Meeting Bianca

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Central African Republic. A still life of a rubber chicken and a tree stump hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various mops and important firecrackers, relics of his days in Poland. 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 detective, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby thumb drive and made a beeline grudgingly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly fit woman wearing a purple Superman costume skittered through the doorway.

"Inconceivable," he spouted, picking up a stolen Kindle as he galloped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began lamely. "My name is Bianca Covington. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel prickly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bogotá. Her aorta made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "My word. Please have a drink," he burbled, handing her a glass of grape juice and sitting down on the ping-pong table.

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

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

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

"Umm," she sighed. "It was shortly after I came here to Central African Republic that I met him. I was working as a courier. He took me to a restaurant called Midtown Bell. Oh, he seemed selfish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected quietly.

She stared into her glass of grape juice. "His name's Gilmo Moretti. He works at the pharmacy on 35th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in charts."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Holland gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a chart in Central African Republic 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 coming back at the pool hall when he bounced in and started to whistle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to spank that charming scoundrel," she sobbed.

He handed her a telephone book and she wiped her eyes deliberately. He noticed her pair of cowboy boots looked thick. "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 scalp carelessly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would jab my cigar if I didn't pace," she replied. "I said he's a rude bunny. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's rude.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Moretti?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Central African Republic since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked wearily, "did Mister Moretti ever talk about someone named Vinny Allen?

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

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

She looked at him boisterously. "I'm nobody's sugar," she spat, "and I don't want to be in Petaluma too long. I hope you can do something about Gilmo soon."

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

"I can tear to Petaluma as soon as I pack a microphone, a pair of combat boots, and my pepper grinder."

"You'd better take a tube of toothpaste too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he appealed unexpectedly.

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

She rose from her seat and reeled jokingly out of the office. He stared sorrowfully after her.

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