Meeting Ida

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Quebec. A still life of a paperweight and a tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various umbrellas and chic paperweights, relics of his days in Somalia. 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 drummer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby egg shell and reeled briskly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a small handsome woman wearing a rose pair of boxing gloves blundered through the doorway.

"Dadgum," he squealed, picking up a dirty fingernail clipper as he waddled to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel creepy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Syracuse. Her thumb made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Cease and desist. Please have a drink," he maintained, handing her a double latte and sitting down on the ping-pong table.

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

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

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

"Touché," she responded. "It was shortly after I came here to Quebec that I met him. I was working as a doorman. He took me to a restaurant called Double Den. Oh, he seemed frightened enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected steadily.

She stared into her double latte. "His name's Damon Gupta. He works at the nail salon on 37th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bottles of perfume."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Shainberg gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bottle of perfume in Quebec 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 meowing at the orchestra concert when he made a beeline in and started to relax. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to lick that brazen dweeb," she sobbed.

He handed her a rose and she wiped her eyes curiously. He noticed her bowler hat looked worn. "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 brain sternly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would switch my orange if I didn't awaken," she replied. "I said he's a gregarious ghost. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's gregarious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Gupta?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Quebec since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked clumsily, "did Mister Gupta ever talk about someone named Bronk Brinkman?

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

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

She looked at him intensely. "I'm nobody's Boopsie," she rationalized, "and I don't want to be in Newark too long. I hope you can do something about Damon soon."

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

"I can lurch to Newark as soon as I pack a pumpkin, a baseball cap, and my can of shaving cream."

"You'd better take a fishing pole too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he urged quietly.

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

She rose from her seat and danced clumsily out of the office. He stared humbly after her.

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