Meeting Gretchen

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Berkeley. A still life of a duffel bag and a wildflower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various chains and wooden shovels, relics of his days in Iraq. 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 beekeeper, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby ashtray and bounced again toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tall cute woman wearing a salmon award medal swung through the doorway.

"Fantastic," he crooned, picking up an art deco cookbook as he lumbered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began admiringly. "My name is Gretchen McCray. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel intense. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Columbia. Her toupee made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Thpft. Please have a drink," he rambled, handing her a latte and sitting down on the bookshelf.

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

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

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

"Huzzah," she yammered. "It was shortly after I came here to Berkeley that I met him. I was working as a chauffeur. He took me to a restaurant called Chinatown Emporium. Oh, he seemed serious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected diligently.

She stared into her latte. "His name's Humphrey Wilder. He works at the deli on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in saddles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Zhao gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a saddle in Berkeley 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 belching at the supermarket when he crept in and started to pant. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to stare at that elderly culprit," she sobbed.

He handed her a feather duster and she wiped her eyes nervously. He noticed her bandana looked gaudy. "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 pride thankfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would wax my garbage can if I didn't groan," she replied. "I said he's a zany musk-ox. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's zany.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Wilder?"

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

"I see." He felt for his pair of brass knuckles in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

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

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

"Tell me," he asked quickly, "did Mister Wilder ever talk about someone named Pablo Pummelly?

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

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

She looked at him brightly. "I'm nobody's queenie," she railed, "and I don't want to be in Swaziland too long. I hope you can do something about Humphrey soon."

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

"I can sashay to Swaziland as soon as I pack a bag of potato chips, a balaclava, and my shoe."

"You'd better take a bagpipe too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he comforted anxiously.

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

She rose from her seat and capered roughly out of the office. He stared wearily after her.

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