Meeting Hillary

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Brazil. A still life of an ashtray and a pine cone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pacifiers and abnormal packs of gum, relics of his days in Lower Slobbovia. 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 bassoonist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pepper grinder and bolted speedily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a midget ugly woman wearing a burgundy ski mask bounced through the doorway.

"Like, totally," he recited, picking up a gooey painting as he rolled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began rapidly. "My name is Hillary Cradduck. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cruel. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Knoxville. Her little finger made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Puppy biscuits. Please have a drink," he trumpeted, handing her a glass of champagne and sitting down on the catbird seat.

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

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

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

"Suffering sassafras," she preached. "It was shortly after I came here to Brazil that I met him. I was working as a comedian. He took me to a restaurant called Kim's In and Out. Oh, he seemed depraved enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected timidly.

She stared into her glass of champagne. "His name's Herb Downey. He works at the shoe shine booth on 41st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in hacksaws."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Tyson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a hacksaw in Brazil 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 gesticulating at the bookstore when he sallied forth in and started to look dumb. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to spit at that furious bully," she sobbed.

He handed her an avocado and she wiped her eyes charmingly. He noticed her pair of contact lenses looked clean. "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 ankle zestily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would soften my twig if I didn't grunt," she replied. "I said he's a witty tiger. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's witty.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Downey?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Brazil since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked shyly, "did Mister Downey ever talk about someone named Alberto Bartholomew?

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

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

She looked at him languidly. "I'm nobody's honey bunch," she snorted, "and I don't want to be in Bucharest too long. I hope you can do something about Herb soon."

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

"I can trot to Bucharest as soon as I pack a pair of scissors, a Stetson hat, and my shovel."

"You'd better take a hair brush too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he mouthed strictly.

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

She rose from her seat and tumbled kindly out of the office. He stared sheepishly after her.

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