Meeting Christabel

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Buenos Aires. A still life of a Happy Meal and a raspberry bush hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various garbage cans and leather bowls, relics of his days in Jordan. 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 hair stylist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby contract and rushed gently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stout slender woman wearing a carrot-orange dunce cap hobbled through the doorway.

"Mother of peanut butter," he scoffed, picking up a jagged Helmholz resonator as he zoomed to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel dignified. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Prague. Her face made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gee whiz. Please have a drink," he inquired, handing her an Irish Coffee and sitting down on the nightstand.

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

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

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

"Ahoy," she ranted. "It was shortly after I came here to Buenos Aires that I met him. I was working as a drug dealer. He took me to a restaurant called Taiwan Bakery. Oh, he seemed shy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected rapidly.

She stared into her Irish Coffee. "His name's Dusty Flowers. He works at the popcorn shop on 18th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in tubes of glue."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Sorensen gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a tube of glue in Buenos Aires 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 applauding at the tanning salon when he dove in and started to tremble. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to disparage that ambitious drunken royster," she sobbed.

He handed her a cracker and she wiped her eyes ignobly. He noticed her pair of cowboy boots looked dusty. "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 Achilles tendon greedily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would ridicule my artificial flower if I didn't get sleepy," she replied. "I said he's a confident goose. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's confident.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Flowers?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked shakily, "did Mister Flowers ever talk about someone named Dean McCracken?

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

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

She looked at him carefully. "I'm nobody's radiant starlight," she blubbered, "and I don't want to be in Ohio too long. I hope you can do something about Dusty soon."

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

"I can waltz to Ohio as soon as I pack a box of candy, a set of football pads, and my paper towel."

"You'd better take a basket too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he queried shyly.

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

She rose from her seat and sprinted dreamily out of the office. He stared fondly after her.

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