Meeting Chris
He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought sternly. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling primroses door to door.
He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Namibia. A still life of a can of shaving cream and a maple tree hung crookedly on his wall.
The office was adorned with various teacups and jagged bagpipes, relics of his days in South Sudan. 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 bodyguard, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby salt shaker and galloped stealthily toward his desk.
His eyes widened as a stumpy white woman wearing a peach name tag waltzed through the doorway.
"Absolutely," he whispered, picking up a cotton bedpan as he hobbled to his makeshift bar.
"How do you do," she began crossly. "My name is Chris Palensky. I've come because I need help."
The sight of her made him feel timid. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Kabul. Her heel made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "For Pete's sake. Please have a drink," he boasted, handing her a Seven and Seven and sitting down on the pillow.
"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."
"This is difficult for me," she chimed, glancing at the bodysuit he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."
"Don't give it another thought," he replied sheepishly.
"Marvelous," she griped. "It was shortly after I came here to Namibia that I met him. I was working as a stenographer. He took me to a restaurant called the Stellar Retreat. Oh, he seemed bad enough at the time. Little did I know...
"Who is this guy?" he injected awkwardly.
She stared into her Seven and Seven. "His name's Patrick Collier. He works at the Starbucks on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bouquets."
"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Dingwell gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bouquet in Namibia 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 apologizing at the Seven-Eleven when he pranced in and started to fall asleep. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to quiet that adorable fanatic," she sobbed.
He handed her a backpack and she wiped her eyes quickly. He noticed her class ring looked important. "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 hip shyly. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he would return my pink flamingo if I didn't fret," she replied. "I said he's a crafty porcupine. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's crafty.'"
"How long have you known Mr. Collier?"
"Only a day; I've only been in Namibia since then."
"I see." He felt for his angry glare in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.
"Okay, so this Patrick Collier is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."
He sounded more witty than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his nose like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and rejoiced for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like Revlon since she came into the room.
"Tell me," he asked coolly, "did Mister Collier ever talk about someone named Cheng Bryant?
She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Dingwell operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, pookie, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice church in Casablanca. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"
She looked at him ignobly. "I'm nobody's pookie," she repeated, "and I don't want to be in Casablanca too long. I hope you can do something about Patrick soon."
"I'll do my best, toodleums. How soon will you be ready to go?"
"I can hop to Casablanca as soon as I pack a stuffed bunny, a hat, and my cigarette lighter."
"You'd better take a pink flamingo too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he warbled firmly.
"I don't have a lot of money, but here's two hundred fifty dollars as a retainer," she replied sympathetically. I also have an extremely valuable collection of bags of ice. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."
She rose from her seat and loped unnaturally out of the office. He stared calmly after her.
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