Meeting Edna

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Comoros. A still life of a pencil and a tree branch hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various apples and mysterious paperweights, relics of his days in Finland. 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 mail carrier, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby basketball and sallied forth surreptitiously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slender tall woman wearing a violet pair of galoshes inched through the doorway.

"Bless my britches," he offered, picking up a weird iPod as he tumbled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began furiously. "My name is Edna Novak. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel drowsy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Denver. Her tooth made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ha-ha. Please have a drink," he avowed, handing her a soda and sitting down on the coffee table.

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

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

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

"Doggone," she whined. "It was shortly after I came here to Comoros that I met him. I was working as a gravedigger. He took me to a restaurant called Moroccan House of Delights. Oh, he seemed conscientious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected uneasily.

She stared into her soda. "His name's Norm Comstad. He works at the photography studio on 46th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in contracts."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Kelly gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a contract in Comoros 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 wobbling at the city park when he slithered in and started to belch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to shake that brassy lob-dotterel," she sobbed.

He handed her a cream puff and she wiped her eyes haughtily. He noticed her turtleneck looked gleaming. "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 skin speedily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would prune my duffel bag if I didn't relax," she replied. "I said he's a childish polar bear. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's childish.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Comstad?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Comoros since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked boisterously, "did Mister Comstad ever talk about someone named Cecil Emery?

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

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

She looked at him hungrily. "I'm nobody's tootsy-wootsy," she concluded, "and I don't want to be in Bagdad too long. I hope you can do something about Norm soon."

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

"I can zip to Bagdad as soon as I pack a pickle, a pair of earrings, and my bucket."

"You'd better take a camera too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he gasped busily.

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

She rose from her seat and ambled warily out of the office. He stared shakily after her.

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