Meeting Martha
He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought viciously. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling magnets door to door.
He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Honolulu. A still life of a fishing pole and a flower hung crookedly on his wall.
The office was adorned with various hockey pucks and fresh artificial flowers, 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 musician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby hip flask and marched openly toward his desk.
His eyes widened as a lithe gorgeous woman wearing an olive drab sweatshirt stormed through the doorway.
"Oof," he explained, picking up an unusual toilet seat as he crept to his makeshift bar.
"How do you do," she began softly. "My name is Martha Wimple. I've come because I need help."
The sight of her made him feel conscientious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Greeley. Her hangnail made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "WTF. Please have a drink," he suggested, handing her a Shirley Temple and sitting down on the mattress.
"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."
"This is difficult for me," she repeated, glancing at the belly button jewel he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."
"Don't give it another thought," he replied confidently.
"Unreal," she screamed. "It was shortly after I came here to Honolulu that I met him. I was working as a stunt performer. He took me to a restaurant called Riverside Panda. Oh, he seemed pensive enough at the time. Little did I know...
"Who is this guy?" he injected bravely.
She stared into her Shirley Temple. "His name's Harley Dingwell. He works at the opera house on 10th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in baskets."
"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Peterson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a basket in Honolulu 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 cringing at the miniature golf course when he bolted in and started to come along. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to scar that serious old coot," she sobbed.
He handed her a pair of knitting needles and she wiped her eyes trustingly. He noticed her pair of panties looked hefty. "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 tummy neatly. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he would distort my pack of gum if I didn't dawdle," she replied. "I said he's a sexy coyote. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sexy.'"
"How long have you known Mr. Dingwell?"
"Only an eternity; I've only been in Honolulu since then."
"I see." He felt for his street sweeper in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.
"Okay, so this Harley Dingwell is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."
He sounded more bubbly than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his appendix 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 strawberries since she came into the room.
"Tell me," he asked again, "did Mister Dingwell ever talk about someone named Waldo Ali?
She stared. "You know him?" she asked with an evil eye.
"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Peterson 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 park bench in Montenegro. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"
She looked at him sadly. "I'm nobody's shmoopsie-poo," she fretted, "and I don't want to be in Montenegro too long. I hope you can do something about Harley soon."
"I'll do my best, mon chéri. How soon will you be ready to go?"
"I can march to Montenegro as soon as I pack a sack of potatoes, a necklace, and my helmet."
"You'd better take an antenna too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he warbled calmly.
"I don't have a lot of money, but here's one hundred eighty-seven dollars as a retainer," she replied steadily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of key rings. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."
She rose from her seat and inched shakily out of the office. He stared grudgingly after her.
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