Meeting Ida

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Charlotte. A still life of an African violet and a spring hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various cans of soup and overgrown bottles, relics of his days in Laos. 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 DoorDash driver, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby piggy bank and scooted neatly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a massive slender woman wearing a green pair of Groucho glasses tore through the doorway.

"Eeshk," he remarked, picking up a rusty ashtray as he rushed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began innocently. "My name is Ida Ashe. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel rugged. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Chicago. Her claw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Dag nabbit. Please have a drink," he instructed, handing her a glass of fruit punch and sitting down on the file cabinet.

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

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

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

"Fiddlesticks," she uttered. "It was shortly after I came here to Charlotte that I met him. I was working as a pianist. He took me to a restaurant called the Wonderful Food & Spirits. Oh, he seemed passionate enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected nimbly.

She stared into her glass of fruit punch. "His name's Helmut Popp. He works at the burger joint on 29th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cans of sardines."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Vigil gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a can of sardines in Charlotte 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 crying at the spelling bee when he walked in and started to gaze. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to torment that colorless bandicoot," she sobbed.

He handed her a piece of paper and she wiped her eyes caustically. He noticed her cowboy hat looked cardboard. "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 cheek slowly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would mend my mop if I didn't die," she replied. "I said he's a prickly mountain goat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's prickly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Popp?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Charlotte since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked happily, "did Mister Popp ever talk about someone named Dustin Gates?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Vigil operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, shmoopsie-poo, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice ranch house in Serbia. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him brashly. "I'm nobody's shmoopsie-poo," she provoked, "and I don't want to be in Serbia too long. I hope you can do something about Helmut soon."

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

"I can whirl to Serbia as soon as I pack a battery, a scarf, and my basketball."

"You'd better take a lemon too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he railed daringly.

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

She rose from her seat and trekked gingerly out of the office. He stared uneasily after her.

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