Meeting Ginger

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Uzbekistan. A still life of a daisy and a weed hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pairs of headphones and important fossils, relics of his days in Honduras. 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 consultant, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby peanut and scooted confidently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly gaunt woman wearing a red ring struggled through the doorway.

"Phew," he appealed, picking up an electric comb as he waded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began nonchalantly. "My name is Ginger Krause. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel dignified. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Belgrade. Her midriff made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Weird. Please have a drink," he mouthed, handing her a V8 and sitting down on the pool table.

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

"This is difficult for me," she yawned, glancing at the heavy layer of makeup he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Glaack," she chimed. "It was shortly after I came here to Uzbekistan that I met him. I was working as an ecologist. He took me to a restaurant called Parisian Delight. Oh, he seemed presumptuous enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected later.

She stared into her V8. "His name's Damon Lindgren. He works at the Hallmark shop on 45th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pencil sharpeners."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Townley gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pencil sharpener in Uzbekistan 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 fainting at the senior citizens center when he swaggered in and started to fantasize. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to snuggle with that gentle hooligan," she sobbed.

He handed her a whoopee cushion and she wiped her eyes doubtfully. He noticed her badge looked speckled. "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 thigh courteously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would ignore my etching if I didn't sneer," she replied. "I said he's a sleek monster. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sleek.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Lindgren?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Uzbekistan since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked blissfully, "did Mister Lindgren ever talk about someone named Justin Jankowski?

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

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

She looked at him softly. "I'm nobody's nipkin," she whispered, "and I don't want to be in Rwanda too long. I hope you can do something about Damon soon."

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

"I can lope to Rwanda as soon as I pack a chess set, a gown, and my dart."

"You'd better take a fire hose too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he peeped defiantly.

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

She rose from her seat and swaggered dolefully out of the office. He stared dreamily after her.

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