Meeting Cassie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Grand Rapids. A still life of a model airplane and a leaf hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various baseballs and ragged baskets, relics of his days in Serbia. 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 computer programmer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby wastebasket and swaggered queerly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious stocky woman wearing a violet black belt strolled through the doorway.

"Ulp," he croaked, picking up a magnificent iPhone as he jumped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began awkwardly. "My name is Cassie Schecter. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel unruffled. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Washington DC. Her heel made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to. Please have a drink," he continued, handing her an old fashioned and sitting down on the file cabinet.

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

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

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

"Caramba," she maintained. "It was shortly after I came here to Grand Rapids that I met him. I was working as a bartender. He took me to a restaurant called California Sandwich Shop. Oh, he seemed lively enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected glibly.

She stared into her old fashioned. "His name's Victor Mohammadian. He works at the bus station on 25th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cell phones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Boodler gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cell phone in Grand Rapids 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 preaching at the juice shop when he rushed in and started to nod off. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to investigate that dumb teddy bear," she sobbed.

He handed her a brochure and she wiped her eyes unabashedly. He noticed her set of football pads looked bizarre. "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 eyebrow tearfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would decontaminate my roll of toilet paper if I didn't yawn," she replied. "I said he's a hairy German Shepherd. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's hairy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Mohammadian?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sympathetically, "did Mister Mohammadian ever talk about someone named Beauford Lippman?

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

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

She looked at him sleepily. "I'm nobody's mon chéri," she observed, "and I don't want to be in Abilene too long. I hope you can do something about Victor soon."

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

"I can sidle to Abilene as soon as I pack a tablet computer, a bicycle helmet, and my elephant tusk."

"You'd better take a ticket too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he admitted kindly.

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

She rose from her seat and skipped hysterically out of the office. He stared testily after her.

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