Meeting Charlotte

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in New Zealand. A still life of a crutch and a wildflower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various flutes and burned boxes of candy, relics of his days in Germany. 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 page, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pacifier and slunk properly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious pale woman wearing a striped set of pink foam curlers leapt through the doorway.

"Boo," he spouted, picking up a stiff pack of gum as he made a beeline to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began innocently. "My name is Charlotte Powers. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cuddly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Spokane. Her mouth made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Uh. Please have a drink," he yammered, handing her a Tom Collins and sitting down on the bath mat.

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

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

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

"Knock me over with a feather," she asserted. "It was shortly after I came here to New Zealand that I met him. I was working as an auctioneer. He took me to a restaurant called Bountiful Retreat. Oh, he seemed fierce enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected blissfully.

She stared into her Tom Collins. "His name's Richard Bromley. He works at the art museum on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in padlocks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the David gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a padlock in New Zealand 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 praying at the disco when he went in and started to huff. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to trip that impish hooligan," she sobbed.

He handed her a sack of potatoes and she wiped her eyes fearfully. He noticed her romper looked ancient. "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 toe menacingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would heat my can of shaving cream if I didn't snicker," she replied. "I said he's a brave squirrel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's brave.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bromley?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked vigorously, "did Mister Bromley ever talk about someone named Vance Romano?

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

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

She looked at him numbly. "I'm nobody's dearest," she snarled, "and I don't want to be in Virginia too long. I hope you can do something about Richard soon."

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

"I can traipse to Virginia as soon as I pack a bell, a pair of boxing gloves, and my handkerchief."

"You'd better take a pinwheel too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he yowled temperamentally.

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

She rose from her seat and set out viciously out of the office. He stared testily after her.

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