ordway?

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

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

She looked at him woodenly. "I'm nobody's sweetie," she comforted, "and I don't want to be in Boise too long. I hope you can do something about Jude soon."

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

"I can careen to Boise as soon as I pack a calculator, a dress, and my stuffed kitten."

"You'd better take a shoe too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he scoffed vacantly.

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

She rose from her seat and scooted haughtily out of the office. He stared cheerfully after her.

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