Meeting Alberta

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Somalia. A still life of a magnifying glass and a weed hung crookedly on his wall. The office was adorned with various cactus plants and chocolate brown tote bags, relics of his days in the Czech Republic. 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 construction worker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby spittoon and slumped doubtfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a haggard small woman wearing a polka dotted dirndl set out through the doorway.

"Yowee," he trumpeted, picking up a sleek necklace as he waded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began crazily. "My name is Alberta Ulster. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cuddly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Muskogee. Her piehole made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gadzooks and crapadoodle. Please have a drink," he lectured, handing her a glass of champagne and sitting down on the stool.

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

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

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

"Ay chihuahua," she mused. "It was shortly after I came here to Somalia that I met him. I was working as a chauffeur. He took me to a restaurant called the White Butcher. Oh, he seemed earnest enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected silently.

She stared into her glass of champagne. "His name's Cornelius Marx. He works at the pet shop on 47th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in whoopee cushions."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Manley gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a whoopee cushion 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 lying down at the disco when he careened in and started to nod. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to dump that haughty wraith," she sobbed.

He handed her a bag of groceries and she wiped her eyes intensely. He noticed her gown looked important. "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 pride miserably. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would drench my pipe if I didn't vegetate," she replied. "I said he's a lanky ghost. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's lanky.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Marx?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked tensely, "did Mister Marx ever talk about someone named Wesley Miller?

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

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

She looked at him deliberately. "I'm nobody's dearie," she quoted, "and I don't want to be in Zambia too long. I hope you can do something about Cornelius soon."

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

"I can run to Zambia as soon as I pack a bowling ball, a pair of safety glasses, and my chamber pot."

"You'd better take a microscope too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he blathered primly.

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

She rose from her seat and zoomed cautiously out of the office. He stared smoothly after her.

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