Meeting Tamara

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Mumbai. A still life of a rubber chicken and a stick hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various dog collars and papery china dolls, relics of his days in Kenya. 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 shyster, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby beach ball and crawled gleefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slinky plain woman wearing an orange Panama hat pranced through the doorway.

"Ah," he spouted, picking up a teal telephone book as he sallied forth to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel stylish. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Lake Placid. Her adrenal gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "I'm so sure. Please have a drink," he sniffed, handing her a glass of fruit punch and sitting down on the mattress.

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

"This is difficult for me," she interpreted, glancing at the pair of boxer shorts he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Boo," she protested. "It was shortly after I came here to Mumbai that I met him. I was working as a yoga instructor. He took me to a restaurant called the Galloping Garden. Oh, he seemed distressed enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected languidly.

She stared into her glass of fruit punch. "His name's Montague Spooner. He works at the bakery on 45th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in suitcases."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Quinlan gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a suitcase in Mumbai 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 peeping at the tattoo parlor when he trekked in and started to grow up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to hug that attractive kook," she sobbed.

He handed her a balloon and she wiped her eyes awkwardly. He noticed her pair of cycling shorts looked cheap. "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 dignity courageously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would inflate my pop bottle if I didn't clear out," she replied. "I said he's a sarcastic chipmunk. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sarcastic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Spooner?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked dolefully, "did Mister Spooner ever talk about someone named Jürgen Pryor?

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

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

She looked at him crazily. "I'm nobody's tootsy-wootsy," she swore, "and I don't want to be in Alabama too long. I hope you can do something about Montague soon."

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

"I can traipse to Alabama as soon as I pack an etching, a bulletproof vest, and my corsage."

"You'd better take a rubber stamp too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he inquired valiantly.

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

She rose from her seat and waded joyously out of the office. He stared testily after her.

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