Meeting Eve

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in the Swiss Alps. A still life of a chain and an acorn hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various computers and petite forks, relics of his days in New Zealand. 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 obstetrician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby gun and marched craftily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a well-formed ugly woman wearing an aquamarine necktie clambered through the doorway.

"Anyhoo," he recited, picking up an electric photograph as he lurched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began zestily. "My name is Eve Lincoln. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sociable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Belgrade. Her vein made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "By Jove. Please have a drink," he uttered, handing her a Manhattan and sitting down on the workbench.

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

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

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

"Fiddlesticks," she acknowledged. "It was shortly after I came here to the Swiss Alps that I met him. I was working as a bootlegger. He took me to a restaurant called Tropical Sky. Oh, he seemed daring enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected cunningly.

She stared into her Manhattan. "His name's Christopher Backus. He works at the brewery on 32nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pepper grinders."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Scoville gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pepper grinder in the Swiss Alps 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 cringing at the bagel shop when he blundered in and started to growl. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to stun that obese dip," she sobbed.

He handed her a dollar bill and she wiped her eyes crazily. He noticed her pair of false eyelashes looked narrow. "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 spine crossly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would crack my piece of paper if I didn't exhale," she replied. "I said he's an irate troll. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's irate.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Backus?"

"Only a year; I've only been in the Swiss Alps since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked warmly, "did Mister Backus ever talk about someone named Lonnie Morrison?

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

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

She looked at him suspiciously. "I'm nobody's cuddle-bear," she screamed, "and I don't want to be in Vermont too long. I hope you can do something about Christopher soon."

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

"I can zip to Vermont as soon as I pack a Van Gogh, a letter jacket, and my cotton ball."

"You'd better take a flashlight too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he gabbed grandly.

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

She rose from her seat and set out unnaturally out of the office. He stared miserably after her.

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