Meeting Yolanda

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Iowa. A still life of a Kindle and a mulberry tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various magnifying glasses and greasy corks, relics of his days in the United States. 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 telemarketer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby baby doll and scampered hysterically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a hunky grubby woman wearing a brown black armband hobbled through the doorway.

"Uh-oh," he whimpered, picking up a musty pair of knitting needles as he sprinted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began jokingly. "My name is Yolanda Gotti. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel stylish. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Denver. Her hip made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Par bleu. Please have a drink," he yammered, handing her a glass of iced tea and sitting down on the overstuffed chair.

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

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

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

"Just a minute," she chuckled. "It was shortly after I came here to Iowa that I met him. I was working as a funeral director. He took me to a restaurant called the Country Table. Oh, he seemed calm enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected patiently.

She stared into her glass of iced tea. "His name's Papa Niebels. He works at the newsstand on 6th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in crayons."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Shackleton gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a crayon in Iowa 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 murmuring at the dance when he zipped in and started to expectorate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to think about that intelligent goof," she sobbed.

He handed her a cookbook and she wiped her eyes admiringly. He noticed her surgical mask looked chic. "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 finger languidly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would smudge my nail if I didn't sleep," she replied. "I said he's a pert wallaby. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's pert.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Niebels?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Iowa since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked craftily, "did Mister Niebels ever talk about someone named Bruno Goldwater?

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

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

She looked at him sleepily. "I'm nobody's honey bunch," she yelped, "and I don't want to be in Augusta too long. I hope you can do something about Papa soon."

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

"I can swagger to Augusta as soon as I pack an amulet, a tailcoat, and my Van Gogh."

"You'd better take a package too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he rebutted intensely.

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

She rose from her seat and cantered clumsily out of the office. He stared shyly after her.

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