Meeting Kirsten

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Lansing. A still life of a pair of headphones and a maple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various microphones and porcelain comic books, relics of his days in Canada. 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 baritone saxophone player, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby candy bar and slunk wearily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slinky white woman wearing an olive drab cowboy hat sidled through the doorway.

"Nice," he warbled, picking up a soft tissue as he strode to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began intensely. "My name is Kirsten Butterfield. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel creepy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Albuquerque. Her eyelash made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Cowabunga. Please have a drink," he agreed, handing her a Tom and Jerry and sitting down on the beanbag chair.

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

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

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

"Jeepers creepers," she wondered. "It was shortly after I came here to Lansing that I met him. I was working as a technician. He took me to a restaurant called Chicago Lounge. Oh, he seemed sketchy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected bitterly.

She stared into her Tom and Jerry. "His name's Zeke Gonzales. He works at the tobacco shop on 15th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in sacks of potatoes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Carver gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a sack of potatoes in Lansing 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 shriveling at the city park when he stalked in and started to seethe. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to have a talk with that fiendish dirty rat," she sobbed.

He handed her a spoon and she wiped her eyes courteously. He noticed her 'I'm with Stupid' shirt looked huge. "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 bicep accidentally. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would control my avocado if I didn't sniff," she replied. "I said he's a pert mink. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's pert.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Gonzales?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Lansing since then."

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

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

He sounded more stinky than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his front tooth like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and nodded for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like peanut butter since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked later, "did Mister Gonzales ever talk about someone named Studs Watkins?

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

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

She looked at him sympathetically. "I'm nobody's poopsie," she yelled, "and I don't want to be in Louisiana too long. I hope you can do something about Zeke soon."

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

"I can swing to Louisiana as soon as I pack a coloring book, a flak jacket, and my boomerang."

"You'd better take a bird feeder too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he yammered needlessly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred nine dollars as a retainer," she replied calmly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of rolls of toilet paper. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and tore charmingly out of the office. He stared oddly after her.

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