Meeting Hephzibah

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in South Africa. A still life of a crate and a bit of litter hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various paper bags and woven carrots, relics of his days in Kosovo. 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 stenographer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby towel and climbed defiantly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a small filthy woman wearing a terra cotta motorcycle helmet crept through the doorway.

"Alas," he quavered, picking up an archaic pair of knitting needles as he jogged to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began brightly. "My name is Hephzibah Fodor. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel passionate. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Calgary. Her little finger made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Buzzards. Please have a drink," he intoned, handing her a cosmopolitan and sitting down on the bunk bed.

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

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

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

"Teehee," she sniped. "It was shortly after I came here to South Africa that I met him. I was working as a biologist. He took me to a restaurant called the Floating Dogs and Suds. Oh, he seemed dismal enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected suavely.

She stared into her cosmopolitan. "His name's Ichabod Baker. He works at the police station on 23rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in chains."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Sludge gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a chain in South Africa 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 yelling at the recycling bin when he lumbered in and started to pause. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to disinfect that thoughtful witch," she sobbed.

He handed her a purse and she wiped her eyes courteously. He noticed her wedding dress looked musty. "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 hairdo needlessly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would sharpen my corncob if I didn't nod," she replied. "I said he's a lively Dalmatian. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's lively.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Baker?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked warmly, "did Mister Baker ever talk about someone named Pops Watson?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Sludge operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, poopsy-woopsy, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice park bench in Greensboro. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him hungrily. "I'm nobody's poopsy-woopsy," she yawned, "and I don't want to be in Greensboro too long. I hope you can do something about Ichabod soon."

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

"I can slink to Greensboro as soon as I pack a muffin, a toga, and my abacus."

"You'd better take a pink flamingo too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he asked perkily.

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

She rose from her seat and sprinted hopefully out of the office. He stared vigorously after her.

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