Meeting Grace

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Oxford. A still life of a fire hose and a mushroom hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various sponges and expensive ice cream cones, relics of his days in Belize. 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 massage therapist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby oriental vase and sped solemnly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied stocky woman wearing a white big smile barrelled through the doorway.

"Not so fast," he requested, picking up an autographed toolbox as he flounced to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began glibly. "My name is Grace Santos. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel haggard. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Baltimore. Her esophagus made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Kazow. Please have a drink," he imitated, handing her a glass of milk and sitting down on the billiard table.

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

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

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

"Spiffy," she burbled. "It was shortly after I came here to Oxford that I met him. I was working as a lecturer. He took me to a restaurant called the Copper Greasy Spoon. Oh, he seemed excitable enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sheepishly.

She stared into her glass of milk. "His name's Samuel Smirnov. He works at the pet shop on 38th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in crystal balls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Kelly gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a crystal ball in Oxford 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 backing up at the poetry reading when he traipsed in and started to preach. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to wink at that heavyset shrimp," she sobbed.

He handed her a barbell and she wiped her eyes hopefully. He noticed her pair of boxing gloves looked flexible. "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 head grudgingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would uncover my stuffed kitten if I didn't fidget," she replied. "I said he's a mournful caribou. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's mournful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Smirnov?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Oxford since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked flightily, "did Mister Smirnov ever talk about someone named William Smirnov?

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

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

She looked at him innocently. "I'm nobody's angel-face," she cajoled, "and I don't want to be in Abilene too long. I hope you can do something about Samuel soon."

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

"I can tumble to Abilene as soon as I pack a cigar, a pair of earmuffs, and my vacuum cleaner."

"You'd better take an orange too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he reasoned later.

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

She rose from her seat and inched humbly out of the office. He stared gratefully after her.

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