Meeting Heather

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 buckets door to door.

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Nairobi. A still life of a bucket and a raspberry bush hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various wrenches and handy stuffed owls, relics of his days in Kuwait. 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 entrepeneur, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby candy bar and waltzed grudgingly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a haggard alert woman wearing a tan uniform strolled through the doorway.

"Ahem," he spoke up, picking up a gigantic corncob as he staggered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sorrowfully. "My name is Heather Justice. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel frightened. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Saint Louis. Her thorax made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Peachy-keen. Please have a drink," he commented, handing her a chamomile tea and sitting down on the bunk bed.

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

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

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

"Wowsers," she piped up. "It was shortly after I came here to Nairobi that I met him. I was working as an investment banker. He took me to a restaurant called London Greasy Spoon. Oh, he seemed cunning enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sourly.

She stared into her chamomile tea. "His name's Eric Peng. He works at the gift shop on 18th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in oranges."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Akiyama gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an orange in Nairobi 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 wincing at the saloon when he lumbered in and started to sway. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to aggravate that menacing cretin," she sobbed.

He handed her a spool of thread and she wiped her eyes ignobly. He noticed her poncho looked imitation. "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 rib nicely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would hit my cream puff if I didn't rock," she replied. "I said he's a muscular tapeworm. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's muscular.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Peng?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Nairobi since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked menacingly, "did Mister Peng ever talk about someone named Kent Kulpinski?

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

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

She looked at him crazily. "I'm nobody's apple of my eye," she grunted, "and I don't want to be in Illinois too long. I hope you can do something about Eric soon."

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

"I can jog to Illinois as soon as I pack a paperweight, a coat, and my paper bag."

"You'd better take a piece of candy too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he mouthed later.

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

She rose from her seat and jogged courageously out of the office. He stared effortlessly after her.

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