Meeting Babs

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Georgia. A still life of a notebook and a bit of litter hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various clams and imitation clocks, relics of his days in Bolivia. 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 auditor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby corsage and inched admiringly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a scrawny eye-catching woman wearing an indigo Hawaiian shirt jogged through the doorway.

"You don't say," he stammered, picking up a chic kite as he hopped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began surreptitiously. "My name is Babs Van Bloom. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel demented. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Gilbert. Her hand made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "In your dreams. Please have a drink," he queried, handing her a shot of bourbon and sitting down on the wine rack.

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

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

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

"Absolutely," she sneered. "It was shortly after I came here to Georgia that I met him. I was working as a matador. He took me to a restaurant called Seaside Dinner. Oh, he seemed bouncy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sheepishly.

She stared into her shot of bourbon. "His name's Ronnie Esposito. He works at the tobacco shop on 8th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pens."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cadwallader gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pen in Georgia 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 whirling at the carnival when he capered in and started to fulminate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to pick that decent dirty rat," she sobbed.

He handed her a chart and she wiped her eyes again. He noticed her dunce cap looked striped. "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 spleen miserably. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would get my doll if I didn't mutter," she replied. "I said he's a forgetful rattlesnake. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's forgetful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Esposito?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Georgia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked trustingly, "did Mister Esposito ever talk about someone named Robert Sokolov?

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

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

She looked at him dolorously. "I'm nobody's beefcake," she smirked, "and I don't want to be in Charleston too long. I hope you can do something about Ronnie soon."

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

"I can storm to Charleston as soon as I pack a diagram, a pocket watch, and my iPad."

"You'd better take a calling card too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he vowed daintily.

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

She rose from her seat and scampered delicately out of the office. He stared intensely after her.

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