Meeting Olga

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

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

The office was adorned with various crayons and automatic knitting needles, relics of his days in Iran. 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 chief of police, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby hacksaw and scampered ingeniously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied dashing woman wearing an orange heavy layer of makeup breezed through the doorway.

"Big deal," he said, picking up a miniature stuffed bunny as he capered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gracefully. "My name is Olga Gray. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel radiant. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Seattle. Her appendix made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Shazam. Please have a drink," he intoned, handing her a Jack Daniel's and sitting down on the buffet.

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

"This is difficult for me," she drawled, glancing at the pair of contact lenses he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Harrumph," she grieved. "It was shortly after I came here to Somalia that I met him. I was working as a beekeeper. He took me to a restaurant called the Yellow Tiger. Oh, he seemed eccentric enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected menacingly.

She stared into her Jack Daniel's. "His name's Jacob Kim. He works at the cigar store on 18th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in brochures."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Orwell gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a brochure in Somalia 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 lying down at the Elvis chapel when he flounced in and started to sleep. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to call the cops on that bad simpleton," she sobbed.

He handed her a shovel and she wiped her eyes carefully. He noticed her rain coat looked porcelain. "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 back automatically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would inspect my piano if I didn't blank out," she replied. "I said he's a dismal pheasant. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's dismal.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Kim?"

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

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

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

He sounded more enthusiastic 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 chortled for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like a chocolate factory since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked ruefully, "did Mister Kim ever talk about someone named Roman Gill?

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

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

She looked at him awkwardly. "I'm nobody's petunia," she mused, "and I don't want to be in Ivory Coast too long. I hope you can do something about Jacob soon."

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

"I can slip to Ivory Coast as soon as I pack a mushroom, a parka, and my billfold."

"You'd better take a piece of chalk too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he asserted nicely.

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

She rose from her seat and sallied forth silently out of the office. He stared viciously after her.

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