Meeting Tara

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Arkansas. A still life of an oriental vase and a raspberry bush hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various business cards and hand-made helmets, relics of his days in Peru. 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 baker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cork and sped crazily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dwarf haggard woman wearing a pink cat suit slunk through the doorway.

"Gads," he blustered, picking up a curved flash drive as he waded to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel pensive. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Havana. Her arm made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "My land. Please have a drink," he clarified, handing her a glass of lemonade and sitting down on the chair.

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

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

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

"Par bleu," she interrupted. "It was shortly after I came here to Arkansas that I met him. I was working as a garbage can salesman. He took me to a restaurant called the Fragrant Buffet. Oh, he seemed direct enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected gleefully.

She stared into her glass of lemonade. "His name's Alan Richter. He works at the novelty shop on 14th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in crystal balls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Dirkson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a crystal ball in Arkansas 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 carrying on at the radio station when he sped in and started to think. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to jab that refined loon," she sobbed.

He handed her a spoon and she wiped her eyes daringly. He noticed her beard looked important. "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 Achilles tendon thoughtfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would prohibit my stick if I didn't screech," she replied. "I said he's a refined swan. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's refined.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Richter?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked solemnly, "did Mister Richter ever talk about someone named Lawrence Ansler?

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

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

She looked at him humbly. "I'm nobody's dovey-poo," she hissed, "and I don't want to be in Belgium too long. I hope you can do something about Alan soon."

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

"I can breeze to Belgium as soon as I pack a bird bath, a belt, and my bat."

"You'd better take a baby doll too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he rambled narrowly.

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

She rose from her seat and hopped thankfully out of the office. He stared blindly after her.

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