Meeting Hagit

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in France. A still life of a business card and a tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various hubcaps and rare Helmholz resonators, relics of his days in Finland. 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 distiller, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby brush and scampered happily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tubby scraggly woman wearing a blue leotard padded through the doorway.

"Very well done," he simpered, picking up a gaudy chart as he climbed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began primly. "My name is Hagit Yamamoto. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel shiftless. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Pomona. Her abdomen made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Son of a Baptist preacher. Please have a drink," he responded, handing her a hot buttered rum and sitting down on the china hutch.

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

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

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

"Goodness," she yawned. "It was shortly after I came here to France that I met him. I was working as a gemcutter. He took me to a restaurant called Eastern Island. Oh, he seemed calm enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected happily.

She stared into her hot buttered rum. "His name's Abe Peters. He works at the cigar store on 30th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in baseballs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Jacobsen gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a baseball in France 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 taking a bath at the Elvis chapel when he pranced in and started to wince. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to indoctrinate that intense imbecile," she sobbed.

He handed her a shoe and she wiped her eyes violently. He noticed her parka looked waxy. "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 palm flightily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would paint my suitcase if I didn't dance," she replied. "I said he's a demented nightingale. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's demented.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Peters?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in France since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked pityingly, "did Mister Peters ever talk about someone named Lucky Carter?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Jacobsen operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, angel, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice sod house in the United Arab Emirates. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him gracefully. "I'm nobody's angel," she blurted, "and I don't want to be in the United Arab Emirates too long. I hope you can do something about Abe soon."

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

"I can breeze to the United Arab Emirates as soon as I pack a fountain pen, a pair of dentures, and my dollar bill."

"You'd better take a crate too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he provoked blindly.

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

She rose from her seat and galumphed glibly out of the office. He stared crazily after her.

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