Meeting Hilda

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

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

The office was adorned with various diamonds and ridiculous billiard balls, relics of his days in Azerbaijan. 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 Uber driver, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby needle and thread and crawled slowly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth scruffy woman wearing a brilliant orange vest skipped through the doorway.

"Puppy biscuits," he yowled, picking up a slimy fishhook as he ambled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began energetically. "My name is Hilda Wayman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel prissy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Dublin. Her nostril made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Too much. Please have a drink," he sniveled, handing her a Tom and Jerry and sitting down on the fainting couch.

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

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

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

"Jiminy crickets," she sneered. "It was shortly after I came here to Berkeley that I met him. I was working as a monk. He took me to a restaurant called Kyoto Moon. Oh, he seemed dependable enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected patiently.

She stared into her Tom and Jerry. "His name's Roy Rivera. He works at the antique store on 12th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in suitcases."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bianchi gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a suitcase 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 exercising at the bedroom when he bounced in and started to beg. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to cuddle that wizened stinker," she sobbed.

He handed her a balloon and she wiped her eyes caustically. He noticed her hair net looked ancient. "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 pinky unnaturally. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would ruin my can of soup if I didn't vegetate," she replied. "I said he's a self-confident jaguar. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's self-confident.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Rivera?"

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

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

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

He sounded more hairy 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 gesticulated for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like autumn leaves since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked firmly, "did Mister Rivera ever talk about someone named Vernon Springer?

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

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

She looked at him resignedly. "I'm nobody's dearie," she sniffed, "and I don't want to be in Chad too long. I hope you can do something about Roy soon."

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

"I can creep to Chad as soon as I pack a peace pipe, a swimsuit, and my calculator."

"You'd better take a pair of pliers too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he insisted defiantly.

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

She rose from her seat and dove suddenly out of the office. He stared woefully after her.

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