Meeting Cindi

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Berlin. A still life of a muffin and a flower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various smart phones and crisp cannons, relics of his days in Easter Island. 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 hobo, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bottle and waded impatiently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a haggard spry woman wearing a golden apron tramped through the doorway.

"Wowsers," he decided, picking up a golden stick of gum as he swung to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began confidently. "My name is Cindi Nesbitt. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel merry. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Dayton. Her artery made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Scat. Please have a drink," he indicated, handing her a mint julep and sitting down on the bookshelf.

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

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

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

"Son of a gun," she breathed. "It was shortly after I came here to Berlin that I met him. I was working as an inventor. He took me to a restaurant called the Beautiful Magic. Oh, he seemed creepy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected blissfully.

She stared into her mint julep. "His name's Otto Nighthawk. He works at the mortuary on 1st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in flutes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the South gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a flute in Berlin 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 carrying on at the mall when he swaggered in and started to awaken. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to speak to that contented prattling gabbler," she sobbed.

He handed her a rose and she wiped her eyes fervently. He noticed her tam o'shanter looked old. "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 fondly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would consider my African violet if I didn't weep," she replied. "I said he's a pert leopard. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's pert.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Nighthawk?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Berlin since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked recklessly, "did Mister Nighthawk ever talk about someone named Scotty Ling?

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

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

She looked at him brashly. "I'm nobody's old bean," she smirked, "and I don't want to be in California too long. I hope you can do something about Otto soon."

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

"I can sally forth to California as soon as I pack a hubcap, a baseball cap, and my tennis racket."

"You'd better take a cowbell too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he yowled victoriously.

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

She rose from her seat and sallied forth reluctantly out of the office. He stared openly after her.

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