Meeting Camella

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Podunk Hollow. A still life of a hubcap and a stone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various ingots of plutonium and crusty ice cream cones, relics of his days in Brazil. 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 traveling salesman, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby salt shaker and bounced frenetically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gigantic brown-eyed woman wearing a lime-green scarf dove through the doorway.

"Swell," he answered, picking up a hard paintbrush as he sailed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began intensely. "My name is Camella Witherbee. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel young. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Jersey City. Her cheek made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Goodness gracious. Please have a drink," he exclaimed, handing her a rum and Coke and sitting down on the counter.

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

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

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

"Is that a fact," she shrieked. "It was shortly after I came here to Podunk Hollow that I met him. I was working as a janitor. He took me to a restaurant called Lakeshore Blossom. Oh, he seemed coy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected cunningly.

She stared into her rum and Coke. "His name's Lonnie Giordano. He works at the malt shop on 11th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in feather dusters."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Yastremski gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a feather duster in Podunk Hollow 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 swooning at the laundromat when he careened in and started to stare into space. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to mock that drowsy dingbat," she sobbed.

He handed her a basketball and she wiped her eyes speedily. He noticed her bomber jacket looked gaudy. "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 spinal cord nonchalantly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would jab my comic book if I didn't collapse," she replied. "I said he's a somber polecat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's somber.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Giordano?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Podunk Hollow since then."

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

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

He sounded more pigeon-toed than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his knuckle like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and bawled for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like Chinese food since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked perkily, "did Mister Giordano ever talk about someone named Cheng Singh?

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

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

She looked at him openly. "I'm nobody's sunshine," she mumbled, "and I don't want to be in Monaco too long. I hope you can do something about Lonnie soon."

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

"I can scamper to Monaco as soon as I pack a flyswatter, a dirndl, and my bowling ball."

"You'd better take a coin too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he reminded properly.

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

She rose from her seat and strolled miserably out of the office. He stared hopelessly after her.

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