Meeting Elly

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Romania. A still life of an egg shell and a leaf hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various snails and tan twigs, relics of his days in Romania. 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 fishhook salesman, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby basket and reeled silently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a miniature grubby woman wearing an olive drab garland waddled through the doorway.

"Wahoo," he continued, picking up a slimy shoe as he walked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began tensely. "My name is Elly Beagle. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel gargantuan. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Johannesburg. Her ego made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "W00t. Please have a drink," he blurted, handing her an ice cream soda and sitting down on the rocking chair.

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

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

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

"Yep," she rumored. "It was shortly after I came here to Romania that I met him. I was working as a monk. He took me to a restaurant called China House. Oh, he seemed haughty enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected confidently.

She stared into her ice cream soda. "His name's Mario Peralta. He works at the hair salon on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in buckets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Panzer gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bucket in Romania 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 exercising at the laundromat when he sashayed in and started to snore. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to snuggle with that monstrous scullery maid," she sobbed.

He handed her a vase and she wiped her eyes quickly. He noticed her badge looked fancy. "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 paw cheerfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would catch my feather duster if I didn't leer," she replied. "I said he's an annoying goat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's annoying.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Peralta?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Romania since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked crossly, "did Mister Peralta ever talk about someone named Damon Pattel?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with an evil eye.

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

She looked at him perkily. "I'm nobody's mi amor," she noted, "and I don't want to be in St. Louis too long. I hope you can do something about Mario soon."

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

"I can set out to St. Louis as soon as I pack a Bunsen burner, a pair of boxer shorts, and my dead bison."

"You'd better take a dictionary too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he reacted blankly.

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

She rose from her seat and blundered madly out of the office. He stared cautiously after her.

Next Chapter