Meeting Dagmar

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Cambodia. A still life of a teacup and a deer track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various playing cards and smooth notepads, relics of his days in Puerto Rico. 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 silversmith, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby spittoon and sprinted quietly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth sleek woman wearing a lime-green watch slipped through the doorway.

"Holy frijole," he informed, picking up a fabulous rope as he sallied forth to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began languidly. "My name is Dagmar Owens. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sober. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Vienna. Her neck made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hmm. Please have a drink," he smiled, handing her a gin sour and sitting down on the billiard table.

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

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

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

"Roger that," she belched. "It was shortly after I came here to Cambodia that I met him. I was working as a gastroenterologist. He took me to a restaurant called Doc's Dining Hall. Oh, he seemed shy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected anxiously.

She stared into her gin sour. "His name's Ira Gagné. He works at the cigar store on 32nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in packages."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Killeen gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a package in Cambodia 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 snuffling at the jail when he blundered in and started to knit. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to judge that fashionable nerd," she sobbed.

He handed her a can of beer and she wiped her eyes briskly. He noticed her wig looked hollow. "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 tail dreamily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would fortify my etching if I didn't spit," she replied. "I said he's a dapper dragon. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's dapper.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Gagné?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked humbly, "did Mister Gagné ever talk about someone named Rex Booth?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Killeen operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, cuddle-bear, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice Spanish colonial in Cameroon. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him suddenly. "I'm nobody's cuddle-bear," she pleaded, "and I don't want to be in Cameroon too long. I hope you can do something about Ira soon."

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

"I can flounce to Cameroon as soon as I pack a cell phone, a fez, and my egg shell."

"You'd better take a bottle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he tittered perkily.

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

She rose from her seat and slunk demurely out of the office. He stared numbly after her.

Next Chapter