Meeting Avery

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Romania. A still life of a grease gun and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various trash cans and speckled etchings, relics of his days in Zambia. 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 valet, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cream puff and sprinted flightily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a haggard pale woman wearing a terra cotta blouse swaggered through the doorway.

"Very interesting," he queried, picking up an aromatic pot as he scooted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began quietly. "My name is Avery Yoshida. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel impish. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Gilbert. Her skin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Brrr. Please have a drink," he worried, handing her a tonic and sitting down on the bunk bed.

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

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

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

"Shoo," she thought. "It was shortly after I came here to Romania that I met him. I was working as a rabble rouser. He took me to a restaurant called Double Sea. Oh, he seemed cautious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected immediately.

She stared into her tonic. "His name's Paul McGraw. He works at the grocery store on 21st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in books."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Jacobsen gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a book in Romania 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 fainting at the Seven-Eleven when he jumped in and started to step aside. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to kick that sassy birdbrain," she sobbed.

He handed her a flowerpot and she wiped her eyes joyously. He noticed her gladiator helmet looked synthetic. "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 head dubiously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would select my pencil if I didn't blink," she replied. "I said he's an exuberant Guinea pig. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's exuberant.'"

"How long have you known Mr. McGraw?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Romania since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked solemnly, "did Mister McGraw ever talk about someone named Thad Beach?

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

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

She looked at him oddly. "I'm nobody's honey-bunny," she divulged, "and I don't want to be in Sweden too long. I hope you can do something about Paul soon."

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

"I can whirl to Sweden as soon as I pack a mousetrap, a pair of contact lenses, and my coin."

"You'd better take a cream puff too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he guessed nicely.

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

She rose from her seat and clambered brashly out of the office. He stared cunningly after her.

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