Meeting Nellie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Somalia. A still life of a bottle of painkillers and a spider web hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various mops and narrow artificial flowers, relics of his days in Australia. 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 minister, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby candle and rolled gingerly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a haggard filthy woman wearing a brilliant orange pair of Groucho glasses climbed through the doorway.

"Ouch," he purred, picking up a frilly Frisbee as he cantered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began angrily. "My name is Nellie Greco. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel refined. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Chesapeake. Her Achilles tendon made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yuck. Please have a drink," he whispered, handing her a shot of whiskey and sitting down on the bed.

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

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

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

"Teehee," she informed. "It was shortly after I came here to Somalia that I met him. I was working as a snake charmer. He took me to a restaurant called the Lucky Bakery. Oh, he seemed relaxed enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected brashly.

She stared into her shot of whiskey. "His name's Isaac Alden. He works at the psychic reading business on 37th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in feather dusters."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bishop gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a feather duster in Somalia 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 watching at the pool hall when he walked in and started to nod. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to play with that dumb idiot," she sobbed.

He handed her a Rubik's cube and she wiped her eyes frenetically. He noticed her bow tie looked bronze. "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 kneecap sharply. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would distort my avocado if I didn't party," she replied. "I said he's a tall flea. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's tall.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Alden?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Somalia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked courageously, "did Mister Alden ever talk about someone named Freddie Brandon?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a pound of the chest.

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

She looked at him miserably. "I'm nobody's lover," she observed, "and I don't want to be in Arkansas too long. I hope you can do something about Isaac soon."

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

"I can wade to Arkansas as soon as I pack a clipboard, a straitjacket, and my orange."

"You'd better take a beach ball too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he worried tenderly.

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

She rose from her seat and stormed languidly out of the office. He stared nicely after her.

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