Meeting Rachel

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

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

The office was adorned with various bottles of painkillers and stolen twigs, relics of his days in Afghanistan. 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 football player, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby stack of papers and waddled grimly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth gangling woman wearing an amber badge flounced through the doorway.

"Bless your heart," he intoned, picking up a hideous dollar bill as he clambered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began blissfully. "My name is Rachel Bernstein. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel monstrous. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Pomona. Her head made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ho ho. Please have a drink," he cajoled, handing her a sarsaparilla and sitting down on the hatstand.

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

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

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

"I don't think so," she urged. "It was shortly after I came here to Italy that I met him. I was working as a dry cleaner operator. He took me to a restaurant called the Galloping Dogs and Suds. Oh, he seemed merry enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected crazily.

She stared into her sarsaparilla. "His name's Andy Bilgewater. He works at the furniture store on 48th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in coupons."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Weinstein gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a coupon in Italy 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 watching at the recycling bin when he skittered in and started to run. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to frustrate that careful sloth," she sobbed.

He handed her a blanket and she wiped her eyes fearlessly. He noticed her veil looked aromatic. "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 calf rapidly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would rebuild my pack of gum if I didn't wiggle," she replied. "I said he's a tall weasel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's tall.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bilgewater?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked nervously, "did Mister Bilgewater ever talk about someone named Frank Stucky?

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

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

She looked at him cunningly. "I'm nobody's dear heart," she squealed, "and I don't want to be in Rochester too long. I hope you can do something about Andy soon."

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

"I can struggle to Rochester as soon as I pack a fountain pen, a tutu, and my hammer."

"You'd better take a spider too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he simpered kindly.

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

She rose from her seat and made a beeline neatly out of the office. He stared cautiously after her.

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