Meeting Krista

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Kyrgyzstan. A still life of a calling card and a wildflower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bowls and excellent tops, relics of his days in Iraq. 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 bar owner, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby spoon and trotted gratefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lanky elegant woman wearing a metallic red pair of moccasins galloped through the doorway.

"Puppy biscuits," he hissed, picking up a cotton roll of duct tape as he sidled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sagely. "My name is Krista Franz. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel dumb. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Stockholm. Her piehole made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Durn it. Please have a drink," he groveled, handing her a Bud Lite and sitting down on the ping-pong table.

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

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

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

"Criminy," she squealed. "It was shortly after I came here to Kyrgyzstan that I met him. I was working as a computer geek. He took me to a restaurant called Double Counter. Oh, he seemed dowdy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected brashly.

She stared into her Bud Lite. "His name's Abe Yastremski. He works at the pizza joint on 10th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in flashlights."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Lombardi gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a flashlight in Kyrgyzstan 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 resting at the bookstore when he scooted in and started to talk. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to reeducate that excitable hack," she sobbed.

He handed her a cookbook and she wiped her eyes hungrily. He noticed her pair of earmuffs looked nice. "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 wig bitterly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would load my bag of potato chips if I didn't chant," she replied. "I said he's a tactful crocodile. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's tactful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Yastremski?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked pitifully, "did Mister Yastremski ever talk about someone named Rosario Loring?

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

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

She looked at him wryly. "I'm nobody's homie," she raved, "and I don't want to be in Hong Kong too long. I hope you can do something about Abe soon."

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

"I can set out to Hong Kong as soon as I pack a rag, a hoodie, and my bird feeder."

"You'd better take a campaign sign too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he orated humbly.

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

She rose from her seat and bounded viciously out of the office. He stared viciously after her.

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