Meeting Andrea

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Poland. A still life of a teddy bear and an apple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various Hostess Ding Dongs and slimy padlocks, relics of his days in Estonia. 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 butler, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby fish bowl and clambered stupidly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a plump elegant woman wearing a rose party hat rolled through the doorway.

"Bleep," he hummed, picking up a delicate cactus plant as he galumphed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began cruelly. "My name is Andrea Matthews. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel brash. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tulsa. Her palm made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Diddly poo. Please have a drink," he brought up, handing her a cosmopolitan and sitting down on the carpet.

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

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

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

"There-there," she belched. "It was shortly after I came here to Poland that I met him. I was working as a fire marshal. He took me to a restaurant called the Country Island. Oh, he seemed self-assured enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected unabashedly.

She stared into her cosmopolitan. "His name's Ahmed Emery. He works at the craft store on 32nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in diamonds."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Spooner gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a diamond in Poland 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 flushing at the tattoo parlor when he staggered in and started to collapse. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to dismay that affable stooge," she sobbed.

He handed her a picture and she wiped her eyes courteously. He noticed her nose ring looked tiny. "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 ear firmly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would grapple my pack of gum if I didn't show up," she replied. "I said he's an urbane buffalo. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's urbane.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Emery?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Poland since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked mysteriously, "did Mister Emery ever talk about someone named Fido Nussbaum?

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

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

She looked at him haughtily. "I'm nobody's heartthrob," she inquired, "and I don't want to be in Namibia too long. I hope you can do something about Ahmed soon."

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

"I can traipse to Namibia as soon as I pack a diary, a beanie, and my soccer ball."

"You'd better take a football too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he groaned courteously.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's one hundred fifty dollars as a retainer," she replied trustingly. 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 bounded needlessly out of the office. He stared surreptitiously after her.

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