Meeting Helen

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Sudan. A still life of a Bunsen burner and a bird's nest hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various footballs and funny decks of cards, relics of his days in Cambodia. 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 animal trainer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby sack of potatoes and marched quickly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a thin alert woman wearing a burgundy feather boa slumped through the doorway.

"Touché," he gasped, picking up a broken bowling ball as he swaggered to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel happy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Kansas City. Her ankle made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Shiver me timbers. Please have a drink," he barked, handing her a shot of whiskey and sitting down on the beanbag chair.

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

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

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

"Roger," she blathered. "It was shortly after I came here to Sudan that I met him. I was working as an astronomer. He took me to a restaurant called the Tasty Delight. Oh, he seemed elderly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected cautiously.

She stared into her shot of whiskey. "His name's Harvey McGill. He works at the ice cream parlor on 45th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in ice cream cones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Merton gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an ice cream cone in Sudan 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 running at the poetry reading when he zoomed in and started to growl. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to caress that sarcastic lunatic," she sobbed.

He handed her an abacus and she wiped her eyes merrily. He noticed her suit of armor looked funny. "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 chin frenetically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would slam my bone if I didn't carry on," she replied. "I said he's an urbane weasel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's urbane.'"

"How long have you known Mr. McGill?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Sudan since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sleepily, "did Mister McGill ever talk about someone named Boots Bonner?

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

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

She looked at him fearfully. "I'm nobody's poopsy-woopsy," she fretted, "and I don't want to be in Venezuela too long. I hope you can do something about Harvey soon."

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

"I can stagger to Venezuela as soon as I pack a blanket, a gun belt, and my saw."

"You'd better take a stuffed owl too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he avowed courteously.

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

She rose from her seat and slithered boisterously out of the office. He stared gently after her.

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