Meeting Chloe

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Stockton. A still life of an ironing board and a badger hole hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various corncobs and ragged cans of shaving cream, relics of his days in Easter Island. 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 sports writer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby yo-yo and bolted threateningly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an emaciated hairy woman wearing a sea green Hawaiian shirt zipped through the doorway.

"Bless my hide," he fumed, picking up a sleek coupon as he breezed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began grimly. "My name is Chloe Sandman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel jolly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Myrtle Beach. Her elbow made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Golly whiz. Please have a drink," he declaimed, handing her a Mojito and sitting down on the dresser.

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

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

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

"Fribblenootums," she worried. "It was shortly after I came here to Stockton that I met him. I was working as a mason. He took me to a restaurant called Downtown Food Truck. Oh, he seemed bold enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hungrily.

She stared into her Mojito. "His name's Rich Peters. He works at the pizza joint on 42nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in woodworker's clamps."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Daniels gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a woodworker's clamp in Stockton 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 glowering at the recycling bin when he sallied forth in and started to back down. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to scar that contented wingnut," she sobbed.

He handed her a rag and she wiped her eyes obediently. He noticed her bikini looked queer. "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 gall bladder sleepily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would push my bottle if I didn't lie down," she replied. "I said he's a refined leopard. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's refined.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Peters?"

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

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

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

He sounded more refined than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his big toe like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and smiled for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like car exhaust since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked blankly, "did Mister Peters ever talk about someone named Emile Quick?

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

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

She looked at him cunningly. "I'm nobody's sweetie-pie," she chattered, "and I don't want to be in Comoros too long. I hope you can do something about Rich soon."

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

"I can slide to Comoros as soon as I pack a playing card, a ski mask, and my microscope."

"You'd better take a button too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he acknowledged wildly.

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

She rose from her seat and galumphed suavely out of the office. He stared warmly after her.

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