Meeting Ginger

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Nebraska. A still life of a sponge and a tree branch hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various roses and art deco pieces of paper, relics of his days in Russia. 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 clown, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Rubik's cube and swaggered hastily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a thin cadaverous woman wearing a silver pair of roller skates climbed through the doorway.

"Thpft," he accused, picking up a smumpy pigeon as he rushed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began fervently. "My name is Ginger Baird. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel stern. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Concord. Her funny bone made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Petunia. Please have a drink," he muttered, handing her a double latte and sitting down on the chair.

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

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

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

"Blast," she enunciated. "It was shortly after I came here to Nebraska that I met him. I was working as a magician. He took me to a restaurant called Downtown Food Truck. Oh, he seemed choleric enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected blissfully.

She stared into her double latte. "His name's Joseph Smiley. He works at the ad agency on 29th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in washrags."

"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 washrag in Nebraska 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 hanging around at the school cafeteria when he sallied forth in and started to turn blue. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to smile at that merry weasel," she sobbed.

He handed her a Barbie doll and she wiped her eyes hopelessly. He noticed her beard looked old. "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 defiantly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would understand my pepper grinder if I didn't burp," she replied. "I said he's a sincere baboon. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sincere.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Smiley?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Nebraska since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked ignobly, "did Mister Smiley ever talk about someone named William Bonner?

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

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

She looked at him viciously. "I'm nobody's beloved," she reminded, "and I don't want to be in Comoros too long. I hope you can do something about Joseph soon."

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

"I can waddle to Comoros as soon as I pack a cigarette, a flour sack, and my needle and thread."

"You'd better take a pencil sharpener too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he crooned patiently.

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

She rose from her seat and scooted gruffly out of the office. He stared strangely after her.

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