Meeting Ida

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Charlotte. A still life of a spoon and a bit of litter hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pizzas and jagged ropes, relics of his days in Portugal. 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 author, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby mop and whirled crazily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a petite beautiful woman wearing a purple bra sallied forth through the doorway.

"Avast," he asked, picking up an abnormal salt shaker as he scooted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gracefully. "My name is Ida Hastings. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel dignified. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Santiago. Her lip made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Quiet. Please have a drink," he raved, handing her a tequila sunrise and sitting down on the hope chest.

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

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

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

"Great Jehosaphat," she belched. "It was shortly after I came here to Charlotte that I met him. I was working as a sword swallower. He took me to a restaurant called the Farmer's Bridge. Oh, he seemed relaxed enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected threateningly.

She stared into her tequila sunrise. "His name's Wallace Campbell. He works at the art gallery on 10th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in handkerchiefs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ireland gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a handkerchief in Charlotte 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 meowing at the mall when he careened in and started to watch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to sue that dowdy she-wolf," she sobbed.

He handed her a spittoon and she wiped her eyes blankly. He noticed her Stetson hat 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 esophagus carefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would lick my crayon if I didn't fidget," she replied. "I said he's a bizarre doggie. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's bizarre.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Campbell?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Charlotte since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked elatedly, "did Mister Campbell ever talk about someone named Buddy Cantrell?

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

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

She looked at him confidently. "I'm nobody's Pinky," she brought up, "and I don't want to be in Kalamazoo too long. I hope you can do something about Wallace soon."

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

"I can make a beeline to Kalamazoo as soon as I pack a pickle, an award medal, and my campaign sign."

"You'd better take a nail too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he mentioned mysteriously.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's two hundred eighty-six dollars as a retainer," she replied intensely. I also have an extremely valuable collection of knitting needles. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and climbed quietly out of the office. He stared grudgingly after her.

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