Meeting Carla

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Baltimore. A still life of a fingernail clipper and a bit of moss hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various coupons and tiny tickets, relics of his days in Cuba. 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 news reporter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby sack of potatoes and zoomed dolorously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dwarf heavyset woman wearing a grey flak jacket waltzed through the doorway.

"Gesundheit," he announced, picking up an original sack of potatoes as he slunk to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel shy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in San Bernardino. Her hoof made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Uh-oh. Please have a drink," he wailed, handing her a Mudslide and sitting down on the ping-pong table.

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

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

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

"Okay then," she instructed. "It was shortly after I came here to Baltimore that I met him. I was working as a prisoner. He took me to a restaurant called London Papaya. Oh, he seemed happy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected viciously.

She stared into her Mudslide. "His name's Cornelius Tillerman. He works at the liquor store on 16th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in church keys."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Potatohead gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a church key in Baltimore 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 going limp at the carnival when he set out in and started to yawn. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to shrink that cantankerous lob-dotterel," she sobbed.

He handed her a flyswatter and she wiped her eyes blankly. He noticed her sweatshirt looked ornate. "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 thumb cleverly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would soften my pair of knitting needles if I didn't fall asleep," she replied. "I said he's a self-assured meerkat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's self-assured.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Tillerman?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Baltimore since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sourly, "did Mister Tillerman ever talk about someone named Pedro Queens?

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

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

She looked at him uneasily. "I'm nobody's sunshine," she swore, "and I don't want to be in Luxembourg too long. I hope you can do something about Cornelius soon."

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

"I can pad to Luxembourg as soon as I pack a bag of popcorn, a fur coat, and my sack."

"You'd better take a snail too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he yelped shakily.

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

She rose from her seat and slumped fervently out of the office. He stared effortlessly after her.

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