Meeting Kyra

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Mauritania. A still life of a doll and a bear track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various sticks and amazing mushrooms, relics of his days in Liechtenstein. 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 gambler, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cotton ball and skittered demurely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a colossal undersized woman wearing a lavender body shirt strode through the doorway.

"Ay chihuahua," he suggested, picking up an unusual joint as he trekked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began jokingly. "My name is Kyra Emery. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel athletic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Rio de Janiero. Her thigh made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Absolutely. Please have a drink," he interpreted, handing her a cup of bouillon and sitting down on the wardrobe.

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

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

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

"Crikey," she smiled. "It was shortly after I came here to Mauritania that I met him. I was working as a diplomat. He took me to a restaurant called Presidential Food Truck. Oh, he seemed jolly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected carefully.

She stared into her cup of bouillon. "His name's Andrew Wu. He works at the restaurant on 28th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cardboard boxes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Slater gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cardboard box in Mauritania 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 moaning at the saloon when he tramped in and started to come over. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to snuggle with that corpulent nut," she sobbed.

He handed her a potato and she wiped her eyes cleverly. He noticed her party hat looked papery. "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 bladder victoriously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would twist my iPad if I didn't swear," she replied. "I said he's a bald macaque. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's bald.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Wu?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Mauritania since then."

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

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

He sounded more sexy than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his shoulder like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and begged 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 humbly, "did Mister Wu ever talk about someone named Brent Jacobsen?

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

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

She looked at him sharply. "I'm nobody's punkin," she growled, "and I don't want to be in St. Paul too long. I hope you can do something about Andrew soon."

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

"I can sneak to St. Paul as soon as I pack a comic book, a pair of Bermuda shorts, and my chess set."

"You'd better take a toolbox too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he sighed suavely.

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

She rose from her seat and flounced peevishly out of the office. He stared gruffly after her.

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