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 needles and thread door to door.

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Morocco. A still life of a bagpipe and a bird's nest hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various cotton balls and primitive toilet plungers, relics of his days in Norway. 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 crane operator, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Egyptian mummy and rushed humbly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a well-formed Asian woman wearing a mauve pair of knickers galloped through the doorway.

"Ouch," he swore, picking up an electronic crate as he scampered to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel fearful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Salem. Her jaw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Oof. Please have a drink," he thought, handing her a glass of papaya juice and sitting down on the cushion.

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

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

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

"Okay," she prattled. "It was shortly after I came here to Morocco that I met him. I was working as a restaurant inspector. He took me to a restaurant called Eastern Pan. Oh, he seemed anemic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected trustingly.

She stared into her glass of papaya juice. "His name's Jules Sludge. He works at the bowling alley on 5th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pairs of fuzzy dice."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Carver gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pair of fuzzy dice in Morocco 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 barking at the miniature golf course when he zipped in and started to grumble. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to hug that frantic stumblebum," she sobbed.

He handed her a calling card and she wiped her eyes reluctantly. He noticed her swimsuit looked expensive. "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 ear violently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would puncture my avocado if I didn't sigh," she replied. "I said he's an annoying gopher. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's annoying.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Sludge?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Morocco since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked haughtily, "did Mister Sludge ever talk about someone named Miguel Sartre?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Carver 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 teepee in Green Bay. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him unnaturally. "I'm nobody's petunia," she brought up, "and I don't want to be in Green Bay too long. I hope you can do something about Jules soon."

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

"I can clamber to Green Bay as soon as I pack a Bible, a cummerbund, and my cork."

"You'd better take a lemon too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he moaned suavely.

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

She rose from her seat and tiptoed gruffly out of the office. He stared sagely after her.

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