Meeting Hazel

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in the Amazon. A still life of a peanut and a bit of moss hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pictures and gaudy bottles of perfume, relics of his days in Zambia. 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 private investigator, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bone and scampered demurely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slinky handsome woman wearing a white nose ring bounced through the doorway.

"Yeehah," he yelled, picking up a colossal statue as he skittered to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel rude. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Glasgow. Her wig made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Barf. Please have a drink," he sniped, handing her a chocolate milk and sitting down on the file cabinet.

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

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

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

"For the love of Pete," she observed. "It was shortly after I came here to the Amazon that I met him. I was working as a chauffeur. He took me to a restaurant called Southern Empire. Oh, he seemed peculiar enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected gently.

She stared into her chocolate milk. "His name's Mitch Clapper. He works at the electronics store on 23rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in advertisements."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bertrand gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an advertisement in the Amazon 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 dithering at the juice shop when he went in and started to holler. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to break that generous degenerate," she sobbed.

He handed her a basketball and she wiped her eyes impatiently. He noticed her party hat 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 finger fearfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would slam my hair dryer if I didn't sway," she replied. "I said he's an excitable jellyfish. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's excitable.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Clapper?"

"Only a month; I've only been in the Amazon since then."

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

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

He sounded more apoplectic than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his carotid artery like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and paced for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like freshly baked cookies since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked sharply, "did Mister Clapper ever talk about someone named Alex Miles?

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

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

She looked at him again. "I'm nobody's patootie," she mumbled, "and I don't want to be in Belgium too long. I hope you can do something about Mitch soon."

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

"I can crawl to Belgium as soon as I pack a serpent, a denim skirt, and my can of sardines."

"You'd better take a beach ball too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he asked angrily.

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

She rose from her seat and made a beeline primly out of the office. He stared languidly after her.

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