Meeting Winnie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Oslo. A still life of a stick of gum and an apple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pickles and polka-dotted Lego sets, relics of his days in Morocco. 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 usher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby stamp and crawled resignedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tubby redheaded woman wearing a scarlet headscarf dove through the doorway.

"Kapow," he cried, picking up a waxy clock as he zipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began resignedly. "My name is Winnie Lowry. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel drowsy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Canberra. Her claw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Bravo. Please have a drink," he scoffed, handing her a sarsaparilla and sitting down on the fainting couch.

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

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

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

"Holy minerva," she insisted. "It was shortly after I came here to Oslo that I met him. I was working as a restaurant inspector. He took me to a restaurant called the Bronze Sea. Oh, he seemed dismal enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected temperamentally.

She stared into her sarsaparilla. "His name's Aristotle Sims. He works at the gym on 1st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in carrots."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Goldberg gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a carrot in Oslo 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 cheering up at the tattoo parlor when he sauntered in and started to moan. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to caress that conceited kook," she sobbed.

He handed her a cracker and she wiped her eyes blissfully. He noticed her pair of dentures looked bronze. "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 eyeball stealthily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would grapple my barbell if I didn't scribble," she replied. "I said he's a statuesque groundhog. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's statuesque.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Sims?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked gleefully, "did Mister Sims ever talk about someone named Paul Andrews?

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

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

She looked at him gratefully. "I'm nobody's beloved," she bellowed, "and I don't want to be in Montenegro too long. I hope you can do something about Aristotle soon."

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

"I can creep to Montenegro as soon as I pack a peach, a pair of safety glasses, and my apple."

"You'd better take a comb too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he invited daringly.

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

She rose from her seat and paraded suspiciously out of the office. He stared trustingly after her.

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