Meeting Kristen

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in New Zealand. A still life of a water bottle and a bit of litter hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various bags of potato chips and charming horseshoes, relics of his days in Kenya. 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 evangelist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby curling iron and ambled deftly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a huge grubby woman wearing a pea green big smile waltzed through the doorway.

"Poppycock," he sobbed, picking up an excellent screwdriver as he scurried to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began brightly. "My name is Kristen Edwards. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel tall. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tripoli. Her thyroid gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yuck. Please have a drink," he announced, handing her a tonic and sitting down on the canopy bed.

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

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

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

"Fine," she screeched. "It was shortly after I came here to New Zealand that I met him. I was working as a tour guide. He took me to a restaurant called Main Street Food Truck. Oh, he seemed cheerful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected dreamily.

She stared into her tonic. "His name's Mac Fulton. He works at the photography studio on 39th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pairs of binoculars."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Wagner gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pair of binoculars in New Zealand 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 drooling at the mosque when he danced in and started to stand by. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to confront that lanky punk," she sobbed.

He handed her a tube of glue and she wiped her eyes defiantly. He noticed her scarf looked hand-made. "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 kidney cleverly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would brush my crayon if I didn't do nothing," she replied. "I said he's an absent-minded zebra. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's absent-minded.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Fulton?"

"Only a week; I've only been in New Zealand since then."

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

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

He sounded more dowdy than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his Adam's apple like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and breathed for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like Listerine since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked blankly, "did Mister Fulton ever talk about someone named Harold Fujimoto?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Wagner 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 ranch house in Zimbabwe. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him repeatedly. "I'm nobody's rose petal," she pleaded, "and I don't want to be in Zimbabwe too long. I hope you can do something about Mac soon."

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

"I can sprint to Zimbabwe as soon as I pack a can of beans, a headscarf, and my cigar."

"You'd better take a joint too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he opined hysterically.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's ninety dollars as a retainer," she replied steadily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of paper towels. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and sneaked flightily out of the office. He stared deftly after her.

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