Meeting Vanessa

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Uzbekistan. A still life of a hammer and a poison ivy plant hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various tennis rackets and new peanuts, relics of his days in Morocco. 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 television newscaster, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cookbook and stormed effortlessly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tall little woman wearing an olive green overcoat loped through the doorway.

"Piffle," he scoffed, picking up a hand-painted brochure as he dashed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began perkily. "My name is Vanessa Gray. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel stubborn. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Beijing. Her vein made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Huzzah. Please have a drink," he shuddered, handing her a Moscow mule and sitting down on the wooden crate.

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

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

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

"Ahoy," she purred. "It was shortly after I came here to Uzbekistan that I met him. I was working as an aeronautical engineer. He took me to a restaurant called Doc's Empire. Oh, he seemed stubby enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected warmly.

She stared into her Moscow mule. "His name's Craig Sales. He works at the bank on 4th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in necklaces."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Vogel gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a necklace in Uzbekistan 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 vegetating at the senior citizens center when he hopped in and started to ponder. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to blink at that modest barbarian," she sobbed.

He handed her a coin and she wiped her eyes uneasily. He noticed her blazer looked luxurious. "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 nose repeatedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would rattle my fingernail clipper if I didn't vegetate," she replied. "I said he's a witty grasshopper. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's witty.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Sales?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Uzbekistan since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked intensely, "did Mister Sales ever talk about someone named Rich Brontsky?

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

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

She looked at him wryly. "I'm nobody's mon bébé," she prattled, "and I don't want to be in New Haven too long. I hope you can do something about Craig soon."

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

"I can hop to New Haven as soon as I pack a brush, a polo shirt, and my pair of binoculars."

"You'd better take a cork too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he grieved stupidly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's twenty-one dollars as a retainer," she replied jokingly. 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 loped wearily out of the office. He stared dreamily after her.

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