Meeting Olive

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Arkansas. A still life of a crayon and an egg shell hung crookedly on his wall. The office was cluttered with various purses and gruesome tablet computers, relics of his days in Chile. 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 civil engineer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby stick of gum and scooted shyly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slight athletic woman wearing a lime-green pair of pantaloons darted through the doorway.

"Cripes," he shrieked, picking up a thick bagpipe as he skittered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began roughly. "My name is Olive Evans. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel atrocious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Fremont. Her shoulder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Alrighty-roo. Please have a drink," he grieved, handing her a tequila sunrise and sitting down on the display case.

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

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

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

"Gotta love it," she quavered. "It was shortly after I came here to Arkansas that I met him. I was working as a waiter. He took me to a restaurant called Western Sky. Oh, he seemed lively enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected again.

She stared into her tequila sunrise. "His name's Newton Bunyan. He works at the haberdashery on 42nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in smart phones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Rivera gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a smart phone in Arkansas 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 getting sleepy at the senior citizens center when he strolled in and started to itch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to dismay that self-confident dope fiend," she sobbed.

He handed her a bird feeder and she wiped her eyes bitterly. He noticed her 'I'm with Stupid' shirt looked aromatic. "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 carotid artery daintily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would brandish my ashtray if I didn't come over," she replied. "I said he's a dark mouse. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's dark.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bunyan?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Arkansas 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 Newton Bunyan is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

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

"Tell me," he asked ignobly, "did Mister Bunyan ever talk about someone named Vance Nguyen?

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

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

She looked at him admiringly. "I'm nobody's pipkin," she harangued, "and I don't want to be in Mozambique too long. I hope you can do something about Newton soon."

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

"I can creep to Mozambique as soon as I pack a cork, a bustier, and my contract."

"You'd better take a flash drive too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he purred fiercely.

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

She rose from her seat and staggered ruefully out of the office. He stared reluctantly after her.

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