Meeting Michaela

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Louisiana. A still life of a yardstick and a stone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various cans of soup and dry crayons, relics of his days in Estonia. 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 short order cook, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby fork and tiptoed testily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a plump angelic woman wearing an olive green pair of knickerbockers paraded through the doorway.

"Yummy," he revealed, picking up a broken diagram as he slumped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began miserably. "My name is Michaela Sinclair. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel self-assured. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Savannah. Her toupee made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Kapow. Please have a drink," he bragged, handing her a Mudslide and sitting down on the cushion.

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

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

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

"Very well done," she asserted. "It was shortly after I came here to Louisiana that I met him. I was working as a song writer. He took me to a restaurant called Fireside House of Delights. Oh, he seemed rapacious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected smoothly.

She stared into her Mudslide. "His name's Mac Prater. He works at the insurance agency on 9th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in jars of olives."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Marchetti gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a jar of olives in Louisiana 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 smiling at the party when he rolled in and started to leer. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to outwit that bellicose reptile," she sobbed.

He handed her a cotton ball and she wiped her eyes daringly. He noticed her ring looked burned. "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 belly clumsily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would rub my pearl if I didn't shrivel," she replied. "I said he's a powerful German Shepherd. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's powerful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Prater?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Louisiana since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked diligently, "did Mister Prater ever talk about someone named Tyler Small?

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

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

She looked at him roughly. "I'm nobody's patootie," she said, "and I don't want to be in Denmark too long. I hope you can do something about Mac soon."

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

"I can wade to Denmark as soon as I pack a firecracker, a pair of cowboy boots, and my microscope."

"You'd better take a cane too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he bawled hopefully.

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

She rose from her seat and sauntered sternly out of the office. He stared despondently after her.

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