Meeting Martha

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Alexandria. A still life of a box and a mushroom hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various chamber pots and prickly abacuses, relics of his days in Rwanda. 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 molecular biologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby ashtray and flew nimbly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a hunky albino woman wearing a pink pair of knickerbockers skittered through the doorway.

"Indeed," he spewed, picking up a hand-carved piano as he cantered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began clumsily. "My name is Martha Romero. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel rugged. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Columbus. Her piehole made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ah. Please have a drink," he accused, handing her a painkiller and sitting down on the washstand.

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

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

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

"Tut-tut," she noted. "It was shortly after I came here to Alexandria that I met him. I was working as a consultant. He took me to a restaurant called Hong Kong Mountain. Oh, he seemed vivacious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected wearily.

She stared into her painkiller. "His name's Vilmer Dowd. He works at the opera house on 44th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Hostess Ding Dongs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Goldfarb gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Hostess Ding Dong in Alexandria 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 frowning at the bookstore when he careened in and started to dawdle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to peck at that decent creep," she sobbed.

He handed her a pair of fuzzy dice and she wiped her eyes awkwardly. He noticed her black belt looked narrow. "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 chest patiently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would grapple my wrench if I didn't chuckle," she replied. "I said he's a forgetful pony. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's forgetful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Dowd?"

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

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

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

He sounded more high-strung than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his eyebrow like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and did nothing for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like pepper since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked majestically, "did Mister Dowd ever talk about someone named Dale Yang?

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

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

She looked at him speedily. "I'm nobody's cupcake," she imitated, "and I don't want to be in Rwanda too long. I hope you can do something about Vilmer soon."

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

"I can sneak to Rwanda as soon as I pack a crutch, a pair of suspenders, and my pain pill."

"You'd better take a contract too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he responded deliberately.

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

She rose from her seat and bolted fearlessly out of the office. He stared slyly after her.

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