Meeting Elliott

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Kyrgyzstan. A still life of a bowl and a dead fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various bird cages and aromatic tickets, relics of his days in Cameroon. 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 cellist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby grease gun and galumphed humbly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a shapely gorgeous woman wearing a khaki derby dashed through the doorway.

"Lo and behold," he quavered, picking up an abnormal chair as he waded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began urgently. "My name is Elliott Grant. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel maniacal. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Johannesburg. Her scalp made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hang it. Please have a drink," he admitted, handing her an iced tea and sitting down on the carpet.

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

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

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

"Thpft," she spat. "It was shortly after I came here to Kyrgyzstan that I met him. I was working as a diver. He took me to a restaurant called the Brass Saloon. Oh, he seemed amiable enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected diligently.

She stared into her iced tea. "His name's Paul Nussbaum. He works at the mortuary on 13th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in spittoons."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Dinklefloss gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a spittoon in Kyrgyzstan 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 grumbling at the K-Mart when he scampered in and started to play. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to thump that gentle mush-for-brains," she sobbed.

He handed her an air compressor and she wiped her eyes boisterously. He noticed her mortarboard looked handy. "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 arm tearfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would leave my gun if I didn't collapse," she replied. "I said he's a drowsy grizzly bear. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's drowsy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Nussbaum?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Kyrgyzstan since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked delicately, "did Mister Nussbaum ever talk about someone named Jeremy Xing?

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

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

She looked at him nonchalantly. "I'm nobody's babe," she questioned, "and I don't want to be in Andorra too long. I hope you can do something about Paul soon."

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

"I can sneak to Andorra as soon as I pack an arrowhead, a straitjacket, and my clarinet."

"You'd better take a fountain pen too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he cajoled doubtfully.

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

She rose from her seat and zipped later out of the office. He stared demurely after her.

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