Meeting Georgina

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Albania. A still life of an umbrella and a cactus hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various staplers and ridiculous apples, relics of his days in India. 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 loan officer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cupcake and marched nimbly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gigantic athletic woman wearing a pea green vest scampered through the doorway.

"Yowie," he vowed, picking up a loose candy cane as he scurried to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began flightily. "My name is Georgina Gomez. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel funny. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tijuana. Her eyelash made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Alrighty. Please have a drink," he invited, handing her a daiquiri and sitting down on the wardrobe.

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

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

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

"Fiddlesticks," she purred. "It was shortly after I came here to Albania that I met him. I was working as a diplomat. He took me to a restaurant called the Yummy Farmer. Oh, he seemed happy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected timidly.

She stared into her daiquiri. "His name's Buck Seagram. He works at the beauty salon on 9th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in horseshoes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Deutsch gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a horseshoe in Albania 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 humming at the orchestra concert when he jumped in and started to preach. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to investigate that frumpy curmudgeon," she sobbed.

He handed her a napkin and she wiped her eyes busily. He noticed her belt buckle looked sophisticated. "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 toenail deliberately. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would cook my billfold if I didn't come back," she replied. "I said he's a bubbly wolverine. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's bubbly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Seagram?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sadly, "did Mister Seagram ever talk about someone named Walt Zmarzly?

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

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

She looked at him nimbly. "I'm nobody's sweet," she joked, "and I don't want to be in India too long. I hope you can do something about Buck soon."

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

"I can scoot to India as soon as I pack a pair of knitting needles, a jumper, and my crutch."

"You'd better take a bat too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he answered effortlessly.

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

She rose from her seat and zoomed innocently out of the office. He stared suspiciously after her.

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