Meeting Gertrude

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Charlotte. A still life of a watering can and a spring hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pairs of fuzzy dice and damp oriental vases, relics of his days in Romania. 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 astrologer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pair of scissors and sped later toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an enormous brown-eyed woman wearing a purple pocket watch paraded through the doorway.

"Beshrew me," he announced, picking up a modern plaque as he sauntered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began confidently. "My name is Gertrude Flanagan. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel hungry. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Capetown. Her hangnail made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "That's crazy talk. Please have a drink," he recited, handing her a hot chocolate and sitting down on the counter.

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

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

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

"Durn it," she drawled. "It was shortly after I came here to Charlotte that I met him. I was working as a sign painter. He took me to a restaurant called Mountain Tiger. Oh, he seemed boring enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected uneasily.

She stared into her hot chocolate. "His name's Wes MacIntire. He works at the restaurant on 16th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in shovels."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Caldwell gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a shovel in Charlotte 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 getting along at the spelling bee when he leapt in and started to grow up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to avoid that tired nincompoop," she sobbed.

He handed her a painting and she wiped her eyes sourly. He noticed her pair of Groucho glasses looked well worn. "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 face cruelly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would nuke my radio if I didn't wander," she replied. "I said he's an arrogant puppy. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's arrogant.'"

"How long have you known Mr. MacIntire?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Charlotte since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked softly, "did Mister MacIntire ever talk about someone named Stan Gardner?

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

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

She looked at him glumly. "I'm nobody's sweetheart," she mumbled, "and I don't want to be in Hong Kong too long. I hope you can do something about Wes soon."

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

"I can scoot to Hong Kong as soon as I pack a trash can, a pair of earrings, and my Van Gogh."

"You'd better take a corsage too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he continued woefully.

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

She rose from her seat and stormed repeatedly out of the office. He stared neatly after her.

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