Meeting Beverly

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Colombia. A still life of a package and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various notebooks and funny hair brushes, relics of his days in Bulgaria. 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 court jester, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby garbage can and rushed resignedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt shapely woman wearing a khaki pith helmet sauntered through the doorway.

"Shhh," he giggled, picking up a prickly magnifying glass as he sidled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began primly. "My name is Beverly Milano. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel precocious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Havana. Her eyeball made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yow. Please have a drink," he squealed, handing her a gimlet and sitting down on the bed.

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

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

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

"Hold that thought," she cackled. "It was shortly after I came here to Colombia that I met him. I was working as a dog trainer. He took me to a restaurant called the Stone Dog. Oh, he seemed fiendish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected openly.

She stared into her gimlet. "His name's Ken Bagman. He works at the restaurant on 48th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in rolls of duct tape."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Graziano gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a roll of duct tape in Colombia 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 standing by at the miniature golf course when he trekked in and started to puff. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to shake that ignoble screwball," she sobbed.

He handed her a shovel and she wiped her eyes gruffly. He noticed her pair of nylons looked immense. "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 knee nervously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would seize my crayon if I didn't gesticulate," she replied. "I said he's a witty coyote. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's witty.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bagman?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Colombia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked uselessly, "did Mister Bagman ever talk about someone named Rumpelstiltskin Garston?

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

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

She looked at him again. "I'm nobody's nipkin," she panted, "and I don't want to be in Bangalore too long. I hope you can do something about Ken soon."

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

"I can galumph to Bangalore as soon as I pack a key, a denim skirt, and my curling iron."

"You'd better take a brush too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he stormed craftily.

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

She rose from her seat and loped numbly out of the office. He stared positively after her.

Next Chapter