Meeting Griselda

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Albania. A still life of a bat and a wildflower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various packs of gum and rare towels, relics of his days in Greece. 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 funeral director, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby roll of toilet paper and dove nimbly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tubby youthful woman wearing a scarlet swimsuit leapt through the doorway.

"Castor and Pollux! Blow me to Bermuda," he giggled, picking up a flaky roll of duct tape as he waddled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began hungrily. "My name is Griselda Sanabria. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel considerate. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Wichita. Her forehead made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gee whiz. Please have a drink," he piped up, handing her a glass of carrot juice and sitting down on the casket.

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

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

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

"Totally rad," she hinted. "It was shortly after I came here to Albania that I met him. I was working as a hoarder. He took me to a restaurant called Western Oven. Oh, he seemed timid enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected busily.

She stared into her glass of carrot juice. "His name's Roman Kaplan. He works at the brewery on 47th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pumpkins."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Zwiebel gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pumpkin in Albania 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 pondering at the radio station when he rolled in and started to fret. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to understand that sleek tramp," she sobbed.

He handed her a notebook and she wiped her eyes awkwardly. He noticed her set of dentures looked heavy. "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 funny bone fervently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would dust my nail if I didn't slobber," she replied. "I said he's an impish Chihuahua. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's impish.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Kaplan?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Albania since then."

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

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

He sounded more gargantuan 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 vomited for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like a mountain meadow since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked boldly, "did Mister Kaplan ever talk about someone named Phillip Ford?

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

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

She looked at him impatiently. "I'm nobody's toots," she screamed, "and I don't want to be in Nauru too long. I hope you can do something about Roman soon."

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

"I can crawl to Nauru as soon as I pack a baseball bat, a gown, and my necklace."

"You'd better take a cane too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he quavered timidly.

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

She rose from her seat and sneaked zestily out of the office. He stared timidly after her.

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