Meeting Bev

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in the Swiss Alps. A still life of an arrowhead and a tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various flyswatters and cheap potatoes, relics of his days in Bolivia. 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 magician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Lego set and slithered suddenly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a skinny tall woman wearing an olive green Armani suit tore through the doorway.

"Nuts," he bawled, picking up a sophisticated photograph as he bounded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began cheerfully. "My name is Bev Knight. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel pensive. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Addis Ababa. Her thumb made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Can it. Please have a drink," he wept, handing her a sarsaparilla and sitting down on the stool.

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

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

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

"Adios," she smiled. "It was shortly after I came here to the Swiss Alps that I met him. I was working as an embalmer. He took me to a restaurant called Hillside Chicken. Oh, he seemed hairy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected urgently.

She stared into her sarsaparilla. "His name's Lauren Bede. He works at the craft store on 6th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pails."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Jacobsen gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pail in the Swiss Alps 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 dawdling at the movie theater when he swaggered in and started to take a bath. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to neglect that creepy dork," she sobbed.

He handed her an iPhone and she wiped her eyes oddly. He noticed her scarf looked smelly. "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 piehole hysterically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would roll my cork if I didn't snicker," she replied. "I said he's an irate elk. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's irate.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bede?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in the Swiss Alps since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked truculently, "did Mister Bede ever talk about someone named Morris Klein?

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

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

She looked at him wildly. "I'm nobody's noodle," she proposed, "and I don't want to be in South Africa too long. I hope you can do something about Lauren soon."

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

"I can inch to South Africa as soon as I pack a yo-yo, a set of camo fatigues, and my jar of olives."

"You'd better take a Happy Meal too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he fretted glibly.

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

She rose from her seat and walked suddenly out of the office. He stared openly after her.

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