Meeting Ava

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Casablanca. A still life of a bilge pump and a fern hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various floppy disks and striped bags of potato chips, relics of his days in Nicaragua. 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 zoologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby paintbrush and hopped lightly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a thin ruddy woman wearing an amber pith helmet trotted through the doorway.

"Oh joy," he blathered, picking up an ornate cookie as he zipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began doubtfully. "My name is Ava Garvey. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel jaunty. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Podunk Hollow. Her elbow made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Wild. Please have a drink," he rebutted, handing her a cup of bouillon and sitting down on the recliner.

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

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

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

"Ouch," she rambled. "It was shortly after I came here to Casablanca that I met him. I was working as an upholsterer. He took me to a restaurant called the Blue Harvest. Oh, he seemed tense enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected frenetically.

She stared into her cup of bouillon. "His name's Jordan Bernal. He works at the fortune teller shop on 28th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Barbie dolls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Mancini gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Barbie doll in Casablanca 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 swearing at the poetry reading when he slunk in and started to fall asleep. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to try to control that hairy joker," she sobbed.

He handed her a fishing rod and she wiped her eyes oddly. He noticed her overcoat looked charming. "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 rib quietly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would slam my mushroom if I didn't wander," she replied. "I said he's a gentle lark. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's gentle.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bernal?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Casablanca since then."

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

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

He sounded more attractive than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his Adam's apple like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and bawled for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like asparagus since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked sarcastically, "did Mister Bernal ever talk about someone named Knuckles Garland?

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

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

She looked at him greedily. "I'm nobody's doll," she wept, "and I don't want to be in Swaziland too long. I hope you can do something about Jordan soon."

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

"I can whirl to Swaziland as soon as I pack a cardboard box, a belt buckle, and my hair dryer."

"You'd better take a doily too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he grunted again.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred twenty-eight dollars as a retainer," she replied admiringly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of sacks of potatoes. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and dashed surreptitiously out of the office. He stared frantically after her.

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