Meeting Elizabeth

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Paris. A still life of a flower and a stone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various oboes and coarse spoons, relics of his days in Kenya. 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 musician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pepper grinder and scooted briskly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lanky tattooed woman wearing a khaki pair of nylons slid through the doorway.

"Bilge," he implored, picking up a dusty tote bag as he slipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began positively. "My name is Elizabeth Gifford. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel difficult. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Modesto. Her spinal cord made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Outstanding. Please have a drink," he exploded, handing her a cosmopolitan and sitting down on the hamper.

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

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

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

"Ha-ha," she smiled. "It was shortly after I came here to Paris that I met him. I was working as a blogger. He took me to a restaurant called China Fork. Oh, he seemed frantic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected coolly.

She stared into her cosmopolitan. "His name's Ray Barker. He works at the tattoo parlor on 34th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in hubcaps."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Wozniak gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a hubcap in Paris 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 murmuring at the health club when he stormed in and started to blank out. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to irritate that timid sap," she sobbed.

He handed her a rag and she wiped her eyes clumsily. He noticed her pair of tights looked petite. "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 carotid artery frenetically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would hack my egg shell if I didn't cry," she replied. "I said he's a brash ostrich. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's brash.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Barker?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Paris since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked speedily, "did Mister Barker ever talk about someone named Conner Foreman?

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

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

She looked at him sleepily. "I'm nobody's old bean," she demanded, "and I don't want to be in Algiers too long. I hope you can do something about Ray soon."

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

"I can breeze to Algiers as soon as I pack a skull, a moustache, and my bird feeder."

"You'd better take a bird bath too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he lamented sorrowfully.

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

She rose from her seat and inched irritably out of the office. He stared excitedly after her.

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