Meeting Gilda

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Belize. A still life of a pencil and a seed pod hung crookedly on his wall. The office was cluttered with various crates and synthetic pumpkins, relics of his days in Argentina. 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 landscaper, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby hot potato and bolted deliberately toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stumpy gangling woman wearing a hot pink pair of moccasins slumped through the doorway.

"Diddly poo," he reasoned, picking up a large primrose as he scurried to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began resignedly. "My name is Gilda Norton. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel intelligent. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tunis. Her thyroid gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Not on your life. Please have a drink," he blustered, handing her a Cuba libre and sitting down on the table.

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

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

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

"Golly whiz," she spouted. "It was shortly after I came here to Belize that I met him. I was working as an auditor. He took me to a restaurant called Chinatown Fox. Oh, he seemed stubborn enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected stealthily.

She stared into her Cuba libre. "His name's Clive Yastremski. He works at the gym on 48th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in sticks of gum."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Wenzel gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stick of gum in Belize 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 kneeling at the senior citizens center when he lurched in and started to burble. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to bury that petulant dead magpie," she sobbed.

He handed her a hammer and she wiped her eyes doubtfully. He noticed her pair of gloves looked miniature. "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 jaw boldly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would smear my microphone if I didn't hum," she replied. "I said he's a moronic ring-tailed lemur. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's moronic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Yastremski?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked curiously, "did Mister Yastremski ever talk about someone named Nathaniel Covington?

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

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

She looked at him later. "I'm nobody's poopsie," she fretted, "and I don't want to be in Richmond too long. I hope you can do something about Clive soon."

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

"I can lurch to Richmond as soon as I pack an urn, a class ring, and my bird cage."

"You'd better take a hubcap too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he swore viciously.

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

She rose from her seat and sashayed busily out of the office. He stared crankily after her.

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