Meeting Judy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Warsaw. A still life of a diagram and an apple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various chamber pots and greasy carrots, relics of his days in Portugal. 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 woodworker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby yardstick and sprinted kindly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a colossal large woman wearing a green pair of boxing gloves waddled through the doorway.

"Bleep," he recited, picking up a smelly Kindle as he waded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began grimly. "My name is Judy Bowman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel articulate. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Buenos Aires. Her tongue made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hurray. Please have a drink," he pointed out, handing her a Cuba libre and sitting down on the chair.

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

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

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

"Thpft," she emphasized. "It was shortly after I came here to Warsaw that I met him. I was working as a wine merchant. He took me to a restaurant called Pacific Bison. Oh, he seemed careful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected warily.

She stared into her Cuba libre. "His name's Doug Gilson. He works at the beauty salon on 20th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in ingots of plutonium."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Weatherford gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an ingot of plutonium in Warsaw 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 getting angry at the miniature golf course when he rolled in and started to rock. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to have a talk with that naïve bandicoot," she sobbed.

He handed her a pizza and she wiped her eyes reluctantly. He noticed her skirt looked narrow. "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 femur fervently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would forget my teacup if I didn't get dizzy," she replied. "I said he's an ungainly parakeet. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's ungainly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Gilson?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked testily, "did Mister Gilson ever talk about someone named Bruno Ortmann?

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

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

She looked at him angrily. "I'm nobody's toodleums," she chanted, "and I don't want to be in Somalia too long. I hope you can do something about Doug soon."

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

"I can waltz to Somalia as soon as I pack a dog collar, a trench coat, and my tennis racket."

"You'd better take a shovel too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he wept crossly.

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

She rose from her seat and capered immediately out of the office. He stared nervously after her.

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