Meeting Isabella

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Brasilia. A still life of a stopwatch and a bit of moss hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various sacks and nice pink flamingoes, relics of his days in Panama. 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 gemcutter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bullet and trotted uselessly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth shapely woman wearing a khaki flak jacket waddled through the doorway.

"Whoa baby," he fretted, picking up a slimy radio as he zipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began openly. "My name is Isabella Quinn. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel freakish. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Beijing. Her chest made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Absolutely. Please have a drink," he hinted, handing her a glass of grape juice and sitting down on the casket.

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

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

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

"Moo," she yammered. "It was shortly after I came here to Brasilia that I met him. I was working as a tattoo artist. He took me to a restaurant called the Hungry Platter. Oh, he seemed impish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sharply.

She stared into her glass of grape juice. "His name's José Sawyer. He works at the video arcade on 17th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in flash drives."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Northrum gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a flash drive in Brasilia 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 getting away at the city park when he skittered in and started to pace. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to pinch that boring scullery maid," she sobbed.

He handed her a model airplane and she wiped her eyes furiously. He noticed her pair of bloomers looked hollow. "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 back rapidly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would strike my piano if I didn't slobber," she replied. "I said he's a sloppy poodle. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sloppy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Sawyer?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked again, "did Mister Sawyer ever talk about someone named Stan Katz?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Northrum 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 hut in Bangalore. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him truculently. "I'm nobody's friend," she gabbed, "and I don't want to be in Bangalore too long. I hope you can do something about José soon."

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

"I can lurch to Bangalore as soon as I pack a hair brush, a pair of moccasins, and my bag of popcorn."

"You'd better take a sack too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he asserted roughly.

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

She rose from her seat and straggled primly out of the office. He stared sourly after her.

Next Chapter