Meeting Camille

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Brasilia. A still life of an amulet and a feather hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pictures and plain toilet seats, relics of his days in Mozambique. 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 bassoonist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby potato masher and dashed irritably toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly scraggly woman wearing a silver bolo tie capered through the doorway.

"Yuck," he orated, picking up a rigid curling iron as he slithered to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel moronic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hiroshima. Her aorta made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Eeek. Please have a drink," he pointed out, handing her a whiskey and sitting down on the washstand.

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

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

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

"Oops," she stormed. "It was shortly after I came here to Brasilia that I met him. I was working as a goldsmith. He took me to a restaurant called the Hometown Table. Oh, he seemed lethargic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected haughtily.

She stared into her whiskey. "His name's Sinclair Thor. He works at the furniture store on 3rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in screwdrivers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Kuma gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a screwdriver in Brasilia 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 peeping at the beach when he swaggered in and started to awaken. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to care for that nervous dullard," she sobbed.

He handed her a piece of paper and she wiped her eyes trustingly. He noticed her toupee looked filthy. "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 dignity cheerfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would propel my map if I didn't slobber," she replied. "I said he's a megalomaniacal sloth. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's megalomaniacal.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Thor?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Brasilia since then."

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

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

He sounded more brilliant than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his horn like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and jerked 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 warily, "did Mister Thor ever talk about someone named René Killeen?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Kuma operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, poopsy-woopsy, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice Spanish colonial in Dallas. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him properly. "I'm nobody's poopsy-woopsy," she persisted, "and I don't want to be in Dallas too long. I hope you can do something about Sinclair soon."

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

"I can hop to Dallas as soon as I pack a lollipop, a scarf, and my spool of thread."

"You'd better take a towel too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he informed offhandedly.

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

She rose from her seat and scooted uselessly out of the office. He stared innocently after her.

Next Chapter