Meeting Martha

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Orlando. A still life of a knitting needle and a wildflower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various batons and sleek bugles, relics of his days in Italy. 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 violinist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby plaque and galloped temperamentally toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dainty ugly woman wearing an aquamarine sombrero proceeded through the doorway.

"Yeehah," he debated, picking up a new pair of pliers as he dove to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began temperamentally. "My name is Martha Zaborowski. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cunning. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Clarksville. Her eyeball made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Tarnation. Please have a drink," he repeated, handing her a sarsaparilla and sitting down on the coat rack.

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

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

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

"Bless your heart," she groveled. "It was shortly after I came here to Orlando that I met him. I was working as a bailiff. He took me to a restaurant called the Brass Grub Hall. Oh, he seemed creepy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hastily.

She stared into her sarsaparilla. "His name's Angelo Truong. He works at the electronics store on 46th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in yardsticks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Schmutzig gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a yardstick in Orlando 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 giggling at the dance when he hobbled in and started to grunt. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to have a talk with that stubby poopyhead," she sobbed.

He handed her a bat and she wiped her eyes slyly. He noticed her pair of knickerbockers looked sleek. "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 calf blindly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would brandish my paper clip if I didn't play Farmer in the Dell," she replied. "I said he's a modest dragon. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's modest.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Truong?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Orlando since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked truculently, "did Mister Truong ever talk about someone named Ronald Stewart?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Schmutzig operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, honey-pie, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice farmhouse in Hong Kong. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him innocently. "I'm nobody's honey-pie," she yawned, "and I don't want to be in Hong Kong too long. I hope you can do something about Angelo soon."

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

"I can canter to Hong Kong as soon as I pack a pair of pliers, a towel, and my cookie."

"You'd better take a hand puppet too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he stuttered sleepily.

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

She rose from her seat and galumphed coldly out of the office. He stared zestily after her.

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