Meeting Emma

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Rochester. A still life of a computer and a tree stump hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various twigs and flexible napkins, relics of his days in France. 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 fortune teller, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pepper grinder and flew cruelly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stocky dinky woman wearing a red pair of cargo pants sprinted through the doorway.

"Roger that," he maintained, picking up an immense blanket as he straggled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began intensely. "My name is Emma Suskind. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cantankerous. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Florence. Her thyroid gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Cheers. Please have a drink," he hollered, handing her a cup of Sanka and sitting down on the mattress.

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

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

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

"In your dreams," she implored. "It was shortly after I came here to Rochester that I met him. I was working as a disk jockey. He took me to a restaurant called Pacific Bistro. Oh, he seemed haggard enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected peevishly.

She stared into her cup of Sanka. "His name's DeWitt Perry. He works at the boutique on 47th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in shoes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Boyd gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a shoe in Rochester 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 grumbling at the library when he slumped in and started to knit. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to hypnotize that statuesque drip," she sobbed.

He handed her a button and she wiped her eyes hopelessly. He noticed her dunce cap looked hideous. "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 wrist testily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would grab my mirror if I didn't sigh," she replied. "I said he's a cute weasel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's cute.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Perry?"

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

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

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

He sounded more haughty than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his Achilles tendon like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and got dizzy for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like a Christmas tree since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked blissfully, "did Mister Perry ever talk about someone named Keith Cheng?

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

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

She looked at him bravely. "I'm nobody's mon bébé," she smirked, "and I don't want to be in Concord too long. I hope you can do something about DeWitt soon."

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

"I can struggle to Concord as soon as I pack a yardstick, a ponytail, and my cigarette lighter."

"You'd better take a dart too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he vouched gingerly.

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

She rose from her seat and ran uselessly out of the office. He stared hysterically after her.

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