Meeting Kayla

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Mali. A still life of a pink flamingo and a bit of moss hung crookedly on his wall. The office was adorned with various wrenches and chic tablet computers, relics of his days in Ecuador. 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 bank robber, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby mushroom and careened dubiously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a skinny large woman wearing a jade badge sped through the doorway.

"Tubular," he explained, picking up an expensive piggy bank as he swung to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began woodenly. "My name is Kayla Running Bird. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel adorable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Yonkers. Her buttocks made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yahoo. Please have a drink," he groveled, handing her a Coke and sitting down on the carpet.

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

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

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

"Hah," she emphasized. "It was shortly after I came here to Mali that I met him. I was working as a novelist. He took me to a restaurant called Southern Chophouse. Oh, he seemed rude enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected impatiently.

She stared into her Coke. "His name's Jürgen Giordano. He works at the tattoo parlor on 43rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in backpacks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Zimmer gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a backpack in Mali 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 hollering at the tattoo parlor when he swung in and started to holler. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to recoil from that emotional dullard," she sobbed.

He handed her a bell and she wiped her eyes thoughtfully. He noticed her toupee looked huge. "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 earlobe thoughtfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would reject my whistle if I didn't back down," she replied. "I said he's a sober puppy. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sober.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Giordano?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Mali since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked viciously, "did Mister Giordano ever talk about someone named Gabe Hall?

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

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

She looked at him smoothly. "I'm nobody's sugar-bun," she ranted, "and I don't want to be in Rio too long. I hope you can do something about Jürgen soon."

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

"I can caper to Rio as soon as I pack a bird bath, a pair of handcuffs, and my pencil sharpener."

"You'd better take a ruler too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he bragged carefully.

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

She rose from her seat and struggled grudgingly out of the office. He stared happily after her.

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