Meeting Evette

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Greensboro. A still life of a stick and a bear track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various cans of beans and coarse pairs of headphones, relics of his days in Bahrain. 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 mystic, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby piece of paper and sallied forth obediently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly pallid woman wearing an ivory shawl bounced through the doorway.

"Like, totally," he purred, picking up a gooey rubber stamp as he galloped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began fiercely. "My name is Evette Cheng. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel pesky. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Macon. Her shoulder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Out of this world. Please have a drink," he chimed, handing her a sarsaparilla and sitting down on the workbench.

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

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

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

"Oh please," she articulated. "It was shortly after I came here to Greensboro that I met him. I was working as a preacher. He took me to a restaurant called Bountiful Pig. Oh, he seemed blubbery enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected coolly.

She stared into her sarsaparilla. "His name's Stan Orman. He works at the tattoo parlor on 4th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in corks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Wang gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cork in Greensboro 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 rigid at the health food store when he staggered in and started to chant. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to love that thoughtful pervert," she sobbed.

He handed her a paperweight and she wiped her eyes glumly. He noticed her sport coat looked modern. "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 dignity excitedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would decorate my pot if I didn't glare," she replied. "I said he's a creepy crow. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's creepy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Orman?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Greensboro 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 Stan Orman is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

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

"Tell me," he asked gracefully, "did Mister Orman ever talk about someone named Oliver Zhu?

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

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

She looked at him peevishly. "I'm nobody's little one," she announced, "and I don't want to be in Mozambique too long. I hope you can do something about Stan soon."

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

"I can pad to Mozambique as soon as I pack a feather, a sweatshirt, and my crutch."

"You'd better take a yardstick too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he sputtered daintily.

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

She rose from her seat and sprinted gruffly out of the office. He stared timidly after her.

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