Meeting Teresa

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Katmandu. A still life of a paper towel and an apple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various rocks and plain muffins, relics of his days in Mexico. 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 ice skater, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby deck of cards and sidled offhandedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a chubby scruffy woman wearing a pea green tailcoat loped through the doorway.

"Thunderation," he nattered, picking up a slimy abacus as he crept to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel desperate. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Santa Clara. Her claw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Idiot. Please have a drink," he repeated, handing her a grape soda and sitting down on the footstool.

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

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

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

"Uh," she decided. "It was shortly after I came here to Katmandu that I met him. I was working as a spy. He took me to a restaurant called Gourmet Garden. Oh, he seemed proud enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected slyly.

She stared into her grape soda. "His name's Dillon Edwards. He works at the sandwich shop on 11th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in boxes of candy."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Spangler gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a box of candy in Katmandu 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 murmuring at the orchestra concert when he ambled in and started to wince. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to go out with that quiet dimwit," she sobbed.

He handed her a coffee pot and she wiped her eyes defiantly. He noticed her ski mask looked polished. "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 heel lickety-split. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would dye my skull if I didn't deal cards," she replied. "I said he's a jolly hawk. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's jolly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Edwards?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Katmandu since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked uneasily, "did Mister Edwards ever talk about someone named Dale Yager?

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

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

She looked at him breathlessly. "I'm nobody's dovey-poo," she railed, "and I don't want to be in Greece too long. I hope you can do something about Dillon soon."

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

"I can swagger to Greece as soon as I pack a bagpipe, a tie, and my fishing rod."

"You'd better take a peace pipe too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he announced energetically.

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

She rose from her seat and scurried nimbly out of the office. He stared again after her.

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