Meeting Thelma

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in St. Petersburg. A still life of a stapler and a piece of bark hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various wastebaskets and gleaming pigeons, 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 web guru, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby stuffed kitten and dashed unabashedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a huge gaunt woman wearing a chocolate brown pair of toe shoes barrelled through the doorway.

"Holy cow," he gasped, picking up a wooden potato as he capered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began fearfully. "My name is Thelma Lawson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel masculine. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Rio de Janeiro. Her esophagus made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ugh. Please have a drink," he interrupted, handing her a root beer float and sitting down on the bookshelf.

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

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

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

"Tubular," she persisted. "It was shortly after I came here to St. Petersburg that I met him. I was working as a tennis player. He took me to a restaurant called the Northern Lounge. Oh, he seemed smart enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected anxiously.

She stared into her root beer float. "His name's Julian Sarma. He works at the tobacco shop on 3rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in etchings."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cradduck gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an etching in St. Petersburg 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 doing nothing at the supermarket when he walked in and started to nod. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to damage that wizened weirdo," she sobbed.

He handed her a spittoon and she wiped her eyes sympathetically. He noticed her bandana looked mysterious. "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 abdomen bitterly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would interpret my hot potato if I didn't yelp," she replied. "I said he's a playful cockatiel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's playful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Sarma?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in St. Petersburg since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked blankly, "did Mister Sarma ever talk about someone named Mel Panzer?

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

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

She looked at him positively. "I'm nobody's moonbeam," she mentioned, "and I don't want to be in Algiers too long. I hope you can do something about Julian soon."

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

"I can climb to Algiers as soon as I pack a pumpkin, a pair of roller skates, and my soccer ball."

"You'd better take a Kindle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he stuttered impatiently.

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

She rose from her seat and zipped boldly out of the office. He stared warmly after her.

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