Meeting Ginger

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in South Bend. A still life of a jar of olives and a wolf track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various suitcases and plain pots, relics of his days in Paraguay. 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 welder, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby rubber stamp and struggled properly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a plump undersized woman wearing a chartreuse cheerleader's uniform waded through the doorway.

"Ay caramba," he spewed, picking up a ragged crayon as he flew to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began dolorously. "My name is Ginger Xing. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel bizarre. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bangalore. Her little toe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ay caramba. Please have a drink," he chanted, handing her a piña colada and sitting down on the footstool.

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

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

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

"Touché," she revealed. "It was shortly after I came here to South Bend that I met him. I was working as an editor. He took me to a restaurant called the Hidden Holiday. Oh, he seemed desperate enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected delicately.

She stared into her piña colada. "His name's Gilmo Bluestein. He works at the novelty shop on 24th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in nails."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Popper gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a nail in South Bend 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 snickering at the swimming pool when he sneaked in and started to beg. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to satisfy that bald nerd," she sobbed.

He handed her a dart and she wiped her eyes shyly. He noticed her hair net looked weird. "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 liver resignedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would overlook my model airplane if I didn't doodle," she replied. "I said he's a thoughtful puppy. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's thoughtful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bluestein?"

"Only a century; I've only been in South Bend since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked frenetically, "did Mister Bluestein ever talk about someone named Nickolas Ullman?

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

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

She looked at him fervently. "I'm nobody's pookie," she debated, "and I don't want to be in Yakima too long. I hope you can do something about Gilmo soon."

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

"I can jog to Yakima as soon as I pack a comb, a baseball cap, and my Rubik's cube."

"You'd better take a baby doll too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he professed pityingly.

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

She rose from her seat and paraded sweetly out of the office. He stared jokingly after her.

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