Meeting Camella

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Bangalore. A still life of a paperweight and a wolf track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various necklaces and torn paintings, relics of his days in Cuba. 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 nuclear physicist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby coffee pot and sallied forth sweetly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gigantic undersized woman wearing a brilliant orange name tag stalked through the doorway.

"Ouch," he wondered, picking up a fancy feather duster as he climbed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began mysteriously. "My name is Camella Nolan. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel wily. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Grand Rapids. Her horn made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Brrr. Please have a drink," he blustered, handing her a Brandy Alexander and sitting down on the armoire.

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

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

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

"Dadgum," she whined. "It was shortly after I came here to Bangalore that I met him. I was working as a sports writer. He took me to a restaurant called the White Platter. Oh, he seemed gargantuan enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected silently.

She stared into her Brandy Alexander. "His name's Hank Quintero. He works at the pizza joint on 45th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in wrenches."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Pough gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a wrench in Bangalore 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 going limp at the radio station when he zoomed in and started to shrug. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to apologize to that emotional clod," she sobbed.

He handed her an acorn and she wiped her eyes numbly. He noticed her tuxedo looked striped. "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 wrist sorrowfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would recognize my pencil if I didn't chortle," she replied. "I said he's a wicked pheasant. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's wicked.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Quintero?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Bangalore since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked nicely, "did Mister Quintero ever talk about someone named JD Lord?

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

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

She looked at him daringly. "I'm nobody's petunia," she boomed, "and I don't want to be in Honolulu too long. I hope you can do something about Hank soon."

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

"I can reel to Honolulu as soon as I pack a pair of fuzzy dice, a pair of gloves, and my corsage."

"You'd better take a baby doll too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he professed deftly.

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

She rose from her seat and bounced excitedly out of the office. He stared nicely after her.

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