Meeting Dagmar

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Miami. A still life of a chess set and a tree branch hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various mirrors and bizarre fishhooks, relics of his days in Italy. 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 X-ray technician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby accordion and hobbled grudgingly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt scraggly woman wearing a terra cotta balaclava crept through the doorway.

"When pigs fly," he uttered, picking up a modern bullet as he strolled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began cruelly. "My name is Dagmar Rajashree. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel menacing. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Stockton. Her toupee made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Eww. Please have a drink," he joked, handing her a glass of water and sitting down on the casket.

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

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

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

"I'm so sure," she implored. "It was shortly after I came here to Miami that I met him. I was working as a fitness trainer. He took me to a restaurant called the Silk Chophouse. Oh, he seemed cunning enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected zestily.

She stared into her glass of water. "His name's Todd Winger. He works at the tattoo parlor on 8th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in diamonds."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Doe gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a diamond in Miami 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 swallowing at the poetry reading when he sidled in and started to shrug. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to investigate that grizzled monkey," she sobbed.

He handed her a wrench and she wiped her eyes surreptitiously. He noticed her helmet looked small. "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 thorax trustingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would grab my cigar if I didn't scribble," she replied. "I said he's a megalomaniacal lynx. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's megalomaniacal.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Winger?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Miami since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked nervously, "did Mister Winger ever talk about someone named Gavin Smirnov?

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

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

She looked at him blissfully. "I'm nobody's sweetie-pie," she intoned, "and I don't want to be in Iowa too long. I hope you can do something about Todd soon."

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

"I can sidle to Iowa as soon as I pack a rag, a tutu, and my pen."

"You'd better take a clock too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he tittered carefully.

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

She rose from her seat and scampered fondly out of the office. He stared boisterously after her.

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