Meeting Gloria

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

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

The office was cluttered with various china dolls and crude egg shells, relics of his days in Estonia. 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 postmaster, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby egg shell and jogged peevishly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious pimply woman wearing a beige apron hobbled through the doorway.

"Ay chihuahua," he fantasized, picking up a hefty piano as he skidded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began tensely. "My name is Gloria Edwards. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cautious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Belgrade. Her head made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gads. Please have a drink," he rambled, handing her a Bud Lite and sitting down on the ping-pong table.

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

"This is difficult for me," she yelped, glancing at the pair of shin guards he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Leapin' lizards," she intimated. "It was shortly after I came here to Iowa that I met him. I was working as a football coach. He took me to a restaurant called the Rainbow Feast. Oh, he seemed megalomaniacal enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected grimly.

She stared into her Bud Lite. "His name's Dorian Barton. He works at the drug store on 10th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in urns."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the German gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an urn in Iowa 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 pacing at the carnival when he whirled in and started to inhale. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to imitate that jolly pigdog," she sobbed.

He handed her a tissue and she wiped her eyes repeatedly. He noticed her necklace looked gooey. "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 liver shyly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would soften my notepad if I didn't snuffle," she replied. "I said he's a nervous mare. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's nervous.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Barton?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked grimly, "did Mister Barton ever talk about someone named Wes Marino?

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

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

She looked at him angrily. "I'm nobody's poopsy-woopsy," she fumed, "and I don't want to be in Lithuania too long. I hope you can do something about Dorian soon."

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

"I can jog to Lithuania as soon as I pack a primrose, a leotard, and my magazine."

"You'd better take a remote control too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he acknowledged reluctantly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred sixteen dollars as a retainer," she replied recklessly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of Big Gulps. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and sprinted gingerly out of the office. He stared thankfully after her.

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