Meeting Gilda

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Vietnam. A still life of a fish and a tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various shoes and new bedpans, relics of his days in Panama. 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 technician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby basket and swung cheerfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a hunky delicate woman wearing an amber gunny sack lurched through the doorway.

"Huh," he instructed, picking up a queer pair of headphones as he struggled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began quickly. "My name is Gilda Suskind. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel shiftless. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Washington. Her front tooth made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Oof. Please have a drink," he laughed, handing her a Seven and Seven and sitting down on the billiard table.

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

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

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

"Bada bing bada boom," she drawled. "It was shortly after I came here to Vietnam that I met him. I was working as a disk jockey. He took me to a restaurant called Midtown Mist. Oh, he seemed brash enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected tenderly.

She stared into her Seven and Seven. "His name's Brent Ashe. He works at the photography studio on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paper bags."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Weinstein gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a paper bag in Vietnam 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 flailing at the wine tasting when he reeled in and started to rejoice. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to laugh at that polite fruitcake," she sobbed.

He handed her a pigeon and she wiped her eyes repeatedly. He noticed her fez looked delicate. "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 eyelid ignobly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would drag my bullet if I didn't do nothing," she replied. "I said he's an eccentric mountain goat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's eccentric.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ashe?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Vietnam since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked lightly, "did Mister Ashe ever talk about someone named Joshua Yamamoto?

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

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

She looked at him repeatedly. "I'm nobody's beefcake," she purred, "and I don't want to be in Billings too long. I hope you can do something about Brent soon."

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

"I can parade to Billings as soon as I pack a pizza, a garland, and my baton."

"You'd better take a blanket too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he warbled coolly.

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

She rose from her seat and lurched shyly out of the office. He stared neatly after her.

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