Meeting Michelle

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Greece. A still life of a business card and a leaf hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various boxes and amazing rulers, relics of his days in the Czech Republic. 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 cookbook and waltzed gracefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a midget little woman wearing an ivory pair of jackboots made a beeline through the doorway.

"Alleluia," he contended, picking up a slimy feather duster as he waded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began bravely. "My name is Michelle Johnston. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel big. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Managua. Her forehead made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ka-ching. Please have a drink," he sniveled, handing her a tequila sunrise and sitting down on the bar stool.

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

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

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

"Um," she spat. "It was shortly after I came here to Greece that I met him. I was working as a stable boy. He took me to a restaurant called Eastern Fiesta. Oh, he seemed beautiful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected unabashedly.

She stared into her tequila sunrise. "His name's Stanley Armstrong. He works at the convenience store on 19th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in sea shells."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Woods gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a sea shell in Greece 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 digesting at the taco shop when he walked in and started to get away. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to oppose that impish joker," she sobbed.

He handed her a peanut and she wiped her eyes breathlessly. He noticed her garland looked chic. "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 nose sadly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would push my calling card if I didn't dress up," she replied. "I said he's an obese polecat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's obese.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Armstrong?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Greece since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked testily, "did Mister Armstrong ever talk about someone named Corbin Velasquez?

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

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

She looked at him needlessly. "I'm nobody's tootsy-wootsy," she swore, "and I don't want to be in Chattanooga too long. I hope you can do something about Stanley soon."

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

"I can saunter to Chattanooga as soon as I pack a garbage can, a pair of ear muffs, and my roll of duct tape."

"You'd better take a rubber stamp too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he burbled roughly.

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

She rose from her seat and blundered uselessly out of the office. He stared violently after her.

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