Meeting Gretchen

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

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

The office was adorned with various umbrellas and miniature necklaces, relics of his days in Poland. 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 marine biologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby ice cream cone and breezed effortlessly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lithe hairy woman wearing a camouflage pair of moon boots marched through the doorway.

"Kapow," he avowed, picking up a tiny crayon as he careened to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began doubtfully. "My name is Gretchen Bear. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel earnest. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Fontana. Her finger made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ppppbbbft. Please have a drink," he warbled, handing her a cup of coffee and sitting down on the stool.

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

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

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

"Now we're talking," she spoke up. "It was shortly after I came here to Armenia that I met him. I was working as a bus driver. He took me to a restaurant called the Rainbow Bistro. Oh, he seemed blubbery enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected vigorously.

She stared into her cup of coffee. "His name's Kurt Turner. He works at the malt shop on 36th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in comic books."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Van Dorn gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a comic book in Armenia 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 kneeling at the synagogue when he galumphed in and started to talk. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to awe that vile dirty rat," she sobbed.

He handed her a suitcase and she wiped her eyes uneasily. He noticed her big grin looked autographed. "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 tummy automatically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would boil my feather if I didn't deal cards," she replied. "I said he's a solitary hawk. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's solitary.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Turner?"

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

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

"Okay, so this Kurt Turner 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 jaw like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and looked puzzled for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like chloroform since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked hysterically, "did Mister Turner ever talk about someone named Guy Bewley?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with an evil eye.

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

She looked at him arrogantly. "I'm nobody's Pinky," she judged, "and I don't want to be in Slovakia too long. I hope you can do something about Kurt soon."

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

"I can march to Slovakia as soon as I pack a sea shell, a uniform, and my billfold."

"You'd better take a microphone too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he barked numbly.

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

She rose from her seat and waddled properly out of the office. He stared glumly after her.

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