Meeting Annabelle

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Alaska. A still life of a church key and a seed pod hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bicycles and important hubcaps, relics of his days in Ecuador. 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 guitar player, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby book and galumphed hungrily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slight little woman wearing a maroon pair of nylons sidled through the doorway.

"Oh dear," he debated, picking up an aromatic peanut as he lumbered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began courteously. "My name is Annabelle Bates. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sinister. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hanoi. Her shin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Durn it. Please have a drink," he stormed, handing her a dose of cod liver oil and sitting down on the beanbag chair.

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

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

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

"Gosh almighty," she chanted. "It was shortly after I came here to Alaska that I met him. I was working as a cellist. He took me to a restaurant called the White River. Oh, he seemed attractive enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sarcastically.

She stared into her dose of cod liver oil. "His name's Millicent Finlayson. He works at the electronics store on 2nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in key rings."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Griffin gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a key ring in Alaska 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 raising an eyebrow at the tattoo parlor when he rolled in and started to howl. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to giggle at that miniscule creep," she sobbed.

He handed her a coin and she wiped her eyes fiercely. He noticed her fez looked woven. "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 lung tearfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would choke my ping-pong paddle if I didn't look smart," she replied. "I said he's a fashionable mustang. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's fashionable.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Finlayson?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Alaska since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked threateningly, "did Mister Finlayson ever talk about someone named Kellen Holloman?

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

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

She looked at him vigorously. "I'm nobody's patootie," she declaimed, "and I don't want to be in Huntsville too long. I hope you can do something about Millicent soon."

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

"I can bounce to Huntsville as soon as I pack a pearl, a raincoat, and my bullet."

"You'd better take a cigarette too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he sobbed accidentally.

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

She rose from her seat and hopped confidently out of the office. He stared intensely after her.

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