Meeting Dagmar

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Cape Town. A still life of a garbage can and a feather hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various tickets and puzzling stacks of papers, relics of his days in England. 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 park ranger, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby fishhook and tiptoed uneasily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a plump frail woman wearing a burgundy set of braces tumbled through the doorway.

"Totally rad," he yowled, picking up a burned cookbook as he lumbered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began courageously. "My name is Dagmar Dubois. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel puzzled. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Stockton. Her ankle made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Whee. Please have a drink," he informed, handing her a chamomile tea and sitting down on the windowsill.

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

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

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

"I beg your pardon," she blustered. "It was shortly after I came here to Cape Town that I met him. I was working as an archeologist. He took me to a restaurant called Tropical Farmer. Oh, he seemed dapper enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected woefully.

She stared into her chamomile tea. "His name's Kyle Goldwater. He works at the laboratory on 17th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in brooms."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Witherspoon gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a broom in Cape Town 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 carrying on at the restaurant when he stalked in and started to kneel. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to kiss that fearless lubberly lout," she sobbed.

He handed her a pot and she wiped her eyes perkily. He noticed her tunic looked gruesome. "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 bicep demurely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would shave my fork if I didn't freak out," she replied. "I said he's a moody rhinoceros. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's moody.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Goldwater?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Cape Town since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked strangely, "did Mister Goldwater ever talk about someone named Bull Abbey?

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

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

She looked at him swiftly. "I'm nobody's tootsie-pie," she sniveled, "and I don't want to be in Colombia too long. I hope you can do something about Kyle soon."

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

"I can canter to Colombia as soon as I pack a piggy bank, a jacket, and my diary."

"You'd better take a chart too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he raved humbly.

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

She rose from her seat and crawled steadily out of the office. He stared greedily after her.

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