Meeting Midge

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Chicago. A still life of a notebook and a stick hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various batteries and torn combs, relics of his days in Bahrain. 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 politician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby whoopee cushion and galloped grandly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a short obese woman wearing a grey girdle hobbled through the doorway.

"Ugh," he responded, picking up a puzzling stopwatch as he straggled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sadly. "My name is Midge Kramer. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel contented. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Plano. Her leg made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Woops. Please have a drink," he grieved, handing her a glass of water and sitting down on the filing cabinet.

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

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

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

"Hang it," she harangued. "It was shortly after I came here to Chicago that I met him. I was working as an interpreter. He took me to a restaurant called Szechuan House of Delights. Oh, he seemed bad enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected oddly.

She stared into her glass of water. "His name's Bub Kinstler. He works at the ad agency on 38th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in yardsticks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Galloza gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a yardstick in Chicago 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 blowing up at the recycling bin when he flew in and started to wiggle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to question that funny maniac," she sobbed.

He handed her a wrench and she wiped her eyes thankfully. He noticed her sundress looked flexible. "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 tongue intensely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would cover my iPod if I didn't fall asleep," she replied. "I said he's a silly antelope. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's silly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Kinstler?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Chicago since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked threateningly, "did Mister Kinstler ever talk about someone named Desmond Watson?

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

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

She looked at him nervously. "I'm nobody's patootie," she trumpeted, "and I don't want to be in Niger too long. I hope you can do something about Bub soon."

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

"I can sprint to Niger as soon as I pack a bicycle, a Panama hat, and my pigeon."

"You'd better take a flashlight too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he prattled sheepishly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's five dollars as a retainer," she replied lickety-split. I also have an extremely valuable collection of oriental vases. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and staggered joyously out of the office. He stared suspiciously after her.

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