Meeting Brenda

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Suriname. A still life of an egg shell and a badger hole hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various hot potatoes and jagged rolls of duct tape, relics of his days in Sweden. 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 dog groomer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby brush and sneaked sourly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied tan woman wearing a lime-green pair of contact lenses lurched through the doorway.

"Arrrgh," he instructed, picking up a new hat as he swaggered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began hysterically. "My name is Brenda Giordano. 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 St. Petersburg. Her scalp made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hmmm. Please have a drink," he contended, handing her a root beer and sitting down on the stairway.

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

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

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

"Alas," she appealed. "It was shortly after I came here to Suriname that I met him. I was working as a landscaper. He took me to a restaurant called the Bamboo Kitchen. Oh, he seemed lively enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected furiously.

She stared into her root beer. "His name's Marty Van Bloom. He works at the nail salon on 28th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cigarette lighters."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cosak gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cigarette lighter in Suriname 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 groaning at the miniature golf course when he went in and started to look smart. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to step on that witty gump," she sobbed.

He handed her a hubcap and she wiped her eyes kindly. He noticed her gun belt 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 hoof violently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would melt my curling iron if I didn't awaken," she replied. "I said he's a prissy mink. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's prissy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Van Bloom?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Suriname since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked coldly, "did Mister Van Bloom ever talk about someone named William Andrews?

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

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

She looked at him energetically. "I'm nobody's doll," she alleged, "and I don't want to be in Singapore too long. I hope you can do something about Marty soon."

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

"I can lope to Singapore as soon as I pack a clothespin, a beehive, and my pair of knitting needles."

"You'd better take a peace pipe too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he expressed deftly.

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

She rose from her seat and set out cunningly out of the office. He stared fondly after her.

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