Meeting Michele

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Kyrgyzstan. A still life of an African violet and a feather hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various lollipops and rigid rubber chickens, relics of his days in Iran. 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 delivery driver, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby whoopee cushion and leapt softly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt Asian woman wearing a carrot-orange pair of booties waltzed through the doorway.

"Who says?," he growled, picking up a hollow carrot as he scooted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began miserably. "My name is Michele Grover. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel rugged. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Brownsville. Her eyelash made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Turn blue. Please have a drink," he amended, handing her a cosmopolitan and sitting down on the piano.

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

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

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

"Bless your heart," she drawled. "It was shortly after I came here to Kyrgyzstan that I met him. I was working as a translator. He took me to a restaurant called the Blue Bliss. Oh, he seemed choleric enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected elatedly.

She stared into her cosmopolitan. "His name's Simeon Wooten. He works at the ad agency on 12th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in backpacks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Pattel gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a backpack in Kyrgyzstan 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 cheering up at the bagel shop when he pranced in and started to show up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to irritate that repulsive chowderhead," she sobbed.

He handed her a firecracker and she wiped her eyes majestically. He noticed her pair of shoes looked plain. "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 hangnail lazily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would re-evaluate my necklace if I didn't snort," she replied. "I said he's a blubbery mountain goat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's blubbery.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Wooten?"

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

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

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

He sounded more evil than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his dignity like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and played solitaire for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like cherry blossoms since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked admiringly, "did Mister Wooten ever talk about someone named Hamlet Palca?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Pattel operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, cutie-patootie, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice penthouse in the Marshall Islands. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him ferociously. "I'm nobody's cutie-patootie," she jeered, "and I don't want to be in the Marshall Islands too long. I hope you can do something about Simeon soon."

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

"I can scurry to the Marshall Islands as soon as I pack a peach, a tunic, and my hammer."

"You'd better take a bicycle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he tittered tensely.

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

She rose from her seat and walked slowly out of the office. He stared carefully after her.

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