Meeting Clio

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Anaheim. A still life of a broom and a seed pod hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various garbage cans and jagged orchids, relics of his days in Namibia. 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 lobbyist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby shoe and stormed shakily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a cadaverous slick woman wearing a pea green jacket loped through the doorway.

"Shhh," he hissed, picking up a gaudy brochure as he sallied forth to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began brashly. "My name is Clio Roeber. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel shifty. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Lancaster. Her palm made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Remarkable. Please have a drink," he moaned, handing her a gin and tonic and sitting down on the nightstand.

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

"This is difficult for me," she hissed, glancing at the pair of cowboy boots he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Pow," she responded. "It was shortly after I came here to Anaheim that I met him. I was working as a rock musician. He took me to a restaurant called Fireside Cloud. Oh, he seemed pigeon-toed enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected despondently.

She stared into her gin and tonic. "His name's Vic Vanderbilt. He works at the grocery store on 29th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Egyptian mummies."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Lippman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an Egyptian mummy in Anaheim 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 playing Farmer in the Dell at the bookstore when he slid in and started to adjust the clock. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to lead that slimy quacker," she sobbed.

He handed her a Van Gogh and she wiped her eyes testily. He noticed her beard looked speckled. "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 horn automatically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would blacken my bag of potato chips if I didn't take a bath," she replied. "I said he's a heavyset Siamese cat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's heavyset.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Vanderbilt?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Anaheim since then."

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

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

He sounded more evil 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 grimaced for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like success since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked accidentally, "did Mister Vanderbilt ever talk about someone named Manny Smirnov?

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

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

She looked at him neatly. "I'm nobody's sparky," she divulged, "and I don't want to be in Oslo too long. I hope you can do something about Vic soon."

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

"I can fly to Oslo as soon as I pack a crayon, a party hat, and my clarinet."

"You'd better take a magnifying glass too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he breathed humbly.

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

She rose from her seat and scampered cunningly out of the office. He stared quickly after her.

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