Meeting Samina

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Newark. A still life of a box of candy and a stone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various dishes and flaky dishes, relics of his days in Kuwait. 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 fork and darted numbly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a midget tiny woman wearing a tan tattoo sallied forth through the doorway.

"Unreal," he reacted, picking up a bizarre pencil as he crawled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gently. "My name is Samina Oliver. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel anemic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Milwaukee. Her hangnail made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Humph. Please have a drink," he begged, handing her a gin sour and sitting down on the beanbag chair.

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

"This is difficult for me," she agreed, glancing at the pair of bell-bottoms he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"I'm so sure," she uttered. "It was shortly after I came here to Newark that I met him. I was working as a hit man. He took me to a restaurant called Bill's Steakhouse. Oh, he seemed cruel enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected valiantly.

She stared into her gin sour. "His name's Ray Jones. He works at the electronics store on 16th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in hip flasks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cantada gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a hip flask in Newark 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 taking a bath at the synagogue when he sidled in and started to wail. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to awe that suave weevil," she sobbed.

He handed her a photograph and she wiped her eyes shakily. He noticed her pair of knickers looked smelly. "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 little finger crossly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would break my kite if I didn't die," she replied. "I said he's an elderly lark. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's elderly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Jones?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Newark since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked excitedly, "did Mister Jones ever talk about someone named Calvin Hicks?

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

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

She looked at him dreamily. "I'm nobody's petunia," she drawled, "and I don't want to be in Malta too long. I hope you can do something about Ray soon."

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

"I can sashay to Malta as soon as I pack an egg shell, a badge, and my floppy disk."

"You'd better take a stuffed owl too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he revealed wryly.

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

She rose from her seat and capered unabashedly out of the office. He stared oddly after her.

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