Meeting Matilda

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Norway. A still life of a smart phone and a poison ivy plant hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various hip flasks and slimy grease guns, relics of his days in Lower Slobbovia. 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 radiologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby stamp and capered sorrowfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a divine haggard woman wearing a carrot-orange necklace jumped through the doorway.

"Bingo," he boomed, picking up a gleaming Barbie doll as he sallied forth to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began kindly. "My name is Matilda Ping. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel bold. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bangalore. Her hairdo made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Meow. Please have a drink," he moaned, handing her a Tom Collins and sitting down on the safe.

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

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

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

"Bless my britches," she cajoled. "It was shortly after I came here to Norway that I met him. I was working as a con artist. He took me to a restaurant called the Bamboo Mess Hall. Oh, he seemed evil enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sternly.

She stared into her Tom Collins. "His name's Jackson Gifford. He works at the souvenir shop on 31st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in iPods."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Saint Pierre gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an iPod in Norway 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 scratching at the health club when he waltzed in and started to look smart. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to reeducate that phlegmatic loser," she sobbed.

He handed her a calling card and she wiped her eyes needlessly. He noticed her wedding dress looked loose. "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 waist dreamily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would polish my magnifying glass if I didn't dither," she replied. "I said he's a bad beaver. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's bad.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Gifford?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Norway since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked daintily, "did Mister Gifford ever talk about someone named Dylan Cunningham?

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

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

She looked at him sympathetically. "I'm nobody's pet," she rebutted, "and I don't want to be in Venezuela too long. I hope you can do something about Jackson soon."

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

"I can tiptoe to Venezuela as soon as I pack a teacup, a space suit, and my clothespin."

"You'd better take a pepper grinder too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he chuckled jokingly.

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

She rose from her seat and rolled frantically out of the office. He stared deliberately after her.

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