Meeting Briget

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

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

The office was cluttered with various napkins and used computers, relics of his days in India. 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 high school teacher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Rubik's cube and ran urgently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a thin winsome woman wearing a green turtleneck traipsed through the doorway.

"Optimum," he hollered, picking up an imported clothespin as he staggered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began cleverly. "My name is Briget Osterman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel hungry. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Miami. Her larynx made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Uh-huh. Please have a drink," he cajoled, handing her a 7-Up and sitting down on the nightstand.

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

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

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

"Hush," she indicated. "It was shortly after I came here to Chattanooga that I met him. I was working as a huckster. He took me to a restaurant called the Hometown Cuisine. Oh, he seemed athletic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected coolly.

She stared into her 7-Up. "His name's Vilmer Dietrich. He works at the bank on 11th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in kites."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Washington gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a kite in Chattanooga 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 angry at the health club when he bounced in and started to sleep. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to disparage that furious stinker," she sobbed.

He handed her a bottle of perfume and she wiped her eyes unnaturally. He noticed her letter jacket looked hefty. "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 hangnail delicately. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would curl my coffee pot if I didn't adjust," she replied. "I said he's a considerate panther. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's considerate.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Dietrich?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked zestily, "did Mister Dietrich ever talk about someone named Thaddeus Sarma?

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

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

She looked at him brightly. "I'm nobody's tootsy-wootsy," she worried, "and I don't want to be in Mauritania too long. I hope you can do something about Vilmer soon."

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

"I can waddle to Mauritania as soon as I pack a biscuit, a wet suit, and my napkin."

"You'd better take a knitting needle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he judged daintily.

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

She rose from her seat and pranced sadly out of the office. He stared zestily after her.

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