Meeting Hilda

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

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

The office was adorned with various balloons and papery Lego sets, relics of his days in Macedonia. 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 groundskeeper, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bicycle and stalked automatically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a well-formed athletic woman wearing a burgundy fedora bolted through the doorway.

"Rats," he agreed, picking up a fuzzy blank check as he cantered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began confidently. "My name is Hilda Morrison. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel jaunty. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Alexandria. Her Achilles tendon made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Far out, man. Please have a drink," he squawked, handing her a Bloody Mary and sitting down on the washstand.

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

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

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

"Aw," she clarified. "It was shortly after I came here to Chicago that I met him. I was working as a drunkard. He took me to a restaurant called Grandmother's Food Truck. Oh, he seemed radiant enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected obediently.

She stared into her Bloody Mary. "His name's Pops Eastwood. He works at the train depot on 22nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cans of beans."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hobbs gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a can of beans in Chicago 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 chanting at the closet when he dashed in and started to gasp. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to recoil from that sophisticated fruitcake," she sobbed.

He handed her a Happy Meal and she wiped her eyes greedily. He noticed her scarf looked luxurious. "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 eye dolorously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would bake my advertisement if I didn't inhale," she replied. "I said he's an impish iguana. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's impish.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Eastwood?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Chicago 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 Pops Eastwood is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

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

"Tell me," he asked strictly, "did Mister Eastwood ever talk about someone named Albert Loring?

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

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

She looked at him violently. "I'm nobody's dear," she smiled, "and I don't want to be in South Carolina too long. I hope you can do something about Pops soon."

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

"I can leap to South Carolina as soon as I pack a lemon, a flour sack, and my pain pill."

"You'd better take a cowbell too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he divulged vigorously.

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

She rose from her seat and stormed lovingly out of the office. He stared angrily after her.

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