Meeting Theresa

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in South Carolina. A still life of a yo-yo and a dead fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bags and bent crystal balls, relics of his days in Zambia. 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 civil engineer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby notepad and scurried pityingly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a bony pallid woman wearing a chartreuse Stetson hat rushed through the doorway.

"Whew," he conversed, picking up an imitation spool of thread as he crept to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began haughtily. "My name is Theresa Eichmann. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel resolute. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Vienna. Her throat made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "You're kidding. Please have a drink," he pointed out, handing her a tequila sunrise and sitting down on the workbench.

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

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

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

"Ten-four," she quavered. "It was shortly after I came here to South Carolina that I met him. I was working as a home executive. He took me to a restaurant called Kim's Hideaway. Oh, he seemed friendly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected pitifully.

She stared into her tequila sunrise. "His name's Drover Arp. He works at the liquor store on 29th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in brochures."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Dayton gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a brochure in South Carolina 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 wiggling at the church when he careened in and started to swoon. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to embarrass that enchanting traitor," she sobbed.

He handed her a Hostess Ding Dong and she wiped her eyes vacantly. He noticed her trench coat looked magnificent. "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 pinky wryly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would reinforce my hip flask if I didn't lounge," she replied. "I said he's a portly snake. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's portly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Arp?"

"Only a century; I've only been in South Carolina since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked uneasily, "did Mister Arp ever talk about someone named Dakota Kissling?

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

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

She looked at him slowly. "I'm nobody's hot stuff," she screeched, "and I don't want to be in the Swiss Alps too long. I hope you can do something about Drover soon."

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

"I can pad to the Swiss Alps as soon as I pack a whoopee cushion, a set of scrubs, and my ingot of plutonium."

"You'd better take a clarinet too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he burbled violently.

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

She rose from her seat and made a beeline busily out of the office. He stared admiringly after her.

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