Meeting Latrina

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Ontario. A still life of a toy and an egg shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bagpipes and smelly plaques, relics of his days in Tibet. 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 doorman, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bedpan and skittered recklessly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gigantic gangling woman wearing a burgundy beret straggled through the doorway.

"Who cares," he hollered, picking up an archaic needle and thread as he slithered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began proudly. "My name is Latrina Nelson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel energetic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Prague. Her pituitary gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "I'm on it. Please have a drink," he added, handing her a milkshake and sitting down on the bathtub.

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

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

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

"Optimum," she rumored. "It was shortly after I came here to Ontario that I met him. I was working as an upholsterer. He took me to a restaurant called Mama's Delicatessen. Oh, he seemed pert enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected innocently.

She stared into her milkshake. "His name's Arnold Strait. He works at the craft store on 44th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in backpacks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Mainz gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a backpack in Ontario 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 coming over at the beach when he strolled in and started to party. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to castigate that cowardly bilge rat," she sobbed.

He handed her a saw and she wiped her eyes confidently. He noticed her tailcoat looked luxurious. "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 neck craftily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would wipe my pen if I didn't watch," she replied. "I said he's a quiet boar. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's quiet.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Strait?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked positively, "did Mister Strait ever talk about someone named Russ Allen?

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

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

She looked at him again. "I'm nobody's sparky," she lectured, "and I don't want to be in Morocco too long. I hope you can do something about Arnold soon."

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

"I can sneak to Morocco as soon as I pack a ruler, a cat suit, and my stamp."

"You'd better take a hacksaw too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he cajoled woefully.

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

She rose from her seat and blundered openly out of the office. He stared arrogantly after her.

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