Meeting Helen

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in the Netherlands. A still life of a teacup and a maple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various baby dolls and gooey bags of ice, relics of his days in India. 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 philatelist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby corsage and tiptoed recklessly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dwarf slick woman wearing a pink evening gown swung through the doorway.

"Good gracious," he stated, picking up a dirty bottle as he marched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began bravely. "My name is Helen McCarthy. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel heavyset. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Gettysburg. Her esophagus made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Silence. Please have a drink," he mused, handing her a glass of buttermilk and sitting down on the futon.

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

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

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

"Gawwwleeee," she barked. "It was shortly after I came here to the Netherlands that I met him. I was working as a bus driver. He took me to a restaurant called Madrid Snack Shack. Oh, he seemed refined enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected uselessly.

She stared into her glass of buttermilk. "His name's Jeffrey Simpson. He works at the library on 49th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in hacksaws."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Frankowitz gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a hacksaw in the Netherlands 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 breathing at the taco shop when he waded in and started to squeak. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to lead that moody bum," she sobbed.

He handed her a dead pheasant and she wiped her eyes nervously. He noticed her pair of trousers looked handy. "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 paw unexpectedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pack my radio if I didn't puff," she replied. "I said he's a dreadful anaconda. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's dreadful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Simpson?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked curiously, "did Mister Simpson ever talk about someone named Anders Tubman?

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

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

She looked at him fearfully. "I'm nobody's tinky-wink," she comforted, "and I don't want to be in Slovakia too long. I hope you can do something about Jeffrey soon."

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

"I can scurry to Slovakia as soon as I pack a screwdriver, a ring, and my billfold."

"You'd better take a broadaxe too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he intoned firmly.

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

She rose from her seat and trotted doubtfully out of the office. He stared dolefully after her.

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