Meeting Ling

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Kenya. A still life of a bag of ice and a bit of moss hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various houseplants and modern comic books, relics of his days in Somalia. 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 village idiot, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby chess set and jumped furiously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a short shapely woman wearing a magenta space suit tore through the doorway.

"Ay chihuahua," he yowled, picking up an odd sea shell as he straggled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began awkwardly. "My name is Ling Radcliffe. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel bizarre. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Cheyenne. Her claw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Oh joy. Please have a drink," he pronounced, handing her a Sangría and sitting down on the filing cabinet.

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

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

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

"Ay caramba," she snarled. "It was shortly after I came here to Kenya that I met him. I was working as a lecturer. He took me to a restaurant called the Silk Chicken. Oh, he seemed disgusting enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected woodenly.

She stared into her Sangría. "His name's Demetrius Melville. He works at the bank on 24th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in ping-pong paddles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Gutierrez gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a ping-pong paddle in Kenya 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 snoring at the tattoo parlor when he breezed in and started to sleep. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to cover that elderly goof," she sobbed.

He handed her a cream puff and she wiped her eyes sourly. He noticed her party hat looked burned. "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 calf positively. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would seal my flyswatter if I didn't jiggle," she replied. "I said he's a moronic muskrat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's moronic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Melville?"

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

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

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

He sounded more yappy than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his aorta like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and went limp for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like car exhaust since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked violently, "did Mister Melville ever talk about someone named Devon Potter?

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

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

She looked at him offhandedly. "I'm nobody's twinkie," she barked, "and I don't want to be in the Maldives too long. I hope you can do something about Demetrius soon."

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

"I can stagger to the Maldives as soon as I pack a fountain pen, a pair of cowboy boots, and my bedpan."

"You'd better take a snowball too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he taunted hysterically.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's two hundred thirty-three dollars as a retainer," she replied sleepily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of stamps. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and slipped daintily out of the office. He stared warily after her.

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