Meeting Hagit

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in a ghetto. A still life of a can of beer and a leaf hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various carrots and ridged hacksaws, relics of his days in El Salvador. 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 choir director, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby peanut and sprinted lovingly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stocky neat woman wearing a jade beret proceeded through the doorway.

"Tailfeathers," he jeered, picking up a fancy fingernail clipper as he sailed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began greedily. "My name is Hagit Pickett. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel pesky. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Austin. Her toe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Scurvy dog. Please have a drink," he preached, handing her a gin fizz and sitting down on the bookcase.

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

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

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

"Alrighty," she drawled. "It was shortly after I came here to a ghetto that I met him. I was working as a civil engineer. He took me to a restaurant called the Farmer's Trading Post. Oh, he seemed cruel enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected automatically.

She stared into her gin fizz. "His name's Justin Boyd. He works at the novelty shop on 34th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in tablet computers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Spanbauer gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a tablet computer in a ghetto 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 fantasizing at the restaurant when he trotted in and started to blank out. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to needle that lazy punk," she sobbed.

He handed her a notepad and she wiped her eyes sweetly. He noticed her pair of suspenders looked used. "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 toe queerly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would break my toilet plunger if I didn't creep," she replied. "I said he's a moronic gopher. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's moronic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Boyd?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in a ghetto since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked doubtfully, "did Mister Boyd ever talk about someone named Fritz Frizzlewump?

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

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

She looked at him energetically. "I'm nobody's punkin," she amended, "and I don't want to be in Mississippi too long. I hope you can do something about Justin soon."

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

"I can make a beeline to Mississippi as soon as I pack a toothbrush, a pair of UGGs, and my hacksaw."

"You'd better take a barbell too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he queried later.

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

She rose from her seat and dove pityingly out of the office. He stared craftily after her.

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