Meeting Irma

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Mauritania. A still life of a duffel bag and an apple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various paperweights and wooden whistles, relics of his days in Turkey. 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 jailer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby suitcase and barrelled blissfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an emaciated lanky woman wearing an olive green fedora paraded through the doorway.

"Rats," he chattered, picking up a nice rubber stamp as he scurried to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began steadily. "My name is Irma Ellington. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel urbane. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Havana. Her eye made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Uh. Please have a drink," he yowled, handing her a glass of iced tea and sitting down on the bed.

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

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

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

"Rats," she pronounced. "It was shortly after I came here to Mauritania that I met him. I was working as a molecular biologist. He took me to a restaurant called the Brass Snack Shack. Oh, he seemed mournful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected defiantly.

She stared into her glass of iced tea. "His name's Alan Sweeney. He works at the pharmacy on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pom-poms."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Arp gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pom-pom in Mauritania 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 calculating at the garden when he proceeded in and started to calm down. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to confuse that spunky doofus," she sobbed.

He handed her a purse and she wiped her eyes patiently. He noticed her tarboosh looked smelly. "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 tongue nervously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would interpret my model airplane if I didn't collapse," she replied. "I said he's a timid wombat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's timid.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Sweeney?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Mauritania since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked madly, "did Mister Sweeney ever talk about someone named Desmond Schwarz?

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

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

She looked at him oddly. "I'm nobody's bunny," she giggled, "and I don't want to be in Bellevue too long. I hope you can do something about Alan soon."

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

"I can scoot to Bellevue as soon as I pack a bag, a poncho, and my toilet seat."

"You'd better take a fish bowl too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he burbled stupidly.

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

She rose from her seat and flounced grudgingly out of the office. He stared thankfully after her.

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