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 quietly. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling ingots of plutonium door to door.

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Uganda. A still life of a playing card and a cedar tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various Frisbees and polka-dotted chess sets, relics of his days in Angola. 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 pianist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby flag and sauntered woodenly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a skinny tiny woman wearing a teal badge clambered through the doorway.

"Whew," he sneered, picking up a ridged top as he waded to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel zany. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Buffalo. Her chest made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Absolutely. Please have a drink," he reacted, handing her a glass of milk and sitting down on the sofa.

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

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

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

"Hang it," she repeated. "It was shortly after I came here to Uganda that I met him. I was working as a vacuum cleaner salesman. He took me to a restaurant called Atlantic House of Sushi. Oh, he seemed monstrous enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected valiantly.

She stared into her glass of milk. "His name's Wallace Steele. He works at the library on 37th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in teapots."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bushnell gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a teapot in Uganda 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 jerking at the dance when he trotted in and started to glower. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to fight with that cowardly snake," she sobbed.

He handed her a model airplane and she wiped her eyes warily. He noticed her uniform looked abnormal. "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 eye uneasily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would brandish my stack of papers if I didn't look smart," she replied. "I said he's an earnest otter. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's earnest.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Steele?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked stupidly, "did Mister Steele ever talk about someone named Waldo Nighthawk?

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

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

She looked at him awkwardly. "I'm nobody's sugar-bun," she tittered, "and I don't want to be in Sweden too long. I hope you can do something about Wallace soon."

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

"I can dance to Sweden as soon as I pack a roll of toilet paper, a pair of roller skates, and my fingernail clipper."

"You'd better take a pop bottle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he prattled lamely.

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

She rose from her seat and barrelled ferociously out of the office. He stared immediately after her.

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