Meeting Dinah

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

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

The office was adorned with various coconuts and crisp rubber stamps, relics of his days in Lithuania. 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 set designer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Lego set and sidled boisterously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a cadaverous undersized woman wearing an ivory shirt crawled through the doorway.

"Boy oh boy," he realized, picking up a colossal fish as he jogged to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began defiantly. "My name is Dinah Kilroy. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel undignified. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Anaheim. Her abdomen made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gosh almighty. Please have a drink," he remarked, handing her a Tom and Jerry and sitting down on the pedestal.

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

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

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

"Cease and desist," she scoffed. "It was shortly after I came here to Brasilia that I met him. I was working as a magazine salesman. He took me to a restaurant called the Farmer's Bistro. Oh, he seemed hirsute enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected dolorously.

She stared into her Tom and Jerry. "His name's Fred Romero. He works at the flower shop on 9th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in model airplanes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Armstrong gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a model airplane in Brasilia 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 burbling at the health food store when he ambled in and started to come over. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to hypnotize that frantic dirty rat," she sobbed.

He handed her a padlock and she wiped her eyes peevishly. He noticed her coonskin hat looked hand-carved. "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 truculently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would shoot my bag of groceries if I didn't fall asleep," she replied. "I said he's a sleek mustang. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sleek.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Romero?"

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

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

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

He sounded more haughty 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 sniffed for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like greasepaint since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked needlessly, "did Mister Romero ever talk about someone named Barry David?

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

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

She looked at him gingerly. "I'm nobody's pumpkin," she screeched, "and I don't want to be in Bagdad too long. I hope you can do something about Fred soon."

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

"I can waddle to Bagdad as soon as I pack a razor blade, a coonskin hat, and my rubber chicken."

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

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

She rose from her seat and marched sagely out of the office. He stared offhandedly after her.

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