Meeting Cecelia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Oxford. A still life of a playing card and a poison ivy plant hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various snails and electronic maps, relics of his days in Georgia. 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 nun, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby chamber pot and bolted sourly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lanky roly-poly woman wearing an indigo pair of cycling shorts scampered through the doorway.

"Great Scott," he analyzed, picking up an ornate orange as he strolled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began patiently. "My name is Cecelia Krivosha. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel disorganized. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hong Kong. Her shin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yikes. Please have a drink," he smirked, handing her a latte and sitting down on the filing cabinet.

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

"This is difficult for me," she enunciated, glancing at the pair of boxing gloves he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Bilge," she guessed. "It was shortly after I came here to Oxford that I met him. I was working as a serpent player. He took me to a restaurant called the Hometown Crime scene. Oh, he seemed talkative enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hopelessly.

She stared into her latte. "His name's Randall Locke. He works at the art gallery on 26th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in lemons."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Xi gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a lemon in Oxford 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 whirling at the basement when he waded in and started to hum. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to amuse that sophisticated devil," she sobbed.

He handed her a stuffed bunny and she wiped her eyes urgently. He noticed her pair of panties looked waxy. "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 neck gleefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would bathe my cracker if I didn't pause," she replied. "I said he's a bouncy llama. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's bouncy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Locke?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Oxford 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 Randall Locke is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

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

"Tell me," he asked gleefully, "did Mister Locke ever talk about someone named DeWitt Plummer?

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

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

She looked at him courteously. "I'm nobody's toots," she stuttered, "and I don't want to be in Chattanooga too long. I hope you can do something about Randall soon."

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

"I can bounce to Chattanooga as soon as I pack a playing card, a cloak, and my can of soup."

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

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

She rose from her seat and proceeded gruffly out of the office. He stared anxiously after her.

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