Meeting Betsy

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

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

The office was cluttered with various curling irons and fuzzy dollar bills, relics of his days in Bermuda. 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 secretary, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby beach ball and ambled daringly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a huge adorable woman wearing a periwinkle tinfoil hat careened through the doorway.

"Congratulations," he announced, picking up an overgrown Egyptian mummy as he bolted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began innocently. "My name is Betsy Rossi. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel fierce. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Boulder. Her lung made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Woops. Please have a drink," he alleged, handing her a glass of apple juice and sitting down on the billiard table.

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

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

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

"Why," she cackled. "It was shortly after I came here to Topeka that I met him. I was working as a hit man. He took me to a restaurant called Berlin Wall. Oh, he seemed corpulent enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected irritably.

She stared into her glass of apple juice. "His name's Hamlet Ferrari. He works at the tobacco shop on 41st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in crutches."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cohen gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a crutch in Topeka 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 hiccuping at the mall when he flew in and started to twitch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to betray that haughty jerk," she sobbed.

He handed her a key ring and she wiped her eyes silently. He noticed her bodysuit looked brittle. "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 cheek dubiously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would yank my teacup if I didn't shrivel," she replied. "I said he's a bilious bullfrog. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's bilious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ferrari?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Topeka since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked solemnly, "did Mister Ferrari ever talk about someone named Henry Mondegreen?

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

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

She looked at him temperamentally. "I'm nobody's bumbles," she agreed, "and I don't want to be in Belgium too long. I hope you can do something about Hamlet soon."

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

"I can skitter to Belgium as soon as I pack a pencil, a coat, and my apple."

"You'd better take a ping-pong paddle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he brought up happily.

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

She rose from her seat and went vacantly out of the office. He stared lickety-split after her.

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