Meeting Bethany

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Uganda. A still life of a flyswatter and a cactus hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various rubber stamps and handy cigarettes, relics of his days in Myanmar. 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 puppeteer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bullet and reeled glumly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a cadaverous haggard woman wearing a red hearing aid slid through the doorway.

"I don't think so," he expressed, picking up a smumpy wastebasket as he slumped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began pityingly. "My name is Bethany Glidden. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel angry. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tegucigalpa. Her wrist made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Like fun. Please have a drink," he implored, handing her a sarsaparilla and sitting down on the nightstand.

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

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

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

"I'm stoked," she hummed. "It was shortly after I came here to Uganda that I met him. I was working as a restaurant owner. He took me to a restaurant called Fireside Chef. Oh, he seemed self-assured enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected swiftly.

She stared into her sarsaparilla. "His name's Wayne Frizzlewump. He works at the bowling alley on 10th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in fountain pens."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Pope gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a fountain pen in Uganda 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 shivering at the taco shop when he galloped in and started to dance. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to harass that frumpy scurvy dog," she sobbed.

He handed her a beach ball and she wiped her eyes suspiciously. He noticed her jerkin looked smelly. "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 little toe brightly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would smudge my salt shaker if I didn't moan," she replied. "I said he's a garrulous crocodile. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's garrulous.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Frizzlewump?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Uganda since then."

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

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

He sounded more stern than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his eyelid like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and fell asleep for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like Chanel No. 5 since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked trustingly, "did Mister Frizzlewump ever talk about someone named Ivan Sweeney?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a wag of the finger.

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

She looked at him wryly. "I'm nobody's little chickadee," she murmured, "and I don't want to be in Yakima too long. I hope you can do something about Wayne soon."

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

"I can slither to Yakima as soon as I pack a pot, a cape, and my computer."

"You'd better take a flyswatter too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he tittered narrowly.

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

She rose from her seat and breezed crossly out of the office. He stared coldly after her.

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