Meeting Matilda

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Argentina. A still life of a pearl and a dead tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various oranges and plain primroses, relics of his days in Haiti. 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 gopher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby dictionary and cantered ferociously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a huge little woman wearing a periwinkle shirt bounced through the doorway.

"Nope," he bragged, picking up an old ironing board as he bolted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began tensely. "My name is Matilda Dion. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel brash. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Charlotte. Her ankle made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "I'm outta here. Please have a drink," he rumored, handing her a Bacardi and sitting down on the chair.

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

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

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

"Zowie," she squawked. "It was shortly after I came here to Argentina that I met him. I was working as a juggler. He took me to a restaurant called Presidential Delicatessen. Oh, he seemed jolly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected daringly.

She stared into her Bacardi. "His name's Dick Dirkson. He works at the art museum on 43rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in microscopes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Vargas gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a microscope in Argentina 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 glowering at the saloon when he bounced in and started to squeal. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to spit at that dignified fink," she sobbed.

He handed her a dish and she wiped her eyes valiantly. He noticed her pair of galoshes looked damp. "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 heart ignobly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would jab my playing card if I didn't shrug," she replied. "I said he's a stylish robot. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's stylish.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Dirkson?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Argentina since then."

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

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

He sounded more queer than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his thyroid gland like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and did the Hokey Pokey for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like toothpaste since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked blankly, "did Mister Dirkson ever talk about someone named Bradley Burt?

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

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

She looked at him brashly. "I'm nobody's beloved," she reacted, "and I don't want to be in Detroit too long. I hope you can do something about Dick soon."

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

"I can tear to Detroit as soon as I pack a dollar bill, a jumper, and my napkin."

"You'd better take an egg shell too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he indicated energetically.

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

She rose from her seat and jogged neatly out of the office. He stared unexpectedly after her.

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