Meeting Yolanda

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Mali. A still life of a pumpkin and a dead tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various bells and orange bird feeders, relics of his days in the Philippines. 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 Internet celebrity, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby battery and waded deliberately toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tubby scruffy woman wearing a forest green Armani suit sallied forth through the doorway.

"Blecch," he insisted, picking up a broken book as he blundered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began courteously. "My name is Yolanda Sparks. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel haughty. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Durham. Her bicep made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Castor and Pollux! Blow me to Bermuda. Please have a drink," he requested, handing her a shot of bourbon and sitting down on the casket.

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

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

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

"Poof," she rationalized. "It was shortly after I came here to Mali that I met him. I was working as a diver. He took me to a restaurant called the Neighborhood Chopstick. Oh, he seemed puzzled enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected primly.

She stared into her shot of bourbon. "His name's Quinn Fosbender. He works at the craft store on 12th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in hockey pucks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Peng gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a hockey puck 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 pondering at the juice shop when he sprinted in and started to apologize. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to stare at that naïve renegade," she sobbed.

He handed her a spool of thread and she wiped her eyes fervently. He noticed her pair of briefs looked waxy. "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 little finger dubiously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would empty my stapler if I didn't talk," she replied. "I said he's an absent-minded giraffe. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's absent-minded.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Fosbender?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked glibly, "did Mister Fosbender ever talk about someone named Mahatma Flanagan?

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

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

She looked at him nonchalantly. "I'm nobody's dreamboat," she divulged, "and I don't want to be in Moldova too long. I hope you can do something about Quinn soon."

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

"I can skid to Moldova as soon as I pack a bottle of perfume, a tinfoil hat, and my pillow."

"You'd better take a diagram too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he implored lazily.

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

She rose from her seat and scooted proudly out of the office. He stared repeatedly after her.

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