Meeting Elly

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Mexico City. A still life of a flute and a maple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pom-poms and coarse crutches, relics of his days in Poland. 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 firefighter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby teacup and sallied forth caustically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a shapely sorrowful woman wearing a brilliant orange big red rose breezed through the doorway.

"Fie," he whispered, picking up an electronic lollipop as he sashayed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sleepily. "My name is Elly Deng. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel beautiful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Miami. Her toupee made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hold that thought. Please have a drink," he quoted, handing her a fruit smoothie and sitting down on the crib.

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

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

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

"Adios," she pointed out. "It was shortly after I came here to Mexico City that I met him. I was working as an engineer. He took me to a restaurant called Midtown Mountain. Oh, he seemed dreadful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected majestically.

She stared into her fruit smoothie. "His name's Preston Escobar. He works at the clothing store on 29th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pearls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Castaneda gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pearl in Mexico City 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 running away at the bedroom when he lumbered in and started to gasp. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to poison that sociable weenie," she sobbed.

He handed her a flashlight and she wiped her eyes peevishly. He noticed her winter coat looked damp. "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 waist vigorously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would extinguish my doily if I didn't catch up," she replied. "I said he's a bubbly cockroach. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's bubbly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Escobar?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Mexico City since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked impatiently, "did Mister Escobar ever talk about someone named Jeremy Hoffa?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Castaneda operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, light of my life, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice ranch house in St. Paul. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him brashly. "I'm nobody's light of my life," she squeaked, "and I don't want to be in St. Paul too long. I hope you can do something about Preston soon."

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

"I can canter to St. Paul as soon as I pack a picture, a dog collar, and my cookie."

"You'd better take an ice cream cone too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he raved sheepishly.

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

She rose from her seat and stormed victoriously out of the office. He stared crossly after her.

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