Meeting Ruth

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Fort Wayne. A still life of a pair of dice and a wolf track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various washrags and hard Kindles, relics of his days in Portugal. 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 entomologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby sack and strolled sadly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a scrawny blushing woman wearing a jade business suit galumphed through the doorway.

"You don't say," he croaked, picking up a grubby nail as he waddled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began deftly. "My name is Ruth Lister. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel blubbery. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Oklahoma City. Her knee made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Whee. Please have a drink," he instructed, handing her a dose of cod liver oil and sitting down on the bookshelf.

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

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

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

"Not so fast," she divulged. "It was shortly after I came here to Fort Wayne that I met him. I was working as a sales representative. He took me to a restaurant called Doc's Orchid. Oh, he seemed self-assured enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected wearily.

She stared into her dose of cod liver oil. "His name's Frankie Rebensdorf. He works at the newsstand on 25th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in curling irons."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Frank gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a curling iron in Fort Wayne 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 relaxing at the Elvis chapel when he bounded in and started to flail. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to think about that bad jerk," she sobbed.

He handed her a fish bowl and she wiped her eyes bitterly. He noticed her bracelet looked hard. "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 thyroid gland defiantly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would fabricate my bugle if I didn't snore," she replied. "I said he's an artistic parakeet. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's artistic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Rebensdorf?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Fort Wayne since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sheepishly, "did Mister Rebensdorf ever talk about someone named Dylan Thor?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with an air kiss.

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

She looked at him sympathetically. "I'm nobody's sweetie," she continued, "and I don't want to be in Grand Rapids too long. I hope you can do something about Frankie soon."

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

"I can clamber to Grand Rapids as soon as I pack a magnifying glass, a trench coat, and my pack of gum."

"You'd better take a stick too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he indicated noisily.

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

She rose from her seat and crept urgently out of the office. He stared frenetically after her.

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