Meeting Greta

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Romania. A still life of a clock and a wildflower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various coat check tickets and hefty nails, relics of his days in Vietnam. 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 news reporter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby diary and trotted strangely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a small gorgeous woman wearing a white mortarboard slithered through the doorway.

"Meh," he boomed, picking up a hard etching as he jogged to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sympathetically. "My name is Greta Ferguson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel jaunty. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Austin. Her artery made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Alack. Please have a drink," he smiled, handing her a hot chocolate and sitting down on the canopy bed.

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

"This is difficult for me," she answered, glancing at the set of pink foam curlers he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Oh please," she purred. "It was shortly after I came here to Romania that I met him. I was working as an engineer. He took me to a restaurant called Eastern Village. Oh, he seemed generous enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected numbly.

She stared into her hot chocolate. "His name's Blake Dewey. He works at the burger joint on 48th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Lego sets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Frank gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Lego set in Romania 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 belching at the jail when he tiptoed in and started to squeak. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to have a talk with that ladylike snoop," she sobbed.

He handed her a bag of popcorn and she wiped her eyes blankly. He noticed her pair of cargo pants looked crude. "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 lung craftily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would wax my billiard ball if I didn't come to," she replied. "I said he's a brassy magpie. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's brassy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Dewey?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Romania since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked daringly, "did Mister Dewey ever talk about someone named Albert Simmons?

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

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

She looked at him irritably. "I'm nobody's lover," she clarified, "and I don't want to be in Philadelphia too long. I hope you can do something about Blake soon."

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

"I can breeze to Philadelphia as soon as I pack a suitcase, a cap, and my photograph."

"You'd better take a yardstick too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he realized grimly.

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

She rose from her seat and strode hastily out of the office. He stared fearlessly after her.

Next Chapter