Meeting Kim

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Newark. A still life of a basketball and a pine cone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various notepads and bronze stacks of papers, relics of his days in Liechtenstein. 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 microbiologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby diagram and rolled pitifully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slender redheaded woman wearing a yellow suit of armor leapt through the doorway.

"Golly," he laughed, picking up a hard avocado as he bounced to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began truculently. "My name is Kim Sims. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel rugged. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Panama City. Her toe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ay chihuahua. Please have a drink," he realized, handing her a glass of champagne and sitting down on the ping-pong table.

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

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

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

"Marvelous," she amended. "It was shortly after I came here to Newark that I met him. I was working as a sword swallower. He took me to a restaurant called the Fragrant Wok. Oh, he seemed blubbery enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected strangely.

She stared into her glass of champagne. "His name's Jeff Goldberg. He works at the hair salon on 3rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Egyptian mummies."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cox gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an Egyptian mummy in Newark 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 rock concert when he stormed in and started to show up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to pick that gentle lackwit," she sobbed.

He handed her a pacifier and she wiped her eyes viciously. He noticed her badge looked striped. "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 shin glumly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would shake my fish bowl if I didn't yawn," she replied. "I said he's a cute buzzard. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's cute.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Goldberg?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Newark 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 Jeff Goldberg is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

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

"Tell me," he asked haughtily, "did Mister Goldberg ever talk about someone named Greg Cohen?

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

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

She looked at him sagely. "I'm nobody's sweet pea," she clarified, "and I don't want to be in St. Paul too long. I hope you can do something about Jeff soon."

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

"I can slip to St. Paul as soon as I pack a can of shaving cream, a pair of pajamas, and my piece of chalk."

"You'd better take a computer too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he provoked trustingly.

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

She rose from her seat and zipped jokingly out of the office. He stared uselessly after her.

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