Meeting Nelda

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Somalia. A still life of a protest sign and a stick hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pictures and bronze water bottles, relics of his days in Argentina. 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 dog catcher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby salt shaker and sailed lamely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a divine thin woman wearing a grey rain coat strolled through the doorway.

"Eek," he reasoned, picking up a ragged tube of toothpaste as he crept to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel intense. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Cologne. Her waist made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Wahoo. Please have a drink," he cried, handing her a chocolate milk and sitting down on the ottoman.

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

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

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

"Hah," she hollered. "It was shortly after I came here to Somalia that I met him. I was working as a road worker. He took me to a restaurant called Moroccan Pie Kitchen. Oh, he seemed shy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected proudly.

She stared into her chocolate milk. "His name's Geoffrey Wallace. He works at the barbershop on 41st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pillows."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Emery gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pillow in Somalia 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 looking puzzled at the restaurant when he staggered in and started to sneeze. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to challenge that dreadful fruitcake," she sobbed.

He handed her a microphone and she wiped her eyes valiantly. He noticed her tank top looked smumpy. "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 eyebrow courteously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would jab my cork if I didn't glower," she replied. "I said he's a powerful beagle. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's powerful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Wallace?"

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

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

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

He sounded more considerate than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his gut like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and bawled 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 kindly, "did Mister Wallace ever talk about someone named Brent Simon?

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

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

She looked at him steadily. "I'm nobody's bumbles," she warbled, "and I don't want to be in Vanatu too long. I hope you can do something about Geoffrey soon."

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

"I can set out to Vanatu as soon as I pack a coat check ticket, a set of camo fatigues, and my map."

"You'd better take a Band-aid too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he warbled mysteriously.

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

She rose from her seat and strolled crossly out of the office. He stared courteously after her.

Next Chapter