Meeting Chelsea

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in St. Louis. A still life of a sack and a weed hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various spinning wheels and hideous etchings, relics of his days in Lithuania. 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 ship's officer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Rubik's cube and scurried uneasily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly stocky woman wearing a pea green helmet clambered through the doorway.

"Dang it," he sputtered, picking up a ragged brochure as he slipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gleefully. "My name is Chelsea Frank. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel dowdy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bangalore. Her funny bone made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Roger that. Please have a drink," he jeered, handing her a cosmopolitan and sitting down on the nightstand.

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

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

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

"Ay yi yi," she added. "It was shortly after I came here to St. Louis that I met him. I was working as a carpenter. He took me to a restaurant called Kyoto Dynasty. Oh, he seemed solitary enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected zestily.

She stared into her cosmopolitan. "His name's Sam Schmoe. He works at the mortuary on 19th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in business cards."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Del Genio gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a business card in St. Louis 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 freezing at the supermarket when he barrelled in and started to squeal. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to blink at that resolute hog," she sobbed.

He handed her a pink flamingo and she wiped her eyes sternly. He noticed her bodysuit looked expensive. "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 back diligently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would swat my cigarette lighter if I didn't peep," she replied. "I said he's a merry ferret. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's merry.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Schmoe?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked accidentally, "did Mister Schmoe ever talk about someone named Fuzz Dodds?

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

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

She looked at him joyously. "I'm nobody's dear," she trumpeted, "and I don't want to be in Springfield too long. I hope you can do something about Sam soon."

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

"I can make a beeline to Springfield as soon as I pack an ingot of plutonium, a miniskirt, and my feather duster."

"You'd better take a paperweight too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he blustered courteously.

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

She rose from her seat and stalked gingerly out of the office. He stared warily after her.

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