Meeting Kaylee

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in England. A still life of a chart and a piece of bark hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various bilge pumps and hefty hockey pucks, relics of his days in Panama. 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 ice skater, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby daisy and tramped briskly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a fat bedraggled woman wearing a jade pair of briefs strode through the doorway.

"Egad," he drawled, picking up a bent tube of glue as he slipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began hastily. "My name is Kaylee Plunkett. 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 Fairbanks. Her thumb made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Quick. Please have a drink," he croaked, handing her a glass of grape juice and sitting down on the end table.

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

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

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

"Hey," she barked. "It was shortly after I came here to England that I met him. I was working as an emergency medical technician. He took me to a restaurant called the Magic Saloon. Oh, he seemed hungry enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected crazily.

She stared into her glass of grape juice. "His name's Reginald Ferrari. He works at the police station on 10th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in magazines."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bluestein gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a magazine in England 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 looking puzzled at the ski resort when he swung in and started to ruminate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to train that fascinating snitch," she sobbed.

He handed her a pizza and she wiped her eyes firmly. He noticed her set of scrubs looked rough. "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 horn deliberately. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would flush my purse if I didn't stare into space," she replied. "I said he's a difficult duck-billed platypus. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's difficult.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ferrari?"

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

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

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

He sounded more playful 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 burbled for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like orange blossoms since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked warily, "did Mister Ferrari ever talk about someone named Rumpelstiltskin Gilmore?

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

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

She looked at him suddenly. "I'm nobody's beefcake," she retorted, "and I don't want to be in Antarctica too long. I hope you can do something about Reginald soon."

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

"I can struggle to Antarctica as soon as I pack a candy cane, a ponytail, and my coin."

"You'd better take a hair dryer too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he fumed tensely.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's twenty-two dollars as a retainer," she replied humbly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of skulls. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and flew softly out of the office. He stared obediently after her.

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