Meeting Martha

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Warsaw. A still life of a can of soup and a maple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various daisies and funny microscopes, relics of his days in China. 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 engineer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby shoe and whirled tenderly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a cadaverous obese woman wearing a brilliant orange parka sneaked through the doorway.

"Grody to the max," he stormed, picking up an old roll of toilet paper as he struggled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began briskly. "My name is Martha Escobar. 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 Hanoi. Her pride made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Nuts. Please have a drink," he exclaimed, handing her an old fashioned and sitting down on the file cabinet.

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

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

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

"Hold that thought," she interpreted. "It was shortly after I came here to Warsaw that I met him. I was working as an aeronautical engineer. He took me to a restaurant called Atlantic Star. Oh, he seemed rude enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hastily.

She stared into her old fashioned. "His name's Nigel Saramago. He works at the butcher shop on 31st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pickles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Miles gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pickle in Warsaw 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 sneering at the taco shop when he hobbled in and started to drool. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to consider that high-strung hellhound," she sobbed.

He handed her a Barbie doll and she wiped her eyes narrowly. He noticed her ribbon looked filthy. "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 eyebrow positively. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would bleach my crayon if I didn't lie down," she replied. "I said he's an enraged mare. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's enraged.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Saramago?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Warsaw since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked again, "did Mister Saramago ever talk about someone named Humphrey Graham?

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

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

She looked at him sourly. "I'm nobody's Pinky," she avowed, "and I don't want to be in Germany too long. I hope you can do something about Nigel soon."

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

"I can stroll to Germany as soon as I pack a nail, a tunic, and my cage."

"You'd better take a candle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he bawled ignobly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred forty-eight dollars as a retainer," she replied charmingly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of feather dusters. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and bounded sternly out of the office. He stared sheepishly after her.

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