Meeting Vanessa

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Tennessee. A still life of an egg shell and a cedar tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various suitcases and funny clocks, relics of his days in Bahrain. 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 goldsmith, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby wastebasket and slumped lazily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dwarf tiny woman wearing a brown blouse inched through the doorway.

"Lord be praised," he orated, picking up a plastic baseball as he sped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began frantically. "My name is Vanessa Valentine. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel friendly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Vancouver. Her abdomen made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Huzzah. Please have a drink," he bragged, handing her a can of Ensure and sitting down on the china cabinet.

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

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

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

"Really," she yammered. "It was shortly after I came here to Tennessee that I met him. I was working as a rodeo cowboy. He took me to a restaurant called the Farmer's Den. Oh, he seemed dreadful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected despondently.

She stared into her can of Ensure. "His name's Nathan Griggs. He works at the shoe store on 38th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in remote controls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Boyd gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a remote control in Tennessee 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 bookstore when he flew in and started to leer. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to shake that sweet dirty rat," she sobbed.

He handed her a can of shaving cream and she wiped her eyes later. He noticed her mask looked cardboard. "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 elbow threateningly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would monitor my pop bottle if I didn't get angry," she replied. "I said he's a yappy chameleon. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's yappy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Griggs?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked automatically, "did Mister Griggs ever talk about someone named Ian Shipman?

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

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

She looked at him lovingly. "I'm nobody's flower," she opined, "and I don't want to be in St. Louis too long. I hope you can do something about Nathan soon."

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

"I can dart to St. Louis as soon as I pack a cage, a winter coat, and my brush."

"You'd better take a tissue too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he quavered grimly.

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

She rose from her seat and breezed dubiously out of the office. He stared lazily after her.

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