Meeting Helga

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in India. A still life of a wrench and a tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various chairs and rough toys, relics of his days in Liechtenstein. 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 school principal, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cork and capered sweetly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dainty dapper woman wearing a teal Superman costume whirled through the doorway.

"Ha," he opined, picking up an immense muffin as he swaggered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began carefully. "My name is Helga Keene. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel shifty. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Monterrey. Her throat made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy cow. Please have a drink," he decided, handing her a gin and tonic and sitting down on the rug.

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

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

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

"For cryin' out loud," she mentioned. "It was shortly after I came here to India that I met him. I was working as a set designer. He took me to a restaurant called Pacific Steakhouse. Oh, he seemed anemic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected automatically.

She stared into her gin and tonic. "His name's Helmut Turner. He works at the police station on 42nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in watering cans."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bristol gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a watering can in India 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 crouching at the library when he slid in and started to fret. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to needle that high-strung quacker," she sobbed.

He handed her a corsage and she wiped her eyes sympathetically. He noticed her pair of roller skates looked striped. "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 earlobe suddenly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would hammer my pair of knitting needles if I didn't do the Hokey Pokey," she replied. "I said he's a brassy zebra. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's brassy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Turner?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in India since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked nervously, "did Mister Turner ever talk about someone named Marvin Santos?

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

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

She looked at him delicately. "I'm nobody's babe," she prattled, "and I don't want to be in Nicaragua too long. I hope you can do something about Helmut soon."

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

"I can stagger to Nicaragua as soon as I pack a pair of scissors, a pair of cycling shorts, and my basketball."

"You'd better take a ruler too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he declared daintily.

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

She rose from her seat and rolled gleefully out of the office. He stared vacantly after her.

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