Meeting Tamara

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Namibia. A still life of a primrose and an acorn hung crookedly on his wall. The office was cluttered with various Van Goghs and valuable joints, relics of his days in Bulgaria. 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 reporter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby fire hose and skidded openly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a miniature blue-eyed woman wearing a red corsage whirled through the doorway.

"By Jove," he snorted, picking up a shiny plaque as he marched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began stealthily. "My name is Tamara Ming. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel disagreeable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in San Francisco. Her waist made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hurray. Please have a drink," he reacted, handing her a margarita and sitting down on the ottoman.

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

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

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

"By Jove," she rambled. "It was shortly after I came here to Namibia that I met him. I was working as a civil engineer. He took me to a restaurant called Northern Pond. Oh, he seemed self-confident enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected bitterly.

She stared into her margarita. "His name's Fuzz Winger. He works at the Starbucks on 6th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pickles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hartley gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pickle in Namibia 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 scratching at the jail when he sprinted in and started to flail. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to whisper to that smart ichthyologist," she sobbed.

He handed her a microphone and she wiped her eyes gingerly. He noticed her Hawaiian shirt looked rigid. "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 elbow miserably. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would consider my Barbie doll if I didn't play Duck Duck Goose," she replied. "I said he's a difficult computer. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's difficult.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Winger?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Namibia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked woefully, "did Mister Winger ever talk about someone named Bruce Berkowitz?

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

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

She looked at him fondly. "I'm nobody's mon chéri," she growled, "and I don't want to be in Istanbul too long. I hope you can do something about Fuzz soon."

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

"I can swing to Istanbul as soon as I pack a deck of cards, a gown, and my microphone."

"You'd better take a bagpipe too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he orated pityingly.

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

She rose from her seat and tiptoed slowly out of the office. He stared ingeniously after her.

Next Chapter