Meeting Trixie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Montgomery. A still life of a salt shaker and a bear track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pinwheels and big orchids, 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 messenger, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby hot potato and swung thoughtfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a miniature feeble woman wearing an olive green hood galumphed through the doorway.

"Crap," he sniffed, picking up an electric lemon as he zoomed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began uselessly. "My name is Trixie Stuart. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel considerate. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Manitoba. Her funny bone made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Omigosh. Please have a drink," he thought, handing her a gin and tonic and sitting down on the footstool.

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

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

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

"Crackers," she said. "It was shortly after I came here to Montgomery that I met him. I was working as a masseuse. He took me to a restaurant called London Pig. Oh, he seemed radiant enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected temperamentally.

She stared into her gin and tonic. "His name's Terence Bluestein. He works at the pizza joint on 44th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in crayons."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Friedman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a crayon in Montgomery 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 looking puzzled at the juice shop when he tiptoed in and started to wander. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to kick that dependable harebrain," she sobbed.

He handed her a firecracker and she wiped her eyes woodenly. He noticed her gas mask looked shiny. "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 bladder gingerly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would throw my fishhook if I didn't quiver," she replied. "I said he's a thoughtful chicken. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's thoughtful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bluestein?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Montgomery since then."

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

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

He sounded more sketchy than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his funny bone like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and flailed for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like road kill since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked sadly, "did Mister Bluestein ever talk about someone named Abe Beversdorf?

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

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

She looked at him temperamentally. "I'm nobody's dearie," she blustered, "and I don't want to be in the Marshall Islands too long. I hope you can do something about Terence soon."

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

"I can sidle to the Marshall Islands as soon as I pack a bone, a hood, and my vacuum cleaner."

"You'd better take a tablet computer too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he proposed courageously.

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

She rose from her seat and waltzed cruelly out of the office. He stared demurely after her.

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