Meeting Christabel

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Tennessee. A still life of a cowbell and a cedar tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various roses and dirty fishing poles, relics of his days in Angola. 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 makeup artist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby microphone and rushed positively toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slight frail woman wearing a red birthday suit bounded through the doorway.

"No way," he appealed, picking up a filthy pair of dice as he paraded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gruffly. "My name is Christabel Speer. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel brash. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Lisbon. Her heart made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy minerva. Please have a drink," he warbled, handing her a cup of cocoa and sitting down on the hatstand.

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

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

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

"Eh," she decided. "It was shortly after I came here to Tennessee that I met him. I was working as a nurse. He took me to a restaurant called Downtown House. Oh, he seemed deadly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected carefully.

She stared into her cup of cocoa. "His name's Walt Hoffmann. He works at the ice cream parlor on 21st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cowbells."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Logan gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cowbell in Tennessee 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 doodling at the dance when he scooted in and started to dance. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to confront that sophisticated so-and-so," she sobbed.

He handed her a cigar and she wiped her eyes cleverly. He noticed her helmet looked archaic. "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 neck perkily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would rebuild my bag of popcorn if I didn't chew," she replied. "I said he's an obese puppy. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's obese.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hoffmann?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Tennessee 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 Walt Hoffmann is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

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

"Tell me," he asked immediately, "did Mister Hoffmann ever talk about someone named Charles Eisley?

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

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

She looked at him crazily. "I'm nobody's buttercup," she amended, "and I don't want to be in Charlotte too long. I hope you can do something about Walt soon."

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

"I can dash to Charlotte as soon as I pack an accordion, a pair of dentures, and my diary."

"You'd better take a rubber stamp too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he asserted blissfully.

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

She rose from her seat and marched irritably out of the office. He stared openly after her.

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