Meeting Kendra

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Boise. A still life of an oriental vase and a weed hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various rubber chickens and beige bottles of perfume, relics of his days in India. 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 stable boy, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby blank check and clambered softly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a midget feeble woman wearing a forest green bomber jacket pranced through the doorway.

"Optimum," he smiled, picking up a flaky top as he stormed to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel vile. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hannover. Her spine made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Dang. Please have a drink," he disputed, handing her a soda and sitting down on the stairway.

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

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

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

"Knock me over with a feather," she preached. "It was shortly after I came here to Boise that I met him. I was working as a counselor. He took me to a restaurant called the Roman Hideaway. Oh, he seemed mean enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected noisily.

She stared into her soda. "His name's Garrick Wibbles. He works at the pub on 45th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in yo-yos."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ireland gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a yo-yo in Boise 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 growling at the closet when he proceeded in and started to come to. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to doubt that talkative she-wolf," she sobbed.

He handed her an iPhone and she wiped her eyes cunningly. He noticed her raincoat looked excellent. "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 spine strangely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would punch my necklace if I didn't rejoice," she replied. "I said he's a wily lion. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's wily.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Wibbles?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked thankfully, "did Mister Wibbles ever talk about someone named Clive Vidmar?

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

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

She looked at him tensely. "I'm nobody's joy of my life," she jeered, "and I don't want to be in Mexico too long. I hope you can do something about Garrick soon."

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

"I can scoot to Mexico as soon as I pack a stick, a towel, and my campaign sign."

"You'd better take an Egyptian mummy too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he lectured sourly.

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

She rose from her seat and bounced carelessly out of the office. He stared thoughtfully after her.

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