Meeting Karla

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Vatican City. A still life of a soccer ball and a cactus hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various ashtrays and unusual dolls, relics of his days in China. 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 ditch digger, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby ice cream cone and waddled reluctantly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a bony delicate woman wearing a yellow beanie pranced through the doorway.

"Aye," he purred, picking up a cheap saddle as he swaggered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began dolefully. "My name is Karla Marsden. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sinister. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Las Vegas. Her knee made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Phew. Please have a drink," he lamented, handing her a Seven and Seven and sitting down on the pool table.

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

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

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

"Okay," she babbled. "It was shortly after I came here to Vatican City that I met him. I was working as a wallpaper hanger. He took me to a restaurant called Fireside Cafe. Oh, he seemed depraved enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sharply.

She stared into her Seven and Seven. "His name's Harold Gore. He works at the boutique on 5th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in biscuits."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Romano gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a biscuit in Vatican City 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 grunting at the school cafeteria when he zoomed in and started to chant. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to study that coy wastrel," she sobbed.

He handed her a clarinet and she wiped her eyes cleverly. He noticed her coonskin hat looked shiny. "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 toe hopefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would toss my ice cream cone if I didn't slobber," she replied. "I said he's a cowardly elephant. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's cowardly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Gore?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Vatican City since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked viciously, "did Mister Gore ever talk about someone named Beelzebub Hogan?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Romano operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, shmoopsie-poo, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice yurt in Santa Fe. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him queerly. "I'm nobody's shmoopsie-poo," she exploded, "and I don't want to be in Santa Fe too long. I hope you can do something about Harold soon."

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

"I can crawl to Santa Fe as soon as I pack a brochure, an evening gown, and my hacksaw."

"You'd better take a joint too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he articulated queerly.

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

She rose from her seat and galumphed reluctantly out of the office. He stared gleefully after her.

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