Meeting Roberta

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in the Philippines. A still life of a doll and a pine cone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various diamonds and striped roses, relics of his days in South Sudan. 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 obstetrician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby tablet computer and padded gleefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a shapely dashing woman wearing a crimson Hawaiian shirt slunk through the doorway.

"Great Scott," he sobbed, picking up a decrepit magnifying glass as he tramped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began immediately. "My name is Roberta Hunter. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel calm. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Poughkeepsie. Her shin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Of course. Please have a drink," he croaked, handing her a gin and tonic and sitting down on the bed.

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

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

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

"Sacre bleu," she spouted. "It was shortly after I came here to the Philippines that I met him. I was working as a gambler. He took me to a restaurant called Fireside Village. Oh, he seemed spunky enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected nervously.

She stared into her gin and tonic. "His name's Henry Esser. He works at the video arcade on 42nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pairs of headphones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Costello gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pair of headphones in the Philippines 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 scribbling at the Wal-Mart when he careened in and started to play Duck Duck Goose. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to dismay that cheerful bumpkin," she sobbed.

He handed her a rock and she wiped her eyes narrowly. He noticed her hoop skirt looked musty. "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 waist pityingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would nuke my remote control if I didn't type," she replied. "I said he's a young kitten. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's young.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Esser?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked suddenly, "did Mister Esser ever talk about someone named Herbert Klinger?

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

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

She looked at him fondly. "I'm nobody's starlight," she drawled, "and I don't want to be in Mauritania too long. I hope you can do something about Henry soon."

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

"I can creep to Mauritania as soon as I pack a derby, a mortarboard, and my basketball."

"You'd better take a whoopee cushion too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he queried sympathetically.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred eighty-five dollars as a retainer," she replied wearily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of vases. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and struggled carelessly out of the office. He stared blissfully after her.

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