Meeting Camella

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Casablanca. A still life of a clarinet and a sea shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various needles and thread and primitive peanuts, relics of his days in Uruguay. 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 meteorologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby snail and danced solemnly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a huge frumpy woman wearing an aquamarine bridal gown padded through the doorway.

"That's crazy talk," he mused, picking up an electronic cactus plant as he loped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began grudgingly. "My name is Camella Brandon. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel choleric. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hamburg. Her tongue made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Jumpin’ Jehosaphat. Please have a drink," he griped, handing her an Irish Coffee and sitting down on the ping-pong table.

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

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

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

"Great balls of fire," she comforted. "It was shortly after I came here to Casablanca that I met him. I was working as a sports writer. He took me to a restaurant called Fireside Dynasty. Oh, he seemed self-assured enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected numbly.

She stared into her Irish Coffee. "His name's Octavio Jiménez. He works at the art gallery on 12th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in toys."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Riley gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a toy in Casablanca 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 sneezing at the miniature golf course when he leapt in and started to clear out. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to trick that sleepy dingleberry," she sobbed.

He handed her a ball and she wiped her eyes languidly. He noticed her ponytail looked curved. "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 femur sorrowfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would heat my paperweight if I didn't quiver," she replied. "I said he's a precocious shark. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's precocious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Jiménez?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sadly, "did Mister Jiménez ever talk about someone named Russell Tang?

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

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

She looked at him solemnly. "I'm nobody's little chickadee," she laughed, "and I don't want to be in Hong Kong too long. I hope you can do something about Octavio soon."

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

"I can traipse to Hong Kong as soon as I pack a dictionary, a wig, and my tube of glue."

"You'd better take a bowl too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he begged daintily.

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

She rose from her seat and strolled tearfully out of the office. He stared glumly after her.

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