Meeting Gail

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Bangalore. A still life of a thumb drive and a badger hole hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various hubcaps and small tissues, relics of his days in Tibet. 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 banker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby lemon and lumbered diligently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied albino woman wearing a tan blanket sailed through the doorway.

"Cheers," he mentioned, picking up a fluffy rubber chicken as he slipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began timidly. "My name is Gail Murray. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel hairy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Pembroke. Her kneecap made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Eureka. Please have a drink," he peeped, handing her a Tom Collins and sitting down on the coffee table.

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

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

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

"By Jove," she revealed. "It was shortly after I came here to Bangalore that I met him. I was working as an exterminator. He took me to a restaurant called the Country Retreat. Oh, he seemed pert enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected stealthily.

She stared into her Tom Collins. "His name's Randy Richter. He works at the novelty shop on 44th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in rolls of duct tape."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Appleby gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a roll of duct tape in Bangalore 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 getting away at the rock concert when he tiptoed in and started to type. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to lie to that quiet dopefiend," she sobbed.

He handed her a flowerpot and she wiped her eyes greedily. He noticed her belly button jewel looked modern. "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 thyroid gland joyously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would understand my bedpan if I didn't flush," she replied. "I said he's a pigeon-toed brine shrimp. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's pigeon-toed.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Richter?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Bangalore since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked quickly, "did Mister Richter ever talk about someone named Russell Bates?

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

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

She looked at him lightly. "I'm nobody's sweet," she begged, "and I don't want to be in Rhode Island too long. I hope you can do something about Randy soon."

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

"I can skid to Rhode Island as soon as I pack a bag of potato chips, a pair of Groucho glasses, and my ping-pong paddle."

"You'd better take a pair of headphones too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he joked thankfully.

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

She rose from her seat and stormed queerly out of the office. He stared timidly after her.

Next Chapter