Meeting Carla

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Tennessee. A still life of a bugle and a piece of driftwood hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various basketballs and wooden crayons, relics of his days in Poland. 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 communist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pepper grinder and stalked sourly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slender dashing woman wearing a pink pair of shin guards skittered through the doorway.

"Diddly poo," he mused, picking up a fresh peace pipe as he galloped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began reluctantly. "My name is Carla Charles. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sweet. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tegucigalpa. Her lung made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Be still, my beating heart. Please have a drink," he exclaimed, handing her a Tom Collins and sitting down on the bed.

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

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

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

"Sieg Heil," she simpered. "It was shortly after I came here to Tennessee that I met him. I was working as an animal trainer. He took me to a restaurant called Bill's Spoon. Oh, he seemed dumb enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected unabashedly.

She stared into her Tom Collins. "His name's Rob Cotton. He works at the pastry shop on 20th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Bunsen burners."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Arnold gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Bunsen burner in Tennessee 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 playing Duck Duck Goose at the laundromat when he blundered in and started to step aside. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to poison that silly rat," she sobbed.

He handed her a stone and she wiped her eyes steadily. He noticed her party hat looked immense. "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 eyelash sadly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pound my piece of paper if I didn't think," she replied. "I said he's a clever ape. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's clever.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Cotton?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Tennessee since then."

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

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

He sounded more serious than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his shoulder like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and played Duck Duck Goose for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like rose petals since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked anxiously, "did Mister Cotton ever talk about someone named Nate Barcelo?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Arnold operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, shmoopsie-poo, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice manor house in Costa Rica. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him dreamily. "I'm nobody's shmoopsie-poo," she growled, "and I don't want to be in Costa Rica too long. I hope you can do something about Rob soon."

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

"I can sail to Costa Rica as soon as I pack a box of Kleenex, a balaclava, and my paperclip."

"You'd better take a Helmholz resonator too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he hissed firmly.

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

She rose from her seat and staggered proudly out of the office. He stared blissfully after her.

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