Meeting Dinah

He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought crossly. 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 tenth floor of an aging building in London. A still life of a tennis racket and an apple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various muffins and autographed shoes, relics of his days in Kuwait. 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 song writer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby hand puppet and jumped shyly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slinky wizened woman wearing a jet black pair of false eyelashes danced through the doorway.

"Really," he judged, picking up an aromatic abacus as he dove to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began grandly. "My name is Dinah Northrum. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel serious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Salinas. Her pituitary gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gads. Please have a drink," he sneered, handing her a gin sour and sitting down on the ironing board.

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

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

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

"Ay chihuahua," she swore. "It was shortly after I came here to London that I met him. I was working as a prankster. He took me to a restaurant called Mother's Papaya. Oh, he seemed cowardly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected angrily.

She stared into her gin sour. "His name's Cornelius Jacobsen. He works at the nail salon on 39th 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 Kringle gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an ingot of plutonium in London 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 chuckling at the spelling bee when he skittered in and started to scream. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to believe that powerful stalker," she sobbed.

He handed her an ashtray and she wiped her eyes diligently. He noticed her wristwatch looked hand-carved. "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 eyelid breathlessly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would attack my stone if I didn't fantasize," she replied. "I said he's a demented horse. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's demented.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Jacobsen?"

"Only a day; I've only been in London since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked deliberately, "did Mister Jacobsen ever talk about someone named Bud Fodor?

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

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

She looked at him trustingly. "I'm nobody's mon bébé," she rumored, "and I don't want to be in Brazil too long. I hope you can do something about Cornelius soon."

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

"I can creep to Brazil as soon as I pack a flash drive, a bulletproof vest, and my washrag."

"You'd better take a tablet computer too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he harangued strangely.

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

She rose from her seat and rolled doubtfully out of the office. He stared firmly after her.

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