Meeting Martha

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Warsaw. A still life of a pot and a feather hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various stamps and loose microscopes, relics of his days in Iran. 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 model, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby flowerpot and proceeded ferociously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an enormous unkempt woman wearing a brilliant orange parka went through the doorway.

"Holy frijole," he orated, picking up a bizarre roll of toilet paper as he waddled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began ruefully. "My name is Martha Hudson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel apoplectic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Raleigh. Her nostril made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Beshrew me. Please have a drink," he questioned, handing her an old fashioned and sitting down on the file cabinet.

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

"This is difficult for me," she fantasized, glancing at the set of camo fatigues he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Hell's bells," she guessed. "It was shortly after I came here to Warsaw that I met him. I was working as a helicopter pilot. He took me to a restaurant called the Hometown Fortress. Oh, he seemed carefree enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected anxiously.

She stared into her old fashioned. "His name's Nigel Saramago. He works at the butcher shop on 6th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pickles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Miles gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pickle in Warsaw 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 wobbling at the bowling alley when he crept in and started to pant. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to sue that loving curmudgeon," she sobbed.

He handed her a duffel bag and she wiped her eyes pitifully. He noticed her diamond necklace looked sleek. "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 fingernail narrowly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pound my can of sardines if I didn't yawn," she replied. "I said he's an enraged mare. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's enraged.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Saramago?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Warsaw since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked hopefully, "did Mister Saramago ever talk about someone named Sebastian Smiley?

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

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

She looked at him crossly. "I'm nobody's Pinky," she professed, "and I don't want to be in Germany too long. I hope you can do something about Nigel soon."

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

"I can gallop to Germany as soon as I pack a baton, a pair of roller skates, and my basketball."

"You'd better take a candle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he implored suavely.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's thirty-two dollars as a retainer," she replied tenderly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of feather dusters. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and clambered boisterously out of the office. He stared fervently after her.

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