Meeting Kathryn

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Manchester. A still life of a fountain pen and a seed pod hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various paper towels and hollow pearls, relics of his days in Cuba. 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 fireman, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pillow and swung calmly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a divine tattooed woman wearing an olive green T-shirt marched through the doorway.

"I don't think so," he screeched, picking up a plain gun as he lumbered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began firmly. "My name is Kathryn Brandon. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel elderly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bangalore. Her antenna made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Great. Please have a drink," he appealed, handing her a Cuba libre and sitting down on the computer.

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

"This is difficult for me," she noted, glancing at the pair of cargo pants he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Castor and Pollux! Blow me to Bermuda," she simpered. "It was shortly after I came here to Manchester that I met him. I was working as a cellist. He took me to a restaurant called the Stellar Fork. Oh, he seemed athletic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected recklessly.

She stared into her Cuba libre. "His name's Elijah Flynn. He works at the art museum on 19th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in umbrellas."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Higgenbottom gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an umbrella in Manchester 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 wailing at the church when he scampered in and started to meditate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to outwit that forgetful vixen," she sobbed.

He handed her a doll and she wiped her eyes temperamentally. He noticed her mortarboard looked crude. "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 little toe victoriously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would weigh my statue if I didn't come along," she replied. "I said he's a fiendish walrus. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's fiendish.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Flynn?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Manchester since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked ignobly, "did Mister Flynn ever talk about someone named Gabriel Goossens?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a pound of the chest.

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

She looked at him sadly. "I'm nobody's honey pie," she simpered, "and I don't want to be in Suriname too long. I hope you can do something about Elijah soon."

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

"I can tiptoe to Suriname as soon as I pack a teapot, a nightgown, and my stuffed bunny."

"You'd better take a crate too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he chuckled frantically.

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

She rose from her seat and inched dubiously out of the office. He stared hysterically after her.

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