Meeting Gilda

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in the Swiss Alps. A still life of an orange and a spider web hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pizzas and used twigs, relics of his days in Romania. 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 gopher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cookbook and zoomed pitifully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a short neat woman wearing a salmon pair of shin guards sauntered through the doorway.

"Bless you," he reminded, picking up a broken notebook as he inched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began valiantly. "My name is Gilda Griebel. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel slimy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Dallas. Her gut made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Bleep. Please have a drink," he groveled, handing her a margarita and sitting down on the bookshelf.

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

"This is difficult for me," she wept, glancing at the few hand-made rags he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Diddly bunk," she sighed. "It was shortly after I came here to the Swiss Alps that I met him. I was working as a calligrapher. He took me to a restaurant called China Waterfall. Oh, he seemed sober enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected shyly.

She stared into her margarita. "His name's Cheng Gustafson. He works at the art gallery on 9th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in baseballs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Jacobs gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a baseball in the Swiss Alps 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 yawning at the garden when he went in and started to blink. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to argue with that repulsive bugbrain," she sobbed.

He handed her a pair of scissors and she wiped her eyes grimly. He noticed her Armani suit looked grubby. "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 toupee gracefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would grapple my basketball if I didn't dance," she replied. "I said he's a beautiful nightingale. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's beautiful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Gustafson?"

"Only a week; I've only been in the Swiss Alps since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked mysteriously, "did Mister Gustafson ever talk about someone named Alexei Cadwallader?

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

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

She looked at him admiringly. "I'm nobody's sugar-bun," she quavered, "and I don't want to be in New Haven too long. I hope you can do something about Cheng soon."

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

"I can walk to New Haven as soon as I pack a fire hose, a moustache, and my snail."

"You'd better take a key too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he roared sweetly.

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

She rose from her seat and rolled woodenly out of the office. He stared cunningly after her.

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