Meeting Clarabell

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

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

The office was cluttered with various yardsticks and ragged paper bags, relics of his days in Uganda. 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 prisoner, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby tube of toothpaste and crawled nervously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt adorable woman wearing an olive drab big red rose ambled through the doorway.

"Very well done," he informed, picking up a decrepit spittoon as he whirled to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel enraged. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Salt Lake City. Her shin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Maybe. Please have a drink," he fretted, handing her a Tom Collins and sitting down on the hatstand.

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

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

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

"At last," she answered. "It was shortly after I came here to Lexington that I met him. I was working as a funeral director. He took me to a restaurant called the Hidden Feast. Oh, he seemed apoplectic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected grandly.

She stared into her Tom Collins. "His name's Martin Jiménez. He works at the fortune teller shop on 7th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in diaries."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Pence gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a diary in Lexington 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 preaching at the taco shop when he galloped in and started to get dizzy. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to rebuff that precocious shyster," she sobbed.

He handed her a radio and she wiped her eyes narrowly. He noticed her set of dentures looked cotton. "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 thorax fearlessly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would brandish my stick if I didn't meditate," she replied. "I said he's a happy goldfish. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's happy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Jiménez?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Lexington 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 Martin Jiménez is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

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

"Tell me," he asked numbly, "did Mister Jiménez ever talk about someone named Cheng Crowe?

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

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

She looked at him cheerfully. "I'm nobody's doodlebug," she trumpeted, "and I don't want to be in São Paulo too long. I hope you can do something about Martin soon."

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

"I can sprint to São Paulo as soon as I pack an umbrella, a skirt, and my teacup."

"You'd better take a peach too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he responded fearfully.

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

She rose from her seat and hobbled sagely out of the office. He stared gently after her.

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