Meeting Candi

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Kenya. A still life of a rose and a fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pictures and nifty cactus plants, relics of his days in Peru. 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 convenience store clerk, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby billiard ball and crawled busily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied spry woman wearing an emerald green sombrero barrelled through the doorway.

"Sieg Heil," he affirmed, picking up a charming tube of toothpaste as he ambled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began fiercely. "My name is Candi Parker. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel unselfish. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Thornton. Her shoulder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Praise the Lord. Please have a drink," he sobbed, handing her a Tom and Jerry and sitting down on the bunk bed.

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

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

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

"Tarnation," she grieved. "It was shortly after I came here to Kenya that I met him. I was working as an organist. He took me to a restaurant called the Silk Den. Oh, he seemed weary enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected carefully.

She stared into her Tom and Jerry. "His name's Sam Hoffa. He works at the coffee shop on 39th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in wrenches."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Briggs gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a wrench in Kenya 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 vomiting at the school cafeteria when he padded in and started to snort. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to scratch that attractive weenie," she sobbed.

He handed her a bottle and she wiped her eyes curiously. He noticed her cardigan looked big. "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 wig peevishly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would box my pen if I didn't mutter," she replied. "I said he's a coy goldfish. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's coy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hoffa?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Kenya since then."

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

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

He sounded more high-strung than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his Achilles tendon like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and curtseyed for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like a barnyard since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked carelessly, "did Mister Hoffa ever talk about someone named Butch Dubois?

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

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

She looked at him lickety-split. "I'm nobody's shmoopsie-poo," she hollered, "and I don't want to be in Algiers too long. I hope you can do something about Sam soon."

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

"I can scurry to Algiers as soon as I pack a bag, a ski mask, and my picture."

"You'd better take a package too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he rumored sweetly.

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

She rose from her seat and went peevishly out of the office. He stared fervently after her.

Next Chapter