Meeting Betty

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Atlanta. A still life of an urn and a mulberry tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various cardboard boxes and dirty photographs, relics of his days in Macedonia. 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 mayor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby battery and hopped silently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a fat slick woman wearing a blue Speedo sashayed through the doorway.

"Oh dear," he divulged, picking up an ancient biscuit as he marched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began carelessly. "My name is Betty Doyle. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel quiet. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Akron. Her pinky made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Oh well. Please have a drink," he invited, handing her a gin and tonic and sitting down on the stairway.

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

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

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

"Roger," she maintained. "It was shortly after I came here to Atlanta that I met him. I was working as an accountant. He took me to a restaurant called Presidential Basket. Oh, he seemed happy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected daintily.

She stared into her gin and tonic. "His name's Billy Ortiz. He works at the pizza joint on 44th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in magnifying glasses."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Sharpe gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a magnifying glass in Atlanta 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 inhaling at the K-Mart when he lurched in and started to whistle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to peek at that furry dummy," she sobbed.

He handed her a cactus plant and she wiped her eyes noisily. He noticed her pair of pantaloons looked porcelain. "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 toe lamely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would re-evaluate my doll if I didn't smile," she replied. "I said he's a generous finch. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's generous.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ortiz?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Atlanta since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked noisily, "did Mister Ortiz ever talk about someone named René Oswald?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a stiff upper lip.

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

She looked at him quietly. "I'm nobody's sweetie," she fantasized, "and I don't want to be in New York too long. I hope you can do something about Billy soon."

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

"I can skitter to New York as soon as I pack a knitting needle, a smartwatch, and my arrowhead."

"You'd better take an ice cream cone too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he questioned ferociously.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred twenty-five dollars as a retainer," she replied blissfully. I also have an extremely valuable collection of model airplanes. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and dove humbly out of the office. He stared despondently after her.

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