“All right, Eva, let me get this straight. You want me to pay this … woman twenty dollars so she will ‘read’ me and tell you whether I’m a ‘putz’ or not.”

I looked at Crazy Wilma, standing there in the harsh glare of the streetlight, trying to see her through Norman’s eyes. Norman the surgeon with his crisp white linen shirt and conservatively striped tie. Norman with the tassels on his
impeccably polished leather loafers and the gold Rolex on his wrist. Would he see the genuine affection for me in Wilma’s bulging constantly darting walleyes? Would he have noticed how she had deliberately circled us to put herself down breeze so as not to offend us with her admittedly horrendous stench? Would he see how frail she was beneath her tattered clothes?
I found that I couldn’t see Wilma through his eyes. My vision was modified by what I knew. I remembered bringing her grandson to the park one day so that she could watch him playing on the jungle gym, her standing like a statue half-hidden by a tree for two hours. She must have memorized every detail because she would regale me with retellings of the momentous day every chance I gave her. And Wilma would take no charity. So I paid her for her infallible ability to judge people. Or actually I had my dates pay her. She had never been wrong yet. She invariably declared them putzes, and they invariably turned out to be just that. Only Eddie had gotten a tentative “half-putz,” and she had been dead on there.

Norman looked down at me, lowering his head to see me through the proper part of his bifocals. He’s six feet two inches tall, and I’m only four feet eleven inches—though my killer stiletto heels added some to my total. I gave him an encouraging smile. He must have liked what he saw. From his height, he was getting a great view down the cleavage of my summer frock. I hate bras. He grudgingly pulled a pair of sawbucks from his Italian leather billfold and passed them gingerly to Wilma.

Wilma gave him a thorough going over with her less clouded eye, then gave a decisive shake of her head. “He’s a putz.”

“Don’t take it too hard Norman. Wilma is our local Cassandra. Her evaluations never seem to affect my behavior in any way.” I gave him a coquettish smile that seemed to cheer him immensely.

“Ain’t you going to have Shade draw you and the putz?” Wilma gestured over to where Shade had set up a small easel and drawing pad. It took her a while to register that Shade was not there. “He was here just a minute ago. I told him that
you told me you was bringing a sucker here. I hope the aliens hasn’t got him.”

I glanced up at Norman. He looked annoyed. I could only manage a sheepish grin this time. “I’m sure the aliens haven’t got him,Wilma. I’m sure he’ll be back in a little while—he wouldn’t leave his things for long. Tell him that we’ll see him after we’ve eaten.”

Wilma was nodding and mumbling about aliens as I took Norman’s hand and dragged him into Gino’s. The bell over Gino’s door smacked him in the head. I heard him mumbling just like Wilma. I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, though I think it had something to do with “scams”, “tiny trollop”, and “better
be worth it.” Heck, what was he complaining about? Even with the twenty for Wilma and the twenty he was going to give Shade for sketching a memento of our wonderful first date he was going to come out ahead of the game. After all, I had insisted on Gino’s where the food is both plentiful and very cheap instead of the expensive restaurant to which he had wanted to take me. He’d probably only drop another forty dollars in Gino’s, even with wine. He would easily have spent two hundred dollars at that pretentious place, especially the way I eat. And if he had any knowledge of my past dating history, he’d know his chances were darned good of getting very lucky indeed.

The only other patrons in Gino’s were Mr. and Mrs. Kim from the Golden Dragon next door. Gino invariably ate at their establishment and they invariably ate at Gino’s. The Kim’s ate sparingly and Gino did not, so it worked out roughly equitably.

Gino himself led us to a booth. The red vinyl bench was cracked; the red and white checked plastic tablecloth had a tear down the middle; and the candle in the Chianti bottle was sputtering in the last few minutes of life before it fell inside the bottle. But within a few minutes we had a bottle of a very sweet wine-like liquid, focaccia bread to dip in little plates of olive oil, and some goat cheese covered with slivers of sun-dried tomato. I had also taken off one of my stilettos and was exploring the skin just above Norman’s sock with my toes.

He seemed considerably more at ease. Almost calm enough for me to introduce the topic of my profession. Surprisingly, few men react positively when they learn I’m a licensed PI.

It was at this moment that Mrs. Kim screamed. I turned to see Crazy Wilma staggering towards our table. She had an ugly gash across her forehead and blood was flowing copiously down her face.

“He hurt me. And now he’s hurting Shade. Hurry, Eva.” Wilma’s voice was a harsh whisper and slurred. She just reached our table when she collapsed. Norman instinctively drew back—I had to throw myself across the table to keep Wilma’s head from smashing into the corner. Wilma’s weight carried me on
across and I ended up tangled with an unconscious Wilma on the floor. Norman helped me to my feet. I could barely stand with one bare foot and one six-inch heel, so I quickly took off my other shoe, trying not to slip in the olive oil I had
all over myself and spilled on the floor.

“Come on Norman, we’ve got to help Shade.” I ran/slid for the door but Norman didn’t follow. He had at least bent down to examine Wilma’s wound. He looked up just as I reached the door.
“Don’t be a fool, Eva. Wait for the cops.” He gestured towards Mr. Kim who was already on the phone near the cash register. Putz.

The street outside Gino’s was empty. It was fully dark now though the side walk was garishly bright, lit by the sodium light above and the various shades of neon from Gino’s and the Golden Dragon on one side, and The Happy Sailor tattoo parlor on the other side. Neither Shade nor his attacker was visible. Shade’s easel was now on the ground, smashed. A trail of art pencils, gum erasers, and oddly shaped remnants of charcoal led off towards the alley between Gino’s and the tattoo parlor.
From somewhere behind the buildings I heard Shade scream. I ran into the pitch-black alley at full speed tripping over trash bags and bouncing off dumpsters. Sharp things gouged at my bare feet and I winced at the thought of the needles that might lie on the filthy pavement back there. I made it to the back door
of Gino’s where there was light from a bare bulb. The back door opened bathing the alley in more light. Gino emerged covered in flour. He had a large marble rolling pin in his hand. He stepped out to block my way.

“Eva, wait. The police will be here soon.”

“Come with me Gino. Shade’s in trouble.” Gino could only shake his head. Whatever expression he saw on my face made his eyes well up with tears. I held out my hand for Gino’s rolling pin. I was unarmed and it would have to do. He hesitated a moment and then handed it over. The damn thing must have weighed
ten pounds.

I tore off without another word. It was ten more steps down the alley to a T. I took the right fork leading further away from the street. After another few steps, I listened and heard whimpering from somewhere ahead. For another twenty paces
I was in utter darkness again. A dumpster nearly blocked the exit. I squeezed past on the right to emerge into a dismal courtyard full of trash.

The only light was from a powerful flashlight in the left hand of the figure standing over Shade. Shade was illuminated on the ground beside his overturned shopping cart clutching at his mangled right hand. The man standing over him was a dark silhouette. All I could see clearly was the huge revolver pressed to Shade’s head.

“Police. Throw down your weapon. Now.” I was not the police and I had no weapon, but I think I got the voice right. Suddenly the light turned on me. I was blinded. I dove back the way I had come, behind the dumpster. The bastard shot at me, twice. He must’ve had a .44 magnum. Both rounds went completely
through the steel dumpster making it sound like a gigantic bell. The whole thing rocked back into me, throwing me to the filthy cement. I picked myself up, took a step to my left, and saw two small circles of light from his flash shining right
through the bullet holes onto the front of my now filthy dress. I had missed death by a step.

When the dumpster had rocked back, it had jammed against the alley walls on both sides. There was no way around. I backed away, then took a running start and jumped. I was barely able to clamber onto the lid of the dumpster, especially
trying to hold on to that rolling pin with one hand. The gunman’s light tracked wildly to the left and then the right of the dumpster. He didn’t see me standing on the lid. I hurled the heavy rolling pin directly at the light. There was a satisfying grunt of pain and the flash fell to the cement. When it smashed, the courtyard returned to near total darkness. I heard the gunman running away across the
courtyard and through the continuation of the alley on the other side. I made no attempt to follow.

I found Shade by his sobs. I could already hear sirens approaching. I got down and held him while the cops and EMT’s made their way through the alley maze to find us.