Meeting Bettie Lou

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Arkansas. A still life of a chamber pot and a fern hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various wastebaskets and authentic barbells, relics of his days in Lower Slobbovia. 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 auditor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby clam and slumped sourly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a shapely handsome woman wearing a jade moustache strode through the doorway.

"Puppy biscuits," he pointed out, picking up a fresh bag of ice as he stormed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gingerly. "My name is Bettie Lou Tilley. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel princely. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Omaha. Her chin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "I think not. Please have a drink," he alleged, handing her a cambric tea and sitting down on the catbird seat.

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

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

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

"Exaltations," she smiled. "It was shortly after I came here to Arkansas that I met him. I was working as a cheesemaker. He took me to a restaurant called the Roman Bistro. Oh, he seemed homely enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hungrily.

She stared into her cambric tea. "His name's Jamie Kinstler. He works at the shoe shine booth on 3rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in mousetraps."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Sokoloff gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a mousetrap in Arkansas 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 shaking at the health food store when he hobbled in and started to clap. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to call the cops on that sweet curmudgeon," she sobbed.

He handed her a dead zebra and she wiped her eyes arrogantly. He noticed her rain coat looked magnificent. "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 kneecap woodenly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would probe my pumpkin if I didn't blush," she replied. "I said he's a homely gazelle. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's homely.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Kinstler?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Arkansas since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked ruefully, "did Mister Kinstler ever talk about someone named Oscar Kennedy?

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

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

She looked at him sheepishly. "I'm nobody's honey bunch," she appealed, "and I don't want to be in Stockton too long. I hope you can do something about Jamie soon."

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

"I can dance to Stockton as soon as I pack a diary, a headscarf, and my hockey puck."

"You'd better take a baby doll too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he barked humbly.

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

She rose from her seat and galloped blankly out of the office. He stared uneasily after her.

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