Meeting Kendra

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in South Carolina. A still life of an etching and a rock hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various cookies and cheap microphones, relics of his days in Cameroon. 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 ice skater, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby can of shaving cream and tiptoed fiercely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stout massive woman wearing a chartreuse cloak leapt through the doorway.

"Doggone," he pronounced, picking up a funny chain as he padded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began lovingly. "My name is Kendra Whitlock. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel artistic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Oslo. Her tooth made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Unreal. Please have a drink," he wept, handing her a cup of tea and sitting down on the bookcase.

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

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

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

"Gadzooks and crapadoodle," she imitated. "It was shortly after I came here to South Carolina that I met him. I was working as a folk singer. He took me to a restaurant called the Rainbow Bistro. Oh, he seemed brassy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected softly.

She stared into her cup of tea. "His name's Aristotle Winger. He works at the supermarket on 9th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paper towels."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ecklund gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a paper towel in South Carolina 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 yelping at the tattoo parlor when he climbed in and started to peep. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to malign that somber pansy," she sobbed.

He handed her a wrench and she wiped her eyes intensely. He noticed her dunce cap looked narrow. "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 hand diligently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would get my necklace if I didn't doodle," she replied. "I said he's an irate panther. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's irate.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Winger?"

"Only a year; I've only been in South Carolina 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 Aristotle Winger is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

He sounded more eccentric than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his little finger like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and took a bath for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like a bakery since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked needlessly, "did Mister Winger ever talk about someone named Ian Sagan?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Ecklund 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 cardboard box in England. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him surreptitiously. "I'm nobody's poopsie," she announced, "and I don't want to be in England too long. I hope you can do something about Aristotle soon."

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

"I can slink to England as soon as I pack a curling iron, a pair of sweatpants, and my cage."

"You'd better take a cracker too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he interrupted warmly.

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

She rose from her seat and zoomed stupidly out of the office. He stared obediently after her.

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