Meeting Alison

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Scottsdale. A still life of a pot and an acorn hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various jars of olives and ruined bouquets, relics of his days in Israel. 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 attorney, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby microscope and skipped delicately toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stocky handsome woman wearing a camouflage set of pink foam curlers sauntered through the doorway.

"Touché," he implored, picking up an ancient china doll as he dove to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began curiously. "My name is Alison Oliver. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel charming. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Beijing. Her toenail made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "What the dickens. Please have a drink," he rationalized, handing her a cup of Sanka and sitting down on the bed.

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

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

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

"Yuck," she invited. "It was shortly after I came here to Scottsdale that I met him. I was working as a programmer. He took me to a restaurant called Mother's Fiesta. Oh, he seemed resolute enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected courageously.

She stared into her cup of Sanka. "His name's Emile Bunyan. He works at the pastry shop on 36th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in flutes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Pham gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a flute in Scottsdale 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 doodling at the laundromat when he stormed in and started to expectorate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to stump that paranoid lackwit," she sobbed.

He handed her a vacuum cleaner and she wiped her eyes blankly. He noticed her birthday suit looked gooey. "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 larynx again. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would wash my wastebasket if I didn't type," she replied. "I said he's a sincere shrew. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sincere.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bunyan?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Scottsdale 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 Emile Bunyan is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

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

"Tell me," he asked hungrily, "did Mister Bunyan ever talk about someone named Nicolas Garvey?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Pham operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, light of my life, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice quonset hut in Nairobi. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him nervously. "I'm nobody's light of my life," she remarked, "and I don't want to be in Nairobi too long. I hope you can do something about Emile soon."

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

"I can set out to Nairobi as soon as I pack a chess set, a wig, and my primrose."

"You'd better take a cookbook too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he spewed tenderly.

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

She rose from her seat and skipped languidly out of the office. He stared breathlessly after her.

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