Meeting Robin

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Berkeley. A still life of a rope and a raspberry bush hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various magazines and flaky air compressors, relics of his days in Malta. 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 gardener, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby plaque and careened impatiently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dainty frumpy woman wearing an azure bodysuit went through the doorway.

"Stinkers," he joked, picking up a multicolored needle and thread as he strode to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began zestily. "My name is Robin Sinclair. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel generous. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Oslo. Her knuckle made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "I'll bet. Please have a drink," he pronounced, handing her a glass of milk and sitting down on the credenza.

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

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

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

"Meow," she yammered. "It was shortly after I came here to Berkeley that I met him. I was working as a slave. He took me to a restaurant called New York Drive-In. Oh, he seemed sober enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected swiftly.

She stared into her glass of milk. "His name's Clifford David. He works at the bakery on 17th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pieces of chalk."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Tucker gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a piece of chalk in Berkeley 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 shivering at the mall when he proceeded in and started to collapse. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to betray that frumpy bonehead," she sobbed.

He handed her a telephone book and she wiped her eyes anxiously. He noticed her pair of earrings looked woven. "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 throat queerly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would fix my Kindle if I didn't sniff," she replied. "I said he's a noxious antelope. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's noxious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. David?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked furiously, "did Mister David ever talk about someone named Butch Geiger?

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

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

She looked at him happily. "I'm nobody's Banana Cakes," she joked, "and I don't want to be in Seychelles too long. I hope you can do something about Clifford soon."

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

"I can speed to Seychelles as soon as I pack a stamp, a military uniform, and my daisy."

"You'd better take a pinwheel too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he exclaimed truculently.

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

She rose from her seat and struggled hopefully out of the office. He stared stupidly after her.

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