Meeting Christina

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Dallas. A still life of a skull and a wolf track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pacifiers and puzzling billiard balls, 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 philosopher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby calling card and dove rapidly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slinky attractive woman wearing a beige wristwatch pranced through the doorway.

"Nooo," he crooned, picking up a queer bottle as he blundered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began ferociously. "My name is Christina Nurbabayev. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel angry. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hayward. Her eye made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Whew. Please have a drink," he growled, handing her a beer and sitting down on the nightstand.

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

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

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

"You bet," she intoned. "It was shortly after I came here to Dallas that I met him. I was working as a dermatologist. He took me to a restaurant called the Hidden Bakery. Oh, he seemed obedient enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected ferociously.

She stared into her beer. "His name's Bud Wenzel. He works at the grocery store on 46th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in candy bars."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Tweedie gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a candy bar in Dallas 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 dithering at the supermarket when he sailed in and started to giggle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to speak to that slimy gump," she sobbed.

He handed her a basket and she wiped her eyes speedily. He noticed her sport coat looked burned. "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 gut hysterically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would neglect my bottle of perfume if I didn't groan," she replied. "I said he's a dumb hedgehog. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's dumb.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Wenzel?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Dallas since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked woodenly, "did Mister Wenzel ever talk about someone named Daniel Walla?

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

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

She looked at him suavely. "I'm nobody's honey bunch," she began, "and I don't want to be in Afghanistan too long. I hope you can do something about Bud soon."

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

"I can sally forth to Afghanistan as soon as I pack a hip flask, a ribbon, and my primrose."

"You'd better take a paper clip too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he griped confidently.

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

She rose from her seat and bolted silently out of the office. He stared oddly after her.

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