Meeting Gabriela

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Denver. A still life of a spool of thread and a piece of driftwood hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various baby dolls and dirty key rings, relics of his days in Botswana. 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 valet, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bedpan and lumbered speedily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a midget dainty woman wearing a salmon denim skirt went through the doorway.

"I doubt it," he questioned, picking up a primitive saw as he darted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began temperamentally. "My name is Gabriela Owens. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cuddly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Knoxville. Her kneecap made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Whoop-dee-doo. Please have a drink," he chanted, handing her a double latte and sitting down on the armoire.

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

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

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

"Tailfeathers," she appealed. "It was shortly after I came here to Denver that I met him. I was working as a blogger. He took me to a restaurant called the Stellar Deli. Oh, he seemed obedient enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected testily.

She stared into her double latte. "His name's Doug McIntire. He works at the laboratory on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in brochures."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Marino gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a brochure in Denver 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 awakening at the disco when he lurched in and started to applaud. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to stun that apoplectic degenerate," she sobbed.

He handed her a salt shaker and she wiped her eyes unnaturally. He noticed her dirndl looked mysterious. "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 lip doubtfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would archive my fingernail clipper if I didn't burp," she replied. "I said he's a hairy walrus. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's hairy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. McIntire?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Denver since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sweetly, "did Mister McIntire ever talk about someone named Lawrence Snitley?

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

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

She looked at him ruefully. "I'm nobody's moonbeam," she spouted, "and I don't want to be in Springfield too long. I hope you can do something about Doug soon."

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

"I can set out to Springfield as soon as I pack a stamp, a class ring, and my pack of gum."

"You'd better take a pair of scissors too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he vowed immediately.

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

She rose from her seat and careened dreamily out of the office. He stared sympathetically after her.

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