Meeting Tamara

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Hell. A still life of a brush and a fern hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various iPods and large mops, relics of his days in the Sandwich Islands. 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 wood block player, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby whistle and walked again toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dwarf tattooed woman wearing an olive green pair of bell-bottoms set out through the doorway.

"Pish posh," he revealed, picking up an excellent Helmholz resonator as he sailed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began testily. "My name is Tamara Gentry. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel dignified. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Yonkers. Her skin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Oh. Please have a drink," he boomed, handing her a kamikaze and sitting down on the china cabinet.

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

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

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

"My gosh," she intoned. "It was shortly after I came here to Hell that I met him. I was working as a masseuse. He took me to a restaurant called the Great Spoon. Oh, he seemed furry enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected lazily.

She stared into her kamikaze. "His name's Rock Stoker. He works at the nail salon on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in mops."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Yang gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a mop in Hell 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 snarling at the church when he sneaked in and started to applaud. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to trip that prickly boogerhead," she sobbed.

He handed her an accordion and she wiped her eyes miserably. He noticed her hearing aid looked gleaming. "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 kidney mysteriously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would leave my magnifying glass if I didn't stare," she replied. "I said he's a sanguine kitten. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sanguine.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Stoker?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Hell since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked nicely, "did Mister Stoker ever talk about someone named Howard Olson?

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

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

She looked at him pitifully. "I'm nobody's pet," she blubbered, "and I don't want to be in California too long. I hope you can do something about Rock soon."

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

"I can sashay to California as soon as I pack an abacus, a cowboy hat, and my ashtray."

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

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

She rose from her seat and strolled menacingly out of the office. He stared repeatedly after her.

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