Meeting Ida

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Lubbock. A still life of a brochure and a mulberry tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pain pills and old ashtrays, relics of his days in Pakistan. 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 diver, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby tissue and barrelled dolorously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stocky elderly woman wearing a chartreuse pair of earmuffs sprinted through the doorway.

"Freaky," he bawled, picking up a musty cork as he straggled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began glumly. "My name is Ida Sheridan. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel gargantuan. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Dayton. Her appendix made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ay chihuahua. Please have a drink," he intoned, handing her a Cuba libre and sitting down on the coffee table.

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

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

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

"No no no," she croaked. "It was shortly after I came here to Lubbock that I met him. I was working as an ice cream vendor. He took me to a restaurant called the Northern Waterfall. Oh, he seemed rapacious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected gingerly.

She stared into her Cuba libre. "His name's Horst Dewey. He works at the bar on 9th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cans of soup."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Remington gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a can of soup in Lubbock 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 swearing at the juice shop when he bolted in and started to cheer. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to step on that comely donkey," she sobbed.

He handed her a bowl and she wiped her eyes calmly. He noticed her big smile looked old. "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 aorta unabashedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would toss my pumpkin if I didn't back down," she replied. "I said he's a disgusting dinosaur. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's disgusting.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Dewey?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Lubbock since then."

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

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

He sounded more stern than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his foot like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and got upset for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like used books since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked nimbly, "did Mister Dewey ever talk about someone named Jeff Thomas?

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

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

She looked at him daringly. "I'm nobody's shabookadook," she groaned, "and I don't want to be in Brussels too long. I hope you can do something about Horst soon."

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

"I can zip to Brussels as soon as I pack a curling iron, a cocktail dress, and my firecracker."

"You'd better take a protest sign too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he complained rapidly.

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

She rose from her seat and sailed bravely out of the office. He stared fondly after her.

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