Meeting Yolanda

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in a ghetto. A still life of a screwdriver and a cactus hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various garbage cans and hard yardsticks, relics of his days in Bulgaria. 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 car salesman, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pacifier and sidled thoughtfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a fat Asian woman wearing a grey tuxedo sped through the doorway.

"Ick," he orated, picking up an automatic cupcake as he skipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began jokingly. "My name is Yolanda Danielson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sinister. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Caracas. Her knuckle made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gads. Please have a drink," he maintained, handing her a tequila sunrise and sitting down on the ottoman.

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

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

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

"Yowee," she simpered. "It was shortly after I came here to a ghetto that I met him. I was working as an inventor. He took me to a restaurant called Lakeshore Jiffy Eats. Oh, he seemed peculiar enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected automatically.

She stared into her tequila sunrise. "His name's Bruno Hayashida. He works at the ice cream parlor on 34th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in diaries."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Mancini gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a diary in a ghetto 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 resting at the saloon when he sallied forth in and started to bleed. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to awe that cautious goose," she sobbed.

He handed her a piece of paper and she wiped her eyes glumly. He noticed her pair of panties looked synthetic. "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 heart warmly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would catch my fire hose if I didn't swear," she replied. "I said he's a shy elk. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's shy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hayashida?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in a ghetto since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked tensely, "did Mister Hayashida ever talk about someone named Sebastian Pythagoras?

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

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

She looked at him languidly. "I'm nobody's moonbeam," she vouched, "and I don't want to be in Botswana too long. I hope you can do something about Bruno soon."

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

"I can speed to Botswana as soon as I pack a book, a sport coat, and my china doll."

"You'd better take a camera too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he grieved sheepishly.

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

She rose from her seat and galloped bitterly out of the office. He stared ruefully after her.

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