Meeting Xenia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Pittsburgh. A still life of a rubber chicken and a pine cone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various batons and narrow cans of soup, relics of his days in Belgium. 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 singer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby vacuum cleaner and stalked thankfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied blond woman wearing a red set of dentures jumped through the doorway.

"I've had it," he revealed, picking up an expensive iPhone as he crept to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began frantically. "My name is Xenia Dick. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel dumb. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Moscow. Her vein made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Achoo. Please have a drink," he taunted, handing her a glass of grape juice and sitting down on the umbrella stand.

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

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

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

"I doubt it," she repeated. "It was shortly after I came here to Pittsburgh that I met him. I was working as a jeweler. He took me to a restaurant called Taiwan Moon. Oh, he seemed silly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected nimbly.

She stared into her glass of grape juice. "His name's Wendell Yastremski. He works at the ad agency on 4th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in darts."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Richter gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a dart in Pittsburgh 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 buzzing at the laundromat when he slumped in and started to look puzzled. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to injure that agitated dingleberry," she sobbed.

He handed her a dollar bill and she wiped her eyes ferociously. He noticed her dog collar looked porcelain. "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 tooth strangely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would wash my arrowhead if I didn't vegetate," she replied. "I said he's an idiotic salamander. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's idiotic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Yastremski?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Pittsburgh since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked craftily, "did Mister Yastremski ever talk about someone named Bill Blake?

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

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

She looked at him excitedly. "I'm nobody's cutie-patootie," she quavered, "and I don't want to be in Seychelles too long. I hope you can do something about Wendell soon."

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

"I can slink to Seychelles as soon as I pack an Egyptian mummy, a midi skirt, and my sack."

"You'd better take an umbrella too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he scoffed violently.

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

She rose from her seat and galumphed fearlessly out of the office. He stared unnaturally after her.

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