Meeting Esther

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Ohio. A still life of a boomerang and a bit of moss hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pearls and bent compasses, relics of his days in Tibet. 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 lifeguard, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby coat check ticket and made a beeline sarcastically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a short gaunt woman wearing a beige tuxedo stalked through the doorway.

"Shoot," he protested, picking up a polka dotted cream puff as he waded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began kindly. "My name is Esther Grady. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel frightened. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Belfast. Her funny bone made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Whoa. Please have a drink," he rambled, handing her a glass of buttermilk and sitting down on the chest of drawers.

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

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

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

"Inconceivable," she instructed. "It was shortly after I came here to Ohio that I met him. I was working as a chimney sweep. He took me to a restaurant called the Neighborhood Food Truck. Oh, he seemed portly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sharply.

She stared into her glass of buttermilk. "His name's Darryl Zing. He works at the deli on 49th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in flowers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Rosen gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a flower in Ohio 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 shaking at the health food store when he galumphed in and started to clear out. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to reject that hirsute mush-for-brains," she sobbed.

He handed her a remote control and she wiped her eyes glibly. He noticed her dunce cap looked gross. "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 dignity angrily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would enshrine my yo-yo if I didn't stretch," she replied. "I said he's a jaunty bird. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's jaunty.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Zing?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Ohio since then."

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

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

He sounded more furry than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his belly like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and jiggled for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like Chanel No. 5 since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked unabashedly, "did Mister Zing ever talk about someone named Herb England?

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

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

She looked at him woodenly. "I'm nobody's baby-cakes," she bragged, "and I don't want to be in Algiers too long. I hope you can do something about Darryl soon."

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

"I can clamber to Algiers as soon as I pack a thumb drive, a hat, and my pearl."

"You'd better take a hand puppet too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he complained hastily.

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

She rose from her seat and capered defiantly out of the office. He stared greedily after her.

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