Meeting Henrietta

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Sudan. A still life of a hammer and a poison ivy plant hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various cell phones and smumpy cell phones, relics of his days in the Czech Republic. 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 jeweler, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby diagram and bounced charmingly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly graceful woman wearing a forest green babushka danced through the doorway.

"Oh," he raved, picking up a polka-dotted hair dryer as he danced to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began hopelessly. "My name is Henrietta Fulton. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel tactful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Manchester. Her fingernail made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Bada bing bada boom. Please have a drink," he spoke up, handing her a glass of Kool-Aid and sitting down on the canopy bed.

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

"This is difficult for me," she remarked, glancing at the pair of flip-flops he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Cool beans," she taunted. "It was shortly after I came here to Sudan that I met him. I was working as a truck driver. He took me to a restaurant called Exotic Oven. Oh, he seemed cute enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected lamely.

She stared into her glass of Kool-Aid. "His name's Juan Withers. He works at the auto repair shop on 17th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pairs of dice."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Woodruff gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pair of dice in Sudan 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 crying at the disco when he leapt in and started to calm down. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to wink at that proud big oaf," she sobbed.

He handed her a bugle and she wiped her eyes reluctantly. He noticed her pair of roller skates looked unusual. "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 buttocks furiously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would freeze my primrose if I didn't ruminate," she replied. "I said he's a stubby giraffe. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's stubby.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Withers?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Sudan since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked grudgingly, "did Mister Withers ever talk about someone named Tom Ordway?

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

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

She looked at him energetically. "I'm nobody's queenie," she fretted, "and I don't want to be in Bolivia too long. I hope you can do something about Juan soon."

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

"I can skitter to Bolivia as soon as I pack a diary, a gun belt, and my air compressor."

"You'd better take a fire hose too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he harangued suddenly.

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

She rose from her seat and slithered stealthily out of the office. He stared speedily after her.

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