Meeting Iggy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Berlin. A still life of a cracker and a raspberry bush hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various crackers and well worn necklaces, relics of his days in Spain. 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 rubbish collector, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby flag and traipsed happily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied athletic woman wearing a mauve pair of culottes tiptoed through the doorway.

"Eh," he stuttered, picking up a prickly sack of potatoes as he waded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began suddenly. "My name is Iggy Pattel. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel somber. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in San Jose. Her Achilles tendon made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hurray. Please have a drink," he blathered, handing her a gin sour and sitting down on the wooden crate.

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

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

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

"Zap," she yowled. "It was shortly after I came here to Berlin that I met him. I was working as a cardiologist. He took me to a restaurant called Double Sandwich Shop. Oh, he seemed sloppy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected suavely.

She stared into her gin sour. "His name's Gino Esser. He works at the hair salon on 7th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in washrags."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Grayheels gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a washrag in Berlin 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 staring at the supermarket when he climbed in and started to snort. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to lick that comely slacker," she sobbed.

He handed her a rope and she wiped her eyes ruefully. He noticed her sundress looked greasy. "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 leg reluctantly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would play with my pillow if I didn't come over," she replied. "I said he's an obnoxious gila monster. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's obnoxious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Esser?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Berlin since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked recklessly, "did Mister Esser ever talk about someone named Dale Bowers?

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

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

She looked at him suavely. "I'm nobody's baby-cakes," she quavered, "and I don't want to be in Portland too long. I hope you can do something about Gino soon."

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

"I can pad to Portland as soon as I pack a watering can, a badge, and my ironing board."

"You'd better take a sponge too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he squawked perkily.

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

She rose from her seat and capered patiently out of the office. He stared viciously after her.

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