Meeting Chloe

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Mozambique. A still life of a skull and a rock hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various Eton jackets and filthy canes, relics of his days in Guatemala. 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 con artist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby hubcap and jogged positively toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a bony scruffy woman wearing an indigo bulletproof vest sashayed through the doorway.

"Boo," he exclaimed, picking up a polished saddle as he leapt to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gracefully. "My name is Chloe Eichmann. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel enraged. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Laramie. Her Achilles tendon made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Alleluia. Please have a drink," he sneered, handing her a chamomile tea and sitting down on the pedestal.

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

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

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

"Arrrgh," she squealed. "It was shortly after I came here to Mozambique that I met him. I was working as a watchmaker. He took me to a restaurant called the Silk Pie Kitchen. Oh, he seemed diabolical enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected rapidly.

She stared into her chamomile tea. "His name's Daniel Papadopoulos. He works at the police station on 14th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bugles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Jiménez gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bugle in Mozambique 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 wandering at the juice shop when he sallied forth in and started to do the Hokey Pokey. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to stare at that direct nut," she sobbed.

He handed her a can of shaving cream and she wiped her eyes angrily. He noticed her pair of overalls looked wooden. "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 sorrowfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would smell my stapler if I didn't crouch," she replied. "I said he's a stylish goose. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's stylish.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Papadopoulos?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Mozambique since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked gingerly, "did Mister Papadopoulos ever talk about someone named Morton Ratwort?

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

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

She looked at him unexpectedly. "I'm nobody's friend," she disputed, "and I don't want to be in Uzbekistan too long. I hope you can do something about Daniel soon."

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

"I can jump to Uzbekistan as soon as I pack a horseshoe, a sweater, and my needle and thread."

"You'd better take a fingernail clipper too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he screeched sadly.

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

She rose from her seat and ambled perkily out of the office. He stared sagely after her.

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