Meeting Teresa

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Newark. A still life of a piece of chalk and a weed hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various screwdrivers and polka-dotted footballs, relics of his days in Spain. 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 microbiologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby remote control and whirled fondly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth dainty woman wearing a salmon business suit slipped through the doorway.

"Whoa," he sobbed, picking up an electronic chamber pot as he hopped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began woodenly. "My name is Teresa Banks. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel diabolical. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Denton. Her hair made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Beats me. Please have a drink," he explained, handing her a Bacardi and sitting down on the beanbag chair.

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

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

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

"Help," she questioned. "It was shortly after I came here to Newark that I met him. I was working as an appliance repairman. He took me to a restaurant called London Burger Joint. Oh, he seemed sarcastic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected menacingly.

She stared into her Bacardi. "His name's Morton Castro. He works at the psychic reading business on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in coat hangers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Romano gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a coat hanger in Newark 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 carrying on at the poetry reading when he skidded in and started to leer. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to rely on that desperate dope fiend," she sobbed.

He handed her a crayon and she wiped her eyes energetically. He noticed her pair of sweatpants 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 adrenal gland tenderly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pick my bowl if I didn't pass out," she replied. "I said he's a muddled bat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's muddled.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Castro?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Newark since then."

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

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

He sounded more stubborn 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 prayed for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like blue cheese since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked boldly, "did Mister Castro ever talk about someone named Wilson Bartholomew?

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

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

She looked at him charmingly. "I'm nobody's sweet pea," she vowed, "and I don't want to be in Istanbul too long. I hope you can do something about Morton soon."

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

"I can zoom to Istanbul as soon as I pack a candy bar, a set of football pads, and my bouquet."

"You'd better take a wrench too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he smirked hopelessly.

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

She rose from her seat and marched breathlessly out of the office. He stared stupidly after her.

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