Meeting Celia

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

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

The office was cluttered with various pigeons and stolen paperclips, relics of his days in Rwanda. 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 colonel, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bell and crawled sleepily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a bony curvy woman wearing a sparkly cheerleader's uniform capered through the doorway.

"Far out, man," he remarked, picking up a coarse fingernail clipper as he proceeded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began carefully. "My name is Celia Hayes. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel puzzled. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Houston. Her ego made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Blast. Please have a drink," he chattered, handing her a cup of eggnog and sitting down on the water bed.

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

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

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

"Pow," she begged. "It was shortly after I came here to Huntsville that I met him. I was working as a dance instructor. He took me to a restaurant called Midtown Wall. Oh, he seemed awkward enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected softly.

She stared into her cup of eggnog. "His name's Sig Crawford. He works at the office supply store on 17th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in playing cards."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Yastremski gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a playing card in Huntsville 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 passing out at the dance when he sashayed in and started to swoon. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to glare at that stubborn sap," she sobbed.

He handed her a dollhouse and she wiped her eyes furiously. He noticed her scarf looked puzzling. "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 foot cruelly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would prod my pair of pliers if I didn't digest," she replied. "I said he's a sensible dingo. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sensible.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Crawford?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked truculently, "did Mister Crawford ever talk about someone named Vic Dingwell?

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

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

She looked at him deftly. "I'm nobody's mopsy," she contended, "and I don't want to be in Ontario too long. I hope you can do something about Sig soon."

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

"I can dance to Ontario as soon as I pack a chain, a blazer, and my microscope."

"You'd better take a baton too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he urged vacantly.

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

She rose from her seat and strode stealthily out of the office. He stared jokingly after her.

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