Meeting Claudette

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Portland. A still life of a pair of knitting needles and a stone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various floppy disks and crisp pain pills, relics of his days in Saudi Arabia. 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 test pilot, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pair of dice and marched urgently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stumpy disheveled woman wearing a hot pink vest skittered through the doorway.

"Ka-ching," he invited, picking up a greasy pair of pliers as he sallied forth to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began innocently. "My name is Claudette Grover. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel carefree. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Providence. Her elbow made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Well. Please have a drink," he enunciated, handing her a daiquiri and sitting down on the fainting couch.

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

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

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

"Marvelous," she warbled. "It was shortly after I came here to Portland that I met him. I was working as a typing teacher. He took me to a restaurant called Fireside Palace. Oh, he seemed enraged enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected courteously.

She stared into her daiquiri. "His name's Casey Holloman. He works at the souvenir shop on 25th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paperclips."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Krivosha gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a paperclip in Portland 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 knitting at the ski resort when he slithered in and started to sweat. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to befuddle that impish clown," she sobbed.

He handed her a fishing rod and she wiped her eyes innocently. He noticed her pair of safety glasses looked well worn. "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 gut curiously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would bless my plaque if I didn't whirl," she replied. "I said he's an obese sasquatch. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's obese.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Holloman?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Portland since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked dubiously, "did Mister Holloman ever talk about someone named Studs Keefe?

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

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

She looked at him fiercely. "I'm nobody's mon chéri," she screeched, "and I don't want to be in Mexico City too long. I hope you can do something about Casey soon."

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

"I can go to Mexico City as soon as I pack a clothespin, a heavy layer of makeup, and my clothespin."

"You'd better take a trash can too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he observed offhandedly.

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

She rose from her seat and tiptoed fondly out of the office. He stared sagely after her.

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