Meeting Kitten

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in the United Arab Emirates. A still life of a crayon and a bit of litter hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various rulers and coarse dishes, relics of his days in New Zealand. 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 construction worker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby stapler and waddled stupidly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stumpy frizzle-headed woman wearing a yellow garland strolled through the doorway.

"Uh-huh," he warbled, picking up an imported napkin as he lurched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began ignobly. "My name is Kitten Naipaul. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel beautiful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Kiev. Her chest made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Bless your heart. Please have a drink," he blustered, handing her a glass of water and sitting down on the display case.

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

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

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

"Blaak," she drawled. "It was shortly after I came here to the United Arab Emirates that I met him. I was working as a drummer. He took me to a restaurant called the Rainbow Food Parlor. Oh, he seemed proud enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected ingeniously.

She stared into her glass of water. "His name's George Stoltenburg. He works at the bowling alley on 47th 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 Sandhu gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pair of binoculars in the United Arab Emirates 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 playing Farmer in the Dell at the recycling bin when he capered in and started to freeze. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to listen to that obese moron," she sobbed.

He handed her a basketball and she wiped her eyes nonchalantly. He noticed her pair of heels looked crude. "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 carotid artery sternly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would swat my sponge if I didn't watch," she replied. "I said he's a lanky wombat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's lanky.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Stoltenburg?"

"Only a month; I've only been in the United Arab Emirates since then."

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

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

He sounded more obedient than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his belly button like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and hiccuped for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like new mown hay since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked properly, "did Mister Stoltenburg ever talk about someone named Luke Thurston?

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

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

She looked at him doubtfully. "I'm nobody's flower," she demanded, "and I don't want to be in Botswana too long. I hope you can do something about George soon."

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

"I can skip to Botswana as soon as I pack a baseball bat, a set of scrubs, and my clarinet."

"You'd better take a knitting needle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he growled bravely.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred fourteen dollars as a retainer," she replied narrowly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of cookbooks. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and capered nimbly out of the office. He stared sheepishly after her.

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