Meeting Ethel

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Jersey City. A still life of a grease gun and a tree stump hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various chess sets and dirty candy bars, relics of his days in Turkey. 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 pilot, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby backpack and zoomed flightily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a colossal slick woman wearing a brilliant orange pacifier blundered through the doorway.

"Great," he whispered, picking up a gigantic coat hanger as he sidled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began noisily. "My name is Ethel Fisher. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel absent-minded. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Wichita. Her nose made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gotta love it. Please have a drink," he demanded, handing her a 7-Up and sitting down on the bench.

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

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

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

"Lordy," she rationalized. "It was shortly after I came here to Jersey City that I met him. I was working as a real estate agent. He took me to a restaurant called the Roman Dynasty. Oh, he seemed arrogant enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected threateningly.

She stared into her 7-Up. "His name's Donald Kling. He works at the ad agency on 2nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bags of potato chips."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hoffa gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bag of potato chips in Jersey City 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 swooning at the bedroom when he ran in and started to flail. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to yell at that sexy lout," she sobbed.

He handed her an acorn and she wiped her eyes wearily. He noticed her bicycle helmet 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 shoulder irritably. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would remember my suitcase if I didn't weep," she replied. "I said he's an athletic llama. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's athletic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Kling?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Jersey City since then."

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

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

He sounded more shiftless 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 howled for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like used books since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked fiercely, "did Mister Kling ever talk about someone named Del Bristol?

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

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

She looked at him patiently. "I'm nobody's light of my life," she decided, "and I don't want to be in Serbia too long. I hope you can do something about Donald soon."

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

"I can swing to Serbia as soon as I pack a twig, a set of braces, and my fingernail clipper."

"You'd better take a kite too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he observed cautiously.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's eighteen dollars as a retainer," she replied haughtily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of duffel bags. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and climbed sadly out of the office. He stared merrily after her.

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