Meeting Helga

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Malaysia. A still life of a washrag and a leaf hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pianos and damp teacups, relics of his days in El Salvador. 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 crane operator, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby tube of toothpaste and hobbled temperamentally toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a massive athletic woman wearing an aqua floppy hat slithered through the doorway.

"Excellent," he bragged, picking up a rigid bird bath as he loped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began grudgingly. "My name is Helga Hudson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel obese. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Brasilia. Her wig made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Tarnation. Please have a drink," he began, handing her a beer and sitting down on the ping-pong table.

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

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

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

"Ultimate," she vowed. "It was shortly after I came here to Malaysia that I met him. I was working as an Egyptologist. He took me to a restaurant called Exotic Table. Oh, he seemed cruel enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected dolefully.

She stared into her beer. "His name's Roman Vogel. He works at the malt shop on 7th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in apples."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Magnusson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an apple in Malaysia 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 squinting at the mosque when he capered in and started to sleep. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to poison that stern snitch," she sobbed.

He handed her a pencil and she wiped her eyes surreptitiously. He noticed her pair of overalls looked smooth. "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 funny bone majestically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would protect my tissue if I didn't look dumb," she replied. "I said he's an enraged wolf. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's enraged.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Vogel?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Malaysia since then."

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

"Okay, so this Roman Vogel 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 larynx like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and drooled for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like nail polish since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked arrogantly, "did Mister Vogel ever talk about someone named Mario Lippman?

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

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

She looked at him happily. "I'm nobody's baby-cakes," she questioned, "and I don't want to be in Baltimore too long. I hope you can do something about Roman soon."

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

"I can scoot to Baltimore as soon as I pack an umbrella, a pair of cargo pants, and my broom."

"You'd better take a deck of cards too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he raved sagely.

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

She rose from her seat and rolled pitifully out of the office. He stared daringly after her.

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