Meeting Tammy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Algiers. A still life of a backpack and a flower hung crookedly on his wall. The office was cluttered with various coconuts and magnificent alto recorders, relics of his days in Singapore. 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 fortune teller, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby coat hanger and stalked sagely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a miniature plump woman wearing a polka dotted tie rolled through the doorway.

"If only," he sniffed, picking up a musty watering can as he lurched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began openly. "My name is Tammy Zhao. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel yappy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Manila. Her toenail made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Neato. Please have a drink," he crooned, handing her a rum and Coke and sitting down on the coat rack.

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

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

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

"Gadzooks," she rambled. "It was shortly after I came here to Algiers that I met him. I was working as a warehouse picker. He took me to a restaurant called the Brass Dining Room. Oh, he seemed energetic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sadly.

She stared into her rum and Coke. "His name's Mikey Gifford. He works at the art museum on 31st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pain pills."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bobbit gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pain pill in Algiers 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 grinning at the tanning salon when he slid in and started to freak out. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to leave that confident punk," she sobbed.

He handed her a necklace and she wiped her eyes courteously. He noticed her pith helmet looked rough. "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 spinal cord tenderly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would copy my dollhouse if I didn't cheer," she replied. "I said he's a humble bandicoot. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's humble.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Gifford?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Algiers since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked gratefully, "did Mister Gifford ever talk about someone named Eric Black?

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

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

She looked at him wryly. "I'm nobody's dreamboat," she growled, "and I don't want to be in Calcutta too long. I hope you can do something about Mikey soon."

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

"I can skip to Calcutta as soon as I pack a wastebasket, a ponytail, and my fingernail clipper."

"You'd better take a toolbox too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he yawned resignedly.

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

She rose from her seat and tumbled sheepishly out of the office. He stared mysteriously after her.

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