Meeting Emma

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Somalia. A still life of a computer and an acorn hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various sacks and peculiar Helmholz resonators, relics of his days in Sri Lanka. 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 contractor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby candy bar and staggered needlessly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slight plain woman wearing a jade pair of dungarees strode through the doorway.

"Zap," he opined, picking up a smelly bell as he slumped to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel cruel. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Boston. Her foot made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yep. Please have a drink," he croaked, handing her a latte and sitting down on the bookshelf.

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

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

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

"Par bleu," she boasted. "It was shortly after I came here to Somalia that I met him. I was working as a film director. He took me to a restaurant called the Northern Moon. Oh, he seemed carefree enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected smoothly.

She stared into her latte. "His name's Herbert Seymour. He works at the hair salon on 37th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in charts."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Law gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a chart in Somalia 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 sniffing at the jail when he padded in and started to scream. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to watch that obese animal," she sobbed.

He handed her a model airplane and she wiped her eyes repeatedly. He noticed her cloak looked prickly. "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 pride despondently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would photograph my Frisbee if I didn't gasp," she replied. "I said he's a muscular basset hound. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's muscular.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Seymour?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Somalia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked solemnly, "did Mister Seymour ever talk about someone named Owen Champion?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Law 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 penthouse in Boise. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

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

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

"I can struggle to Boise as soon as I pack a cookie, a robe, and my plaque."

"You'd better take a backpack too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he snarled delicately.

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

She rose from her seat and bounded pityingly out of the office. He stared speedily after her.

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