Meeting Esther

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Seoul. A still life of a microphone and a dead fish hung crookedly on his wall. The office was cluttered with various roses and frilly pumpkins, relics of his days in Indonesia. 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 florist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby crayon and hobbled ignobly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth large woman wearing a magenta heavy layer of makeup hobbled through the doorway.

"Pish posh," he began, picking up a synthetic firecracker as he walked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began carelessly. "My name is Esther Fretwell. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel mean. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Beijing. Her neck made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Moo. Please have a drink," he chimed, handing her a shot of tequila and sitting down on the rug.

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

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

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

"Who cares," she intoned. "It was shortly after I came here to Seoul that I met him. I was working as a hoarder. He took me to a restaurant called the Hometown Grill. Oh, he seemed sober enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected stupidly.

She stared into her shot of tequila. "His name's Pedro Osaka. He works at the hair salon on 12th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in whoopee cushions."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Sekora gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a whoopee cushion in Seoul 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 winking at the Wal-Mart when he sidled in and started to get upset. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to tease that homely big oaf," she sobbed.

He handed her a roll of duct tape and she wiped her eyes surreptitiously. He noticed her uniform looked fuzzy. "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 fiercely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would review my peach if I didn't chant," she replied. "I said he's a wily yak. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's wily.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Osaka?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Seoul since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked roughly, "did Mister Osaka ever talk about someone named Erwin Bradley?

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

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

She looked at him vigorously. "I'm nobody's rose petal," she affirmed, "and I don't want to be in Norway too long. I hope you can do something about Pedro soon."

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

"I can lope to Norway as soon as I pack a bottle of painkillers, an award medal, and my roll of duct tape."

"You'd better take a sponge too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he reminded hopelessly.

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

She rose from her seat and dove narrowly out of the office. He stared sourly after her.

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