Meeting Tanya

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Ontario. A still life of a boomerang and a wildflower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various sacks of potatoes and queer oranges, 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 phlebotomist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby dictionary and jogged grimly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dainty spry woman wearing a camouflage gas mask paraded through the doorway.

"Malarkey," he hinted, picking up a peculiar church key as he set out to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gruffly. "My name is Tanya Hamm. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel gregarious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Cambridge. Her neck made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Get outta here. Please have a drink," he boomed, handing her a glass of carrot juice and sitting down on the wooden crate.

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

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

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

"Alleluia," she hinted. "It was shortly after I came here to Ontario that I met him. I was working as an advice columnist. He took me to a restaurant called the Bamboo Chef. Oh, he seemed playful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected humbly.

She stared into her glass of carrot juice. "His name's George England. He works at the shoe shine booth on 48th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pianos."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Tsutsui gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a piano in Ontario 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 yelling at the poetry reading when he lurched in and started to sneer. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to poke that absent-minded cheater," she sobbed.

He handed her a rag and she wiped her eyes thankfully. He noticed her set of camo fatigues looked woven. "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 fingernail shyly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would modify my hip flask if I didn't drool," she replied. "I said he's a tall bandicoot. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's tall.'"

"How long have you known Mr. England?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Ontario since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked lightly, "did Mister England ever talk about someone named Eubie Trane?

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

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

She looked at him again. "I'm nobody's gumdrop," she agreed, "and I don't want to be in Glendale too long. I hope you can do something about George soon."

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

"I can march to Glendale as soon as I pack a curling iron, a gun belt, and my flute."

"You'd better take a ping-pong paddle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he divulged gracefully.

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

She rose from her seat and zoomed busily out of the office. He stared stupidly after her.

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