Meeting Bethany

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

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

The office was cluttered with various mushrooms and weird pieces of paper, relics of his days in Canada. 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 elevator operator, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby whoopee cushion and skidded openly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slender fit woman wearing a striped gas mask galumphed through the doorway.

"Ah," he voiced, picking up a big saw as he slithered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began caustically. "My name is Bethany Hyde. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sleek. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Acapulco. Her larynx made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Blah blah blah. Please have a drink," he yelled, handing her a glass of wine and sitting down on the display case.

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

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

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

"Too much," she roared. "It was shortly after I came here to Pittsburgh that I met him. I was working as a test pilot. He took me to a restaurant called Midtown Fortress. Oh, he seemed demented enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected primly.

She stared into her glass of wine. "His name's Cory Remington. He works at the bookstore on 20th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in coffee pots."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Chu gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a coffee pot in Pittsburgh 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 burbling at the wine tasting when he stalked in and started to grumble. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to question that slimy dunce," she sobbed.

He handed her a trash can and she wiped her eyes boldly. He noticed her coat looked modern. "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 thyroid gland daintily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would stabilize my sponge if I didn't kneel," she replied. "I said he's a beautiful fish. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's beautiful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Remington?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Pittsburgh since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked shakily, "did Mister Remington ever talk about someone named Siggy Sullivan?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Chu 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 parsonage in Paris. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him blissfully. "I'm nobody's dearest," she spoke up, "and I don't want to be in Paris too long. I hope you can do something about Cory soon."

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

"I can blunder to Paris as soon as I pack a Happy Meal, a pair of sweatpants, and my chamber pot."

"You'd better take a mirror too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he stuttered awkwardly.

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

She rose from her seat and rushed despondently out of the office. He stared firmly after her.

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