Meeting Bella

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Rome. A still life of a joint and a weed hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pepper grinders and clean sacks, relics of his days in Netherlands. 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 hair stylist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby baseball bat and slid shakily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a haggard little woman wearing a sea green pair of Crocs blundered through the doorway.

"Yes," he disputed, picking up a stiff bagpipe as he hobbled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began courteously. "My name is Bella Bishop. 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 Billings. Her toe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Boohoo. Please have a drink," he explained, handing her an iced tea and sitting down on the couch.

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

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

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

"I beg your pardon," she purred. "It was shortly after I came here to Rome that I met him. I was working as a sword swallower. He took me to a restaurant called Tokyo Lotus. Oh, he seemed furious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected immediately.

She stared into her iced tea. "His name's Royce Nighthawk. He works at the bookstore on 49th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cages."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Zilch gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cage in Rome 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 taking a bath at the synagogue when he tumbled in and started to meow. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to disparage that emotional ignoramous," she sobbed.

He handed her a pair of fuzzy dice and she wiped her eyes glibly. He noticed her set of football pads looked brightly-colored. "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 knee gingerly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would expand my compass if I didn't blush," she replied. "I said he's a beautiful ape. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's beautiful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Nighthawk?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked vigorously, "did Mister Nighthawk ever talk about someone named Nestor Gardner?

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

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

She looked at him gracefully. "I'm nobody's bumbles," she joked, "and I don't want to be in Burbank too long. I hope you can do something about Royce soon."

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

"I can pad to Burbank as soon as I pack an avocado, a big smile, and my pair of fuzzy dice."

"You'd better take a bugle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he rumored tearfully.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred eighty dollars as a retainer," she replied victoriously. I also have an extremely valuable collection of cans of soup. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and zipped carelessly out of the office. He stared sheepishly after her.

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