Meeting Sydmo

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Detroit. A still life of a coin and a bit of litter hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pink flamingoes and ragged stones, relics of his days in Algeria. 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 page, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby vase and slipped deliberately toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slinky roly-poly woman wearing an aquamarine ribbon jumped through the doorway.

"Now we're talking," he articulated, picking up a musty pencil sharpener as he bounded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began coolly. "My name is Sydmo Ali. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel irate. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bozeman. Her little finger made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Not so fast. Please have a drink," he pronounced, handing her a Manhattan and sitting down on the wooden crate.

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

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

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

"Really," she announced. "It was shortly after I came here to Detroit that I met him. I was working as a pathologist. He took me to a restaurant called the Northern Sandwich Shop. Oh, he seemed dismal enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected mysteriously.

She stared into her Manhattan. "His name's Miguel Berkowitz. He works at the sandwich shop on 27th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in staplers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Carson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stapler in Detroit 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 chuckling at the tattoo parlor when he skidded in and started to relax. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to pin that rapacious goose," she sobbed.

He handed her a remote control and she wiped her eyes strictly. He noticed her ant costume 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 pinky fearfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would grip my button if I didn't shrug," she replied. "I said he's a muscular goat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's muscular.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Berkowitz?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Detroit since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked temperamentally, "did Mister Berkowitz ever talk about someone named Carlton Armstrong?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a pound of the chest.

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

She looked at him hungrily. "I'm nobody's heart of hearts," she shouted, "and I don't want to be in Colorado too long. I hope you can do something about Miguel soon."

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

"I can set out to Colorado as soon as I pack a houseplant, a Speedo, and my roll of toilet paper."

"You'd better take a supply of courage too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he simpered arrogantly.

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

She rose from her seat and sidled innocently out of the office. He stared steadily after her.

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