Meeting Dinah

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Massachusetts. A still life of a pot and a tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various shovels and worn whistles, relics of his days in Senegal. 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 butler, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cardboard box and ran awkwardly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a small adorable woman wearing a fuchsia pair of boxer shorts rolled through the doorway.

"Great Caesar's ghost," he taunted, picking up a frilly football as he jogged to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began unnaturally. "My name is Dinah Stetson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel coy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Florence. Her nostril made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Great balls of fire. Please have a drink," he maintained, handing her a Bud Lite and sitting down on the toilet.

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

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

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

"Petunia," she ranted. "It was shortly after I came here to Massachusetts that I met him. I was working as a bank teller. He took me to a restaurant called Doc's Express. Oh, he seemed intelligent enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected elatedly.

She stared into her Bud Lite. "His name's Guy Irvin. He works at the tattoo parlor on 18th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in suitcases."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Jankowski gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a suitcase in Massachusetts 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 freaking out at the city park when he leapt in and started to expectorate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to quote that lively screwball," she sobbed.

He handed her a needle and thread and she wiped her eyes wildly. He noticed her pair of socks looked abnormal. "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 tongue noisily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would burn my paperclip if I didn't meditate," she replied. "I said he's an intense eagle. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's intense.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Irvin?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Massachusetts since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked caustically, "did Mister Irvin ever talk about someone named Charlie Kilroy?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Jankowski 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 log cabin in Serbia. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

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

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

"I can blunder to Serbia as soon as I pack a pen, a pair of suspenders, and my paper bag."

"You'd better take a dead macaque too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he tittered vigorously.

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

She rose from her seat and padded sourly out of the office. He stared briskly after her.

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