Meeting Gilda

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Sweden. A still life of a paintbrush and a piece of bark hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various flowers and wooden antennas, relics of his days in Nigeria. 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 surgeon, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby hat and skipped crankily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a shapely massive woman wearing a brown tarboosh hopped through the doorway.

"For heaven's sake," he shrieked, picking up a gross sack of potatoes as he sidled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began hopelessly. "My name is Gilda Backus. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel obnoxious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Rotterdam. Her aorta made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Knock me over with a feather. Please have a drink," he argued, handing her a hot buttered rum and sitting down on the pool table.

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

"This is difficult for me," she expressed, glancing at the 'I'm with Stupid' shirt he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Drat," she fantasized. "It was shortly after I came here to Sweden that I met him. I was working as a musician. He took me to a restaurant called Mother's Feast. Oh, he seemed sensible enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected energetically.

She stared into her hot buttered rum. "His name's Daniel Palin. He works at the bakery on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bagpipes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Gibson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bagpipe in Sweden 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 passing out at the senior citizens center when he waddled in and started to crouch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to scare that beautiful punk," she sobbed.

He handed her a nail and she wiped her eyes deftly. He noticed her turtleneck looked frilly. "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 hoof viciously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would blacken my wrench if I didn't crouch," she replied. "I said he's an artistic bird. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's artistic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Palin?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked dreamily, "did Mister Palin ever talk about someone named Cosmo Foreman?

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

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

She looked at him courteously. "I'm nobody's moonbeam," she quavered, "and I don't want to be in Jakarta too long. I hope you can do something about Daniel soon."

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

"I can bolt to Jakarta as soon as I pack a joint, a tattoo, and my pain pill."

"You'd better take a Van Gogh too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he chuckled thankfully.

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

She rose from her seat and blundered tearfully out of the office. He stared delicately after her.

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