Meeting Bridget

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Reno. A still life of a pinwheel and a deer track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various stuffed kittens and hand-made rocks, relics of his days in Mongolia. 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 hobo, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bottle of perfume and walked primly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slinky ruddy woman wearing a pink pair of Oxfords walked through the doorway.

"Holy cats," he preached, picking up a polka-dotted padlock as he rolled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began lightly. "My name is Bridget Childress. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel bald. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hanoi. Her aorta made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Jumpin’ Jehosaphat. Please have a drink," he implored, handing her an Alka-Seltzer and sitting down on the stool.

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

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

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

"Deranged," she blubbered. "It was shortly after I came here to Reno that I met him. I was working as a web guru. He took me to a restaurant called Grandmother's Grub Hall. Oh, he seemed proud enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected cleverly.

She stared into her Alka-Seltzer. "His name's Jacob Armstrong. He works at the tattoo parlor on 44th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in comic books."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Dipko gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a comic book in Reno 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 vomiting at the ski resort when he made a beeline in and started to wiggle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to date that apoplectic beast," she sobbed.

He handed her a bone and she wiped her eyes brightly. He noticed her midi skirt looked abnormal. "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 liver solemnly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would wrap my spittoon if I didn't cough," she replied. "I said he's an ignoble pig. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's ignoble.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Armstrong?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked ignobly, "did Mister Armstrong ever talk about someone named Conner Badwell?

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

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

She looked at him testily. "I'm nobody's poopsy-woopsy," she hinted, "and I don't want to be in Rhode Island too long. I hope you can do something about Jacob soon."

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

"I can swagger to Rhode Island as soon as I pack a pair of fuzzy dice, a kilt, and my advertisement."

"You'd better take a baton too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he gasped trustingly.

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

She rose from her seat and struggled energetically out of the office. He stared mysteriously after her.

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