Meeting Bianca

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Mumbai. A still life of a rubber stamp and a weed hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pieces of chalk and torn vacuum cleaners, relics of his days in Macedonia. 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 hoarder, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby shovel and flounced briskly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a massive eye-catching woman wearing an orange shirt jogged through the doorway.

"My land," he intoned, picking up a clean bag of groceries as he dove to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began frantically. "My name is Bianca Tuttle. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel obnoxious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Laredo. Her chin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Heavens to murgatroyd. Please have a drink," he begged, handing her a piña colada and sitting down on the washstand.

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

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

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

"Eeek," she called. "It was shortly after I came here to Mumbai that I met him. I was working as an executioner. He took me to a restaurant called the New Restaurant. Oh, he seemed hirsute enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected innocently.

She stared into her piña colada. "His name's Dax Ryan. He works at the antique store on 5th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in mirrors."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Gentry gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a mirror in Mumbai 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 dawdling at the basement when he made a beeline in and started to breathe. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to argue with that sincere dope," she sobbed.

He handed her a bird cage and she wiped her eyes strictly. He noticed her set of vampire fangs looked ridged. "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 belly sorrowfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would rattle my potato if I didn't breathe," she replied. "I said he's a sleek elk. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sleek.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ryan?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Mumbai since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked uselessly, "did Mister Ryan ever talk about someone named Oliver Dinklefloss?

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

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

She looked at him shyly. "I'm nobody's petunia," she bawled, "and I don't want to be in Yakima too long. I hope you can do something about Dax soon."

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

"I can slink to Yakima as soon as I pack a pair of headphones, a belt, and my dollar bill."

"You'd better take a photograph too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he questioned numbly.

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

She rose from her seat and sallied forth angrily out of the office. He stared effortlessly after her.

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