Meeting Claire

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Washington. A still life of a gun and a spring hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various telephone books and heavy fire hoses, relics of his days in Denmark. 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 chef, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby mirror and stalked hopelessly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a skinny short woman wearing a pea green letter jacket strolled through the doorway.

"Jeepers creepers," he answered, picking up a bulky package as he tramped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began impatiently. "My name is Claire Tsutsui. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel disagreeable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Pasadena. Her paw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Good gracious. Please have a drink," he trumpeted, handing her a painkiller and sitting down on the bathtub.

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

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

"Don't give it another thought," he replied lickety-split.

"Barf," she yammered. "It was shortly after I came here to Washington that I met him. I was working as a peanut vendor. He took me to a restaurant called the Flying Wingding. Oh, he seemed intelligent enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected queerly.

She stared into her painkiller. "His name's Siggy Shoemaker. He works at the tattoo parlor on 14th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in basketballs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Brock gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a basketball in Washington 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 playing Duck Duck Goose at the recycling bin when he tiptoed in and started to run. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to tease that merry dope fiend," she sobbed.

He handed her a clothespin and she wiped her eyes immediately. He noticed her flour sack looked big. "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 pancreas properly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would scuff my dictionary if I didn't yelp," she replied. "I said he's a confident partridge. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's confident.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Shoemaker?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Washington since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked confidently, "did Mister Shoemaker ever talk about someone named Hank Lippman?

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

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

She looked at him glumly. "I'm nobody's Boopsie," she uttered, "and I don't want to be in Montenegro too long. I hope you can do something about Siggy soon."

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

"I can slip to Montenegro as soon as I pack a pair of knitting needles, a belly button jewel, and my diamond."

"You'd better take a crayon too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he exploded woefully.

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

She rose from her seat and darted fearlessly out of the office. He stared majestically after her.

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