Meeting Dinah

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Iowa. A still life of a bowling ball and a sea shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various stones and unusual whistles, relics of his days in the Philippines. 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 mason, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby baseball bat and dove daintily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lanky pale woman wearing a silver big smile galloped through the doorway.

"Of course," he invited, picking up an aromatic cigar as he padded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began hopefully. "My name is Dinah Vernon. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel boring. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Naperville. Her heel made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Moo. Please have a drink," he piped up, handing her a sassafras tea and sitting down on the display case.

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

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

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

"Oh my," she asserted. "It was shortly after I came here to Iowa that I met him. I was working as a quarantine inspector. He took me to a restaurant called the Bamboo Greasy Spoon. Oh, he seemed undignified enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected cautiously.

She stared into her sassafras tea. "His name's Rip Provenzano. He works at the tattoo parlor on 18th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pictures."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hale gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a picture in Iowa 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 playing at the restaurant when he tramped in and started to burp. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to demean that witty curmudgeon," she sobbed.

He handed her a paperweight and she wiped her eyes greedily. He noticed her beehive looked speckled. "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 larynx hopelessly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would shove my pair of dice if I didn't holler," she replied. "I said he's a hysterical dolphin. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's hysterical.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Provenzano?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Iowa since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked effortlessly, "did Mister Provenzano ever talk about someone named Jeffrey Iliescu?

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

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

She looked at him swiftly. "I'm nobody's light of my life," she blathered, "and I don't want to be in Poland too long. I hope you can do something about Rip soon."

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

"I can tramp to Poland as soon as I pack an air compressor, a bonnet, and my playing card."

"You'd better take a stuffed kitten too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he opined smoothly.

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

She rose from her seat and strode offhandedly out of the office. He stared unnaturally after her.

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