Meeting Isabel

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Uzbekistan. A still life of a piano and a bit of litter hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various flash drives and hefty roses, relics of his days in Uruguay. 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 folk singer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby sea shell and hopped cheerfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt slender woman wearing a yellow girdle sauntered through the doorway.

"Eww," he provoked, picking up a ridged apple as he slunk to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began offhandedly. "My name is Isabel McAllister. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel humble. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Denver. Her horn made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hah. Please have a drink," he screeched, handing her a glass of orange juice and sitting down on the coffee table.

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

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

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

"Wowsers," she asserted. "It was shortly after I came here to Uzbekistan that I met him. I was working as a chemist. He took me to a restaurant called Midtown Pizzeria. Oh, he seemed resolute enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sternly.

She stared into her glass of orange juice. "His name's Manny Ireland. He works at the library on 11th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in file folders."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Strait gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a file folder in Uzbekistan 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 carrying on at the jail when he zipped in and started to ponder. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to smack that furry baby," she sobbed.

He handed her a hot potato and she wiped her eyes unexpectedly. He noticed her wristwatch looked grubby. "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 spleen wildly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would reconsider my bird feeder if I didn't deal cards," she replied. "I said he's a brash dragon. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's brash.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ireland?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Uzbekistan since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sharply, "did Mister Ireland ever talk about someone named Doug Fodor?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a pound of the chest.

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

She looked at him kindly. "I'm nobody's love," she mused, "and I don't want to be in West Virginia too long. I hope you can do something about Manny soon."

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

"I can scoot to West Virginia as soon as I pack a box of Kleenex, a business suit, and my bird feeder."

"You'd better take a tambourine too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he accused gingerly.

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

She rose from her seat and bounded delicately out of the office. He stared pitifully after her.

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