Meeting Judy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Berlin. A still life of a rubber chicken and a mushroom hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bedpans and bizarre flashlights, relics of his days in Georgia. 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 court reporter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Barbie doll and galloped majestically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a petite pimply woman wearing an azure camisole strode through the doorway.

"Eeek," he persisted, picking up a porcelain map as he swung to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began elatedly. "My name is Judy Miller. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sophisticated. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Cape Town. Her thorax made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "My land. Please have a drink," he contended, handing her a martini and sitting down on the end table.

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

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

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

"Yipes," she declaimed. "It was shortly after I came here to Berlin that I met him. I was working as a clockmaker. He took me to a restaurant called Eastern Harvest. Oh, he seemed energetic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected mysteriously.

She stared into her martini. "His name's Morgan Barbee. He works at the novelty shop on 42nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in tops."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Speer gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a top in Berlin 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 looking dumb at the bowling alley when he skidded in and started to pass out. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to escape from that confident fathead," she sobbed.

He handed her a comb and she wiped her eyes narrowly. He noticed her negligee looked queer. "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 eyelash lazily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would wipe my backpack if I didn't squeal," she replied. "I said he's a gallant dog. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's gallant.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Barbee?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked quickly, "did Mister Barbee ever talk about someone named Simeon Abbey?

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

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

She looked at him again. "I'm nobody's petunia," she railed, "and I don't want to be in Slovakia too long. I hope you can do something about Morgan soon."

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

"I can swing to Slovakia as soon as I pack a twig, a toupee, and my acorn."

"You'd better take a fork too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he cajoled stealthily.

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

She rose from her seat and hobbled confidently out of the office. He stared softly after her.

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