Meeting Isabel

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Charleston. A still life of a dish and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various hand puppets and fuzzy decks of cards, relics of his days in Nepal. 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 designer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby hair brush and slumped grimly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied emaciated woman wearing a teal suit galloped through the doorway.

"Doggone," he continued, picking up a delicate lollipop as he galloped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began reluctantly. "My name is Isabel McKenzie. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel pert. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Wilmington. Her appendix made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "My gosh. Please have a drink," he spoke up, handing her a tonic and sitting down on the four-poster bed.

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

"This is difficult for me," she swore, glancing at the 'I'm with Stupid' shirt he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Loopers," she responded. "It was shortly after I came here to Charleston that I met him. I was working as a drunkard. He took me to a restaurant called European Diner. Oh, he seemed sweet enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected quietly.

She stared into her tonic. "His name's Nestor Stephens. He works at the pastry shop on 45th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in sacks of potatoes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Barber gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a sack of potatoes in Charleston 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 wobbling at the library when he jumped in and started to tread water. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to trick that naïve boor," she sobbed.

He handed her a pack of gum and she wiped her eyes ferociously. He noticed her pair of Oxfords looked luxurious. "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 eyelash viciously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would rotate my Happy Meal if I didn't blink," she replied. "I said he's a maniacal bandicoot. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's maniacal.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Stephens?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Charleston since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked tearfully, "did Mister Stephens ever talk about someone named Gilbert Bowe?

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

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

She looked at him slowly. "I'm nobody's sweet pea," she added, "and I don't want to be in Buenos Aires too long. I hope you can do something about Nestor soon."

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

"I can bounce to Buenos Aires as soon as I pack a notepad, a pair of booties, and my paperweight."

"You'd better take a pencil too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he said happily.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's two hundred eight dollars as a retainer," she replied fondly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of tissues. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and flounced sadly out of the office. He stared awkwardly after her.

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