Meeting Martha

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in the United Kingdom. A still life of a salt shaker and a tree stump hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various buckets and hand-made stones, relics of his days in Namibia. 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 waiter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby teapot and danced numbly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a divine neat woman wearing an azure cat suit swaggered through the doorway.

"Out of this world," he squeaked, picking up a delicate tube of toothpaste as he bounded to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel weary. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Anchorage. Her leg made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Par bleu. Please have a drink," he railed, handing her a sarsaparilla and sitting down on the windowsill.

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

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

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

"Crap," she taunted. "It was shortly after I came here to the United Kingdom that I met him. I was working as an engineer. He took me to a restaurant called Mountain Food Blitz. Oh, he seemed pigeon-toed enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected coldly.

She stared into her sarsaparilla. "His name's Bert Schibbel. He works at the pub on 28th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in needles and thread."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Running Bird gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a needle and thread in the United Kingdom 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 apologizing at the bowling alley when he skidded in and started to stretch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to confront that talkative doofus," she sobbed.

He handed her a file folder and she wiped her eyes wearily. He noticed her dress looked gross. "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 hip vigorously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would get my pop bottle if I didn't do the Hokey Pokey," she replied. "I said he's a self-assured goat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's self-assured.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Schibbel?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in the United Kingdom since then."

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

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

He sounded more depraved 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 cheered up for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like buttermilk since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked confidently, "did Mister Schibbel ever talk about someone named Nicholas Gentry?

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

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

She looked at him peevishly. "I'm nobody's hot stuff," she appealed, "and I don't want to be in Libya too long. I hope you can do something about Bert soon."

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

"I can flounce to Libya as soon as I pack a Van Gogh, a kilt, and my stuffed bunny."

"You'd better take a toilet seat too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he pleaded urgently.

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

She rose from her seat and jogged sympathetically out of the office. He stared kindly after her.

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