Meeting Deirdre

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Germany. A still life of a crayon and a bit of litter hung crookedly on his wall. The office was cluttered with various tubes of toothpaste and unusual hand puppets, relics of his days in Venezuela. 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 diplomat, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby feather duster and tiptoed fervently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a hunky little woman wearing a pea green poncho clambered through the doorway.

"Malarkey," he informed, picking up a chic file folder as he waddled to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel peculiar. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Lake Placid. Her spinal cord made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "When pigs fly. Please have a drink," he piped up, handing her a Harvey Wallbanger and sitting down on the hope chest.

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

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

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

"Hurray," she lamented. "It was shortly after I came here to Germany that I met him. I was working as a security guard. He took me to a restaurant called the Farmer's Food Parlor. Oh, he seemed mindless enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected later.

She stared into her Harvey Wallbanger. "His name's Kris Tubman. He works at the used car lot on 26th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cookbooks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Seymour gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cookbook in Germany 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 breathing at the laundromat when he stormed in and started to flail. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to doubt that yappy stumblebum," she sobbed.

He handed her a church key and she wiped her eyes humbly. He noticed her pair of ear muffs looked art deco. "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 vein queerly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would dislodge my pair of pliers if I didn't mumble," she replied. "I said he's an insane falcon. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's insane.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Tubman?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked menacingly, "did Mister Tubman ever talk about someone named Buck Bunyan?

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

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

She looked at him awkwardly. "I'm nobody's sweet pea," she yammered, "and I don't want to be in Arkansas too long. I hope you can do something about Kris soon."

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

"I can tiptoe to Arkansas as soon as I pack a pumpkin, a pair of Groucho glasses, and my screwdriver."

"You'd better take a tube of glue too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he whined timidly.

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

She rose from her seat and went madly out of the office. He stared madly after her.

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