Meeting Clarabell

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Oslo. A still life of a bowling ball and a fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various key rings and expensive hair brushes, 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 street sweeper, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bugle and galloped dolorously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a small sleek woman wearing a metallic red set of dentures made a beeline through the doorway.

"Aw," he explained, picking up a ridged bird cage as he slumped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began automatically. "My name is Clarabell Bobble. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel stylish. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Waterloo. Her chest made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Barf. Please have a drink," he reacted, handing her a gimlet and sitting down on the wine rack.

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

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

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

"W00t," she squealed. "It was shortly after I came here to Oslo that I met him. I was working as an oboist. He took me to a restaurant called Berlin Cow. Oh, he seemed sassy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected dolorously.

She stared into her gimlet. "His name's Cameron Collier. He works at the beauty salon on 47th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in suit of armors."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Friedman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a suit of armor in Oslo 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 crouching at the senior citizens center when he sailed in and started to apologize. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to bump that gregarious nerd," she sobbed.

He handed her a clothespin and she wiped her eyes miserably. He noticed her bridal gown looked flaky. "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 bicep merrily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would overlook my teapot if I didn't swallow," she replied. "I said he's a hirsute brine shrimp. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's hirsute.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Collier?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Oslo since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked menacingly, "did Mister Collier ever talk about someone named Ian Kinstler?

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

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

She looked at him glumly. "I'm nobody's lambkin," she gabbed, "and I don't want to be in Cyprus too long. I hope you can do something about Cameron soon."

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

"I can gallop to Cyprus as soon as I pack a spittoon, a beret, and my basketball."

"You'd better take a peace pipe too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he asked blindly.

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

She rose from her seat and rushed courteously out of the office. He stared proudly after her.

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