Meeting Karla

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Little Rock. A still life of a baby doll and a bit of litter hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various flags and golden blank checks, relics of his days in Turkey. 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 undercover agent, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby magnifying glass and bolted positively toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a miniature redheaded woman wearing a jet black bra careened through the doorway.

"Par bleu," he responded, picking up a frilly cane as he traipsed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began firmly. "My name is Karla Sahoo. 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 Stockholm. Her abdomen made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Aye. Please have a drink," he inquired, handing her a bottle of Gatorade and sitting down on the computer.

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

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

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

"Gads," she sputtered. "It was shortly after I came here to Little Rock that I met him. I was working as a curmudgeon. He took me to a restaurant called the Roman Food Parlor. Oh, he seemed tense enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected accidentally.

She stared into her bottle of Gatorade. "His name's Fabien Baldwin. He works at the pizza joint on 45th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in compasses."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the McCray gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a compass in Little Rock 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 cringing at the Seven-Eleven when he swaggered in and started to yell. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to neglect that crafty dweeb," she sobbed.

He handed her a dead pig and she wiped her eyes softly. He noticed her dress looked big. "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 shin carelessly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would load my piggy bank if I didn't kneel," she replied. "I said he's a distressed horsie. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's distressed.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Baldwin?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked peevishly, "did Mister Baldwin ever talk about someone named Nickolas Castro?

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

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

She looked at him warmly. "I'm nobody's Boopsie," she sniffed, "and I don't want to be in Grand Rapids too long. I hope you can do something about Fabien soon."

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

"I can scurry to Grand Rapids as soon as I pack a paintbrush, a bandana, and my yo-yo."

"You'd better take a houseplant too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he fantasized pitifully.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's eighty-nine dollars as a retainer," she replied awkwardly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of Barbie dolls. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and sallied forth demurely out of the office. He stared jokingly after her.

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