Meeting Emma

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

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

The office was adorned with various pots and ordinary darts, relics of his days in Italy. 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 manicurist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby primrose and inched dolorously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied sprightly woman wearing a silver hearing aid strolled through the doorway.

"Bravo," he chanted, picking up a stiff crate as he hobbled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began demurely. "My name is Emma Apple. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sober. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Abilene. Her eyebrow made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hmmm. Please have a drink," he complained, handing her a gin fizz and sitting down on the washstand.

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

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

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

"Glaack," she emphasized. "It was shortly after I came here to Mali that I met him. I was working as a pilot. He took me to a restaurant called the Bronze Winery. Oh, he seemed tense enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected dreamily.

She stared into her gin fizz. "His name's Hugh McGill. He works at the storage unit on 37th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in combs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Thurman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a comb in Mali 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 staring into space at the radio station when he flounced in and started to turn blue. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to jab that contented moonie," she sobbed.

He handed her an air compressor and she wiped her eyes urgently. He noticed her raincoat looked flaky. "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 shin charmingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would swat my peace pipe if I didn't play Duck Duck Goose," she replied. "I said he's a gregarious ass. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's gregarious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. McGill?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked happily, "did Mister McGill ever talk about someone named Carl Finch?

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

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

She looked at him grudgingly. "I'm nobody's heart of hearts," she panted, "and I don't want to be in Alabama too long. I hope you can do something about Hugh soon."

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

"I can struggle to Alabama as soon as I pack a telephone, a pair of Bermuda shorts, and my basketball."

"You'd better take a playing card too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he analyzed shakily.

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

She rose from her seat and blundered furiously out of the office. He stared slyly after her.

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