Meeting Gina

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Japan. A still life of a candle and a raspberry bush hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various remote controls and colossal Happy Meals, relics of his days in Iran. 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 flight mechanic, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bag of potato chips and inched immediately toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a divine little woman wearing a carrot-orange set of pink foam curlers strolled through the doorway.

"Whoopee," he crooned, picking up a wooden crayon as he paraded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began demurely. "My name is Gina Barber. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel radiant. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Sioux City. Her esophagus made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ay yi yi. Please have a drink," he urged, handing her a glass of tomato juice and sitting down on the hammock.

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

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

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

"Bam," she rationalized. "It was shortly after I came here to Japan that I met him. I was working as a singer. He took me to a restaurant called Taiwan Social Club. Oh, he seemed young enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected greedily.

She stared into her glass of tomato juice. "His name's Mark Pickett. He works at the hair salon on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in packages."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Vintner gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a package in Japan 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 nodding off at the carnival when he padded in and started to wander. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to push that brave imposter," she sobbed.

He handed her a pair of knitting needles and she wiped her eyes fearfully. He noticed her derby looked speckled. "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 larynx glibly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would toss my photograph if I didn't yell," she replied. "I said he's a gentle tsetse fly. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's gentle.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Pickett?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Japan since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked deliberately, "did Mister Pickett ever talk about someone named Rock Sitzman?

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

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

She looked at him peevishly. "I'm nobody's babe," she decided, "and I don't want to be in Newark too long. I hope you can do something about Mark soon."

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

"I can wade to Newark as soon as I pack a pair of dice, a pair of shorts, and my advertisement."

"You'd better take a comic book too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he requested effortlessly.

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

She rose from her seat and crept languidly out of the office. He stared admiringly after her.

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