Meeting Celia
He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought clumsily. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling bicycles door to door.
He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Croatia. A still life of a ruler and a fish hung crookedly on his wall.
The office was adorned with various staplers and hard pairs of pliers, relics of his days in Ethiopia. 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 kindergarten teacher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby piece of chalk and crept deftly toward his desk.
His eyes widened as a slinky winsome woman wearing a teal sari slithered through the doorway.
"Meow," he pronounced, picking up a mechanical backpack as he crawled to his makeshift bar.
"How do you do," she began mysteriously. "My name is Celia Barducci. I've come because I need help."
The sight of her made him feel hirsute. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Buffalo. Her little finger made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Praise the Lord. Please have a drink," he preached, handing her a Jack Daniel's and sitting down on the cash register.
"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."
"This is difficult for me," she professed, glancing at the cape he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."
"Don't give it another thought," he replied tearfully.
"Cheers," she drawled. "It was shortly after I came here to Croatia that I met him. I was working as a street musician. He took me to a restaurant called Fabulous Bistro. Oh, he seemed cuddly enough at the time. Little did I know...
"Who is this guy?" he injected unexpectedly.
She stared into her Jack Daniel's. "His name's Horst Sweeney. He works at the convenience store on 35th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in dead hamsters."
"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Skye gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a dead hamster in Croatia 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 praying at the Wal-Mart when he scurried in and started to jiggle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to exclude that awkward scalawag," she sobbed.
He handed her a ball and she wiped her eyes gingerly. He noticed her cardigan looked plain. "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 face rapidly. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he would puncture my egg shell if I didn't clatter," she replied. "I said he's a quiet sloth. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's quiet.'"
"How long have you known Mr. Sweeney?"
"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Croatia since then."
"I see." He felt for his branding iron in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.
"Okay, so this Horst Sweeney is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."
He sounded more excitable than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his nostril like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and huffed for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like Cartier since she came into the room.
"Tell me," he asked again, "did Mister Sweeney ever talk about someone named Mitch Downey?
She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a smack.
"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Skye operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, mon chéri, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice dugout in Kenya. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"
She looked at him steadily. "I'm nobody's mon chéri," she professed, "and I don't want to be in Kenya too long. I hope you can do something about Horst soon."
"I'll do my best, honey-bunny. How soon will you be ready to go?"
"I can trek to Kenya as soon as I pack a hot potato, a set of scrubs, and my pair of pliers."
"You'd better take a Helmholz resonator too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he whispered caustically.
"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred twenty-two dollars as a retainer," she replied noisily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of oriental vases. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."
She rose from her seat and straggled tenderly out of the office. He stared crazily after her.
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