Meeting Alisa

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Paraguay. A still life of a billfold and a fern hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various microphones and ragged hair brushes, relics of his days in Cambodia. 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 fisherman, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby fingernail clipper and blundered elatedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a chubby large woman wearing a silver smartwatch strolled through the doorway.

"Retch," he rambled, picking up a frilly camera as he bounded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began suddenly. "My name is Alisa Schibbel. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel miniscule. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Huntsville. Her rib made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Eureka. Please have a drink," he begged, handing her an Irish Coffee and sitting down on the catbird seat.

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

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

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

"Yoohoo," she mouthed. "It was shortly after I came here to Paraguay that I met him. I was working as a street sweeper. He took me to a restaurant called the Great Cuisine. Oh, he seemed dismal enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected wearily.

She stared into her Irish Coffee. "His name's White Cloud Ivanov. He works at the Starbucks on 48th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in tops."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Kaiser gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a top in Paraguay 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 playing at the senior citizens center when he set out in and started to squint. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to yell at that stinky wastrel," she sobbed.

He handed her a bouquet and she wiped her eyes energetically. He noticed her smartwatch looked stolen. "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 aorta pityingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would experience my coat check ticket if I didn't come to," she replied. "I said he's a hairy bandicoot. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's hairy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ivanov?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked speedily, "did Mister Ivanov ever talk about someone named Shawn Vigil?

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

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

She looked at him mysteriously. "I'm nobody's friend," she rationalized, "and I don't want to be in Moscow too long. I hope you can do something about White Cloud soon."

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

"I can skip to Moscow as soon as I pack a business card, a pair of culottes, and my paperclip."

"You'd better take a package too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he noted miserably.

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

She rose from her seat and whirled ingeniously out of the office. He stared sadly after her.

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