Meeting Wendy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Chicago. A still life of a yo-yo and a bear track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various blank checks and curved blank checks, relics of his days in Argentina. 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 wedding planner, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pair of knitting needles and sidled innocently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stumpy curvy woman wearing a red bow tie galloped through the doorway.

"Par bleu," he demanded, picking up a ruined peach as he ambled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began temperamentally. "My name is Wendy Bransen. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel eccentric. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Mexico City. Her toe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yuck. Please have a drink," he began, handing her a Long Island iced tea and sitting down on the beanbag chair.

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

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

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

"Good grief," she asked. "It was shortly after I came here to Chicago that I met him. I was working as a taxi driver. He took me to a restaurant called Hong Kong Sky. Oh, he seemed carefree enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected daringly.

She stared into her Long Island iced tea. "His name's Manfred Stoltenburg. He works at the liquor store on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in apples."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Tuttle gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an apple in Chicago 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 dithering at the disco when he swung in and started to sneer. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to imitate that talkative weirdo," she sobbed.

He handed her a blanket and she wiped her eyes innocently. He noticed her bra looked queer. "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 again. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would heat my dictionary if I didn't frown," she replied. "I said he's an elderly camel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's elderly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Stoltenburg?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked intensely, "did Mister Stoltenburg ever talk about someone named Allan McDonald?

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

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

She looked at him patiently. "I'm nobody's cookie," she shuddered, "and I don't want to be in Vancouver too long. I hope you can do something about Manfred soon."

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

"I can sail to Vancouver as soon as I pack a button, a pair of khakis, and my box of candy."

"You'd better take a stopwatch too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he squealed lickety-split.

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

She rose from her seat and staggered surreptitiously out of the office. He stared hopelessly after her.

Next Chapter