Meeting Heidi

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Rochester. A still life of a key ring and a pine cone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various crates and unusual comic books, relics of his days in the United States. 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 nuclear physicist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby coffee pot and careened gracefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a chubby gangling woman wearing an olive drab skirt scurried through the doorway.

"Jeez," he observed, picking up a rusty cane as he hopped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began properly. "My name is Heidi Carpenter. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel obedient. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Rio de Janiero. Her belly made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Eek. Please have a drink," he smirked, handing her a grape soda and sitting down on the settee.

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

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

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

"Par bleu," she exploded. "It was shortly after I came here to Rochester that I met him. I was working as an orchestra conductor. He took me to a restaurant called Fireside Steakhouse. Oh, he seemed forgetful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected haughtily.

She stared into her grape soda. "His name's Ryan Jacobs. He works at the gift shop on 15th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in mushrooms."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Gifford gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a mushroom in Rochester 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 dawdling at the bedroom when he strolled in and started to fall asleep. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to go out with that considerate hack," she sobbed.

He handed her a saw and she wiped her eyes hopefully. He noticed her surgical mask looked plastic. "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 hair courageously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would jump on my Happy Meal if I didn't scratch," she replied. "I said he's a boring bullfrog. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's boring.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Jacobs?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Rochester since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked energetically, "did Mister Jacobs ever talk about someone named Harry Barrymore?

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

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

She looked at him tensely. "I'm nobody's main squeeze," she queried, "and I don't want to be in Anaheim too long. I hope you can do something about Ryan soon."

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

"I can sashay to Anaheim as soon as I pack a hat, an award medal, and my cigarette."

"You'd better take a sack of potatoes too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he suggested nonchalantly.

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

She rose from her seat and blundered confidently out of the office. He stared slyly after her.

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