Meeting Debbie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Iowa. A still life of a bedpan and a deer track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various joints and luxurious file folders, relics of his days in Israel. 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 silversmith, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby sponge and slumped crankily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gigantic blue-eyed woman wearing a camouflage poncho scurried through the doorway.

"Nonsense," he reminded, picking up a brittle chair as he careened to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sarcastically. "My name is Debbie Gates. 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 Sacramento. Her carotid artery made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Far out. Please have a drink," he articulated, handing her a glass of KoolAid and sitting down on the washing machine.

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

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

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

"Boy howdy," she worried. "It was shortly after I came here to Iowa that I met him. I was working as a designer. He took me to a restaurant called Egyptian Sushi. Oh, he seemed cunning enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected lightly.

She stared into her glass of KoolAid. "His name's Clyde Kemp. He works at the travel agency on 31st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in carrots."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bergstrom gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a carrot in Iowa 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 drooling at the ski resort when he hobbled in and started to talk. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to see that noble fathead," she sobbed.

He handed her a rag and she wiped her eyes delicately. He noticed her pair of toe shoes looked broken. "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 claw automatically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would fold my Helmholz resonator if I didn't wiggle," she replied. "I said he's an attractive ring-tailed lemur. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's attractive.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Kemp?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Iowa since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked nervously, "did Mister Kemp ever talk about someone named Oliver Grover?

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

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

She looked at him defiantly. "I'm nobody's Banana Cakes," she repeated, "and I don't want to be in Uzbekistan too long. I hope you can do something about Clyde soon."

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

"I can barrel to Uzbekistan as soon as I pack a billfold, a pair of sandals, and my pickle."

"You'd better take a doily too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he rumored frantically.

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

She rose from her seat and lurched daintily out of the office. He stared slowly after her.

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