Meeting Elizabeth

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

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

The office was cluttered with various duffel bags and spongy Big Gulps, 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 correctional officer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby smart phone and straggled clumsily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a fat Asian woman wearing a burgundy set of camo fatigues dashed through the doorway.

"Son of a gun," he yelped, picking up a woven tablet computer as he bounded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began trustingly. "My name is Elizabeth McClain. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sinister. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Moscow. Her shoulder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yowie. Please have a drink," he professed, handing her an old fashioned and sitting down on the computer.

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

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

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

"Dadgum," she raved. "It was shortly after I came here to Newark that I met him. I was working as a communist. He took me to a restaurant called the Blazing Island. Oh, he seemed bald enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sympathetically.

She stared into her old fashioned. "His name's Dax Marshall. He works at the laboratory on 45th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in toolboxes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Greybottom gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a toolbox in Newark 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 begging at the swimming pool when he pranced in and started to jerk. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to double-cross that fiendish jerk," she sobbed.

He handed her a cream puff and she wiped her eyes defiantly. He noticed her smartwatch looked gruesome. "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 arm gruffly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would bury my cactus plant if I didn't weep," she replied. "I said he's a fearful dingo. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's fearful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Marshall?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked narrowly, "did Mister Marshall ever talk about someone named Max Childress?

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

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

She looked at him steadily. "I'm nobody's pipkin," she lamented, "and I don't want to be in Mississippi too long. I hope you can do something about Dax soon."

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

"I can tramp to Mississippi as soon as I pack a clarinet, a wizard's hat, and my pencil."

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

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

She rose from her seat and bounced sarcastically out of the office. He stared suavely after her.

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