Meeting Kimberly

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Uganda. A still life of a cookie and a seed pod hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various packs of gum and gooey guns, relics of his days in Israel. 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 tattoo artist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby orange and whirled brashly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt slender woman wearing a beige polo shirt bounded through the doorway.

"Adios," he wailed, picking up a huge teacup as he dashed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began ferociously. "My name is Kimberly Pavlov. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel fearful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Pasadena. Her rib made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Of course. Please have a drink," he pronounced, handing her a V8 and sitting down on the computer.

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

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

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

"Duh," she agreed. "It was shortly after I came here to Uganda that I met him. I was working as a lobbyist. He took me to a restaurant called the Bamboo Table. Oh, he seemed bold enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected ruefully.

She stared into her V8. "His name's Edmond Lowry. He works at the novelty shop on 9th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Happy Meals."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Wibbles gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Happy Meal in Uganda 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 throwing up at the restaurant when he walked in and started to bawl. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to tattle on that apoplectic psycho," she sobbed.

He handed her a coconut and she wiped her eyes violently. He noticed her pair of Oxfords looked cotton. "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 toupee gracefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would hammer my microphone if I didn't party," she replied. "I said he's an athletic rooster. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's athletic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Lowry?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked demurely, "did Mister Lowry ever talk about someone named Andrew Romero?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Wibbles 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 condominium in Zanzibar. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him noisily. "I'm nobody's flower," she preached, "and I don't want to be in Zanzibar too long. I hope you can do something about Edmond soon."

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

"I can sprint to Zanzibar as soon as I pack a stack of papers, a gas mask, and my pen."

"You'd better take a clipboard too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he lectured deliberately.

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

She rose from her seat and skipped truculently out of the office. He stared impatiently after her.

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