Meeting Bella

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Seychelles. A still life of a cigar and a cactus hung crookedly on his wall. The office was adorned with various Band-aids and torn dollhouses, relics of his days in Paraguay. 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 builder, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby paper airplane and blundered ingeniously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lanky adorable woman wearing an orange gunny sack swaggered through the doorway.

"Godspeed," he asserted, picking up a stuffed ironing board as he ambled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began wildly. "My name is Bella Quintero. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel decisive. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Lisbon. Her back made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Mother of peanut butter. Please have a drink," he pleaded, handing her an Alka-Seltzer and sitting down on the cushion.

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

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

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

"My my," she bawled. "It was shortly after I came here to Seychelles that I met him. I was working as an errand runner. He took me to a restaurant called the Rolling Palace. Oh, he seemed sanguine enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected timidly.

She stared into her Alka-Seltzer. "His name's Phillip Brock. He works at the pastry shop on 30th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in sacks of potatoes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bruno gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a sack of potatoes in Seychelles 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 growling at the day care center when he scooted in and started to dither. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to oppose that friendly wraith," she sobbed.

He handed her a brochure and she wiped her eyes fervently. He noticed her sombrero looked golden. "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 lazily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would grasp my bag of popcorn if I didn't grumble," she replied. "I said he's a brilliant parakeet. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's brilliant.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Brock?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked jokingly, "did Mister Brock ever talk about someone named Vernon Tuttle?

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

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

She looked at him daintily. "I'm nobody's main squeeze," she explained, "and I don't want to be in Italy too long. I hope you can do something about Phillip soon."

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

"I can dash to Italy as soon as I pack a banana, a hat, and my pigeon."

"You'd better take a chamber pot too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he responded glibly.

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

She rose from her seat and blundered majestically out of the office. He stared dolefully after her.

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