Meeting Diane

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 microphones door to door.

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Istanbul. A still life of a stick and a wolf track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various fishhooks and new fishing poles, relics of his days in Portugal. 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 philatelist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby paperweight and clambered ferociously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt feeble woman wearing an azure flak jacket slipped through the doorway.

"I'm so sure," he sniffed, picking up an unusual bottle of perfume as he slumped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began steadily. "My name is Diane Park. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel dismal. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Lake Placid. Her Achilles tendon made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gosh darn. Please have a drink," he yelped, handing her a whiskey sour and sitting down on the china hutch.

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

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

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

"Ppppbbbft," she drawled. "It was shortly after I came here to Istanbul that I met him. I was working as a home executive. He took me to a restaurant called Yong's Temple. Oh, he seemed muddled enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected solemnly.

She stared into her whiskey sour. "His name's Marty Kim. He works at the used car lot on 16th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in skulls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Grover gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a skull in Istanbul 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 day care center when he dove in and started to ruminate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to play with that pensive stinker," she sobbed.

He handed her a notebook and she wiped her eyes tearfully. He noticed her belt looked new. "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 skull stupidly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would reposition my dead mustang if I didn't yell," she replied. "I said he's a slimy hermit crab. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's slimy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Kim?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Istanbul since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked grimly, "did Mister Kim ever talk about someone named Luis Blanco?

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

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

She looked at him impatiently. "I'm nobody's mon chéri," she rebutted, "and I don't want to be in Japan too long. I hope you can do something about Marty soon."

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

"I can scurry to Japan as soon as I pack a paper airplane, a pair of boxer shorts, and my box of Kleenex."

"You'd better take a camera too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he lectured nicely.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred seventy-nine dollars as a retainer," she replied cunningly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of stuffed owls. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and sashayed uneasily out of the office. He stared lickety-split after her.

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