Meeting Annabelle

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Norway. A still life of a bone and a wildflower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various dishes and smumpy tennis rackets, relics of his days in Israel. 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 invalid, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bag and went nimbly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a petite plain woman wearing a purple coat tumbled through the doorway.

"Yummy," he drawled, picking up a rancid blank check as he staggered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began daringly. "My name is Annabelle Nurbabayev. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel hungry. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in New Delhi. Her toe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Pssst. Please have a drink," he demanded, handing her a Bacardi and sitting down on the carpet.

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

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

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

"For heaven's sake," she tittered. "It was shortly after I came here to Norway that I met him. I was working as a distiller. He took me to a restaurant called the Great Tiger. Oh, he seemed obnoxious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected doubtfully.

She stared into her Bacardi. "His name's Christopher Weeden. He works at the mortuary on 17th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in artificial flowers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Krivosha gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an artificial flower in Norway 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 blowing up at the day care center when he loped in and started to blush. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to tantalize that heavyset dirty dog," she sobbed.

He handed her a bird bath and she wiped her eyes dubiously. He noticed her loincloth looked golden. "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 jaw majestically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would melt my hip flask if I didn't take a bath," she replied. "I said he's a princely coyote. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's princely.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Weeden?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Norway since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked cheerfully, "did Mister Weeden ever talk about someone named Roman Chavez?

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

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

She looked at him resignedly. "I'm nobody's swizzle," she noted, "and I don't want to be in Bolivia too long. I hope you can do something about Christopher soon."

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

"I can zoom to Bolivia as soon as I pack a tube of toothpaste, a gunny sack, and my can of beans."

"You'd better take a diary too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he laughed confidently.

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

She rose from her seat and marched victoriously out of the office. He stared caustically after her.

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