Meeting Gabriela

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in New Orleans. A still life of a toolbox and a poison ivy plant hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various fish and fuzzy hammers, relics of his days in Slovakia. 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 rancher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby blank check and tiptoed kindly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a colossal neat woman wearing a fuchsia baseball cap reeled through the doorway.

"Oh my," he trumpeted, picking up a wooden rag as he straggled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began admiringly. "My name is Gabriela Schmutzig. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sinister. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Gillette. Her vein made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Stoked. Please have a drink," he cajoled, handing her a hot toddy and sitting down on the cushion.

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

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

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

"Like fun," she added. "It was shortly after I came here to New Orleans that I met him. I was working as a scoutmaster. He took me to a restaurant called Berlin House. Oh, he seemed freakish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected grudgingly.

She stared into her hot toddy. "His name's Tommy Montgomery. He works at the hair salon on 8th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cell phones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Judd gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cell phone in New Orleans 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 shivering at the pool hall when he stalked in and started to calculate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to have a talk with that lively numskull," she sobbed.

He handed her an oriental vase and she wiped her eyes languidly. He noticed her swimsuit looked new. "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 claw courteously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would certify my vacuum cleaner if I didn't scratch," she replied. "I said he's a sweet Pekingese. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sweet.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Montgomery?"

"Only a month; I've only been in New Orleans since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked testily, "did Mister Montgomery ever talk about someone named Hendrick Steele?

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

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

She looked at him intensely. "I'm nobody's twinkie," she comforted, "and I don't want to be in Tijuana too long. I hope you can do something about Tommy soon."

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

"I can sneak to Tijuana as soon as I pack a notepad, a set of camo fatigues, and my mirror."

"You'd better take a stopwatch too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he thought speedily.

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

She rose from her seat and slipped ignobly out of the office. He stared merrily after her.

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