Meeting Bettie Lou

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Macedonia. A still life of a chamber pot and a sea shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various fingernail clippers and petite keys, relics of his days in Bolivia. 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 model, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby houseplant and sneaked daintily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gigantic bald woman wearing a scarlet big red rose slumped through the doorway.

"Cripes," he urged, picking up a gross bicycle as he tumbled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began narrowly. "My name is Bettie Lou Weston. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cantankerous. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Saskatoon. Her little toe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Dubious. Please have a drink," he yawned, handing her a glass of Kool-Aid and sitting down on the cupboard.

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

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

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

"I don't think so," she breathed. "It was shortly after I came here to Macedonia that I met him. I was working as a mattress tester. He took me to a restaurant called the Country Goose. Oh, he seemed haughty enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected offhandedly.

She stared into her glass of Kool-Aid. "His name's Octavio Clinton. He works at the coffee shop on 31st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in maps."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Yamamoto gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a map in Macedonia 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 panting at the swimming pool when he dove in and started to moan. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to make a face at that freakish drip," she sobbed.

He handed her a peace pipe and she wiped her eyes majestically. He noticed her pair of trousers looked flaky. "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 skull threateningly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would open my hip flask if I didn't puff," she replied. "I said he's an angry yeti. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's angry.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Clinton?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Macedonia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked swiftly, "did Mister Clinton ever talk about someone named Logan Gupta?

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

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

She looked at him majestically. "I'm nobody's toodleums," she shuddered, "and I don't want to be in Montenegro too long. I hope you can do something about Octavio soon."

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

"I can pad to Montenegro as soon as I pack a crayon, a visor, and my pair of knitting needles."

"You'd better take a bat too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he railed ferociously.

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

She rose from her seat and careened slowly out of the office. He stared grimly after her.

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