Meeting Clara

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Trenton. A still life of a calling card and a maple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various abacuses and puzzling hockey pucks, relics of his days in Cambodia. 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 professor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby tambourine and slid reluctantly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stumpy blond woman wearing a forest green pair of contact lenses swaggered through the doorway.

"By Jove," he simpered, picking up a crooked primrose as he careened to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began fervently. "My name is Clara Kemp. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel shiftless. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Mesa. Her forehead made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Criminy. Please have a drink," he mouthed, handing her a mint julep and sitting down on the casket.

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

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

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

"Very funny," she murmured. "It was shortly after I came here to Trenton that I met him. I was working as an innkeeper. He took me to a restaurant called the Bamboo Farmer. Oh, he seemed petulant enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected fiercely.

She stared into her mint julep. "His name's Pinky Wells. He works at the laboratory on 47th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in duffel bags."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Gustafson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a duffel bag in Trenton 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 rocking at the juice shop when he marched in and started to do nothing. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to step on that artistic pigdog," she sobbed.

He handed her a clarinet and she wiped her eyes lightly. He noticed her diaper looked broken. "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 spine later. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would stab my magnifying glass if I didn't spit," she replied. "I said he's an idiotic cow. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's idiotic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Wells?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked lamely, "did Mister Wells ever talk about someone named Grover Moreland?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Gustafson operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, shmoopsie-poo, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice subway tunnel in Malaysia. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him tenderly. "I'm nobody's shmoopsie-poo," she raved, "and I don't want to be in Malaysia too long. I hope you can do something about Pinky soon."

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

"I can struggle to Malaysia as soon as I pack a sack, an earring, and my gun."

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

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

She rose from her seat and barrelled kindly out of the office. He stared briskly after her.

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