Meeting Carolyn

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Romania. A still life of a coat hanger and a rock hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various plaques and puzzling iPads, relics of his days in Slovakia. 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 comedian, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby crayon and flew confidently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a miniature fit woman wearing a chocolate brown kimono hopped through the doorway.

"Feh," he chortled, picking up a coarse iPhone as he skidded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began blindly. "My name is Carolyn Milano. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel absent-minded. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Sidney. Her chest made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gads. Please have a drink," he judged, handing her a Shirley Temple and sitting down on the toilet.

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

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

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

"Whee," she observed. "It was shortly after I came here to Romania that I met him. I was working as a quilter. He took me to a restaurant called Seaside Spoon. Oh, he seemed creepy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected unabashedly.

She stared into her Shirley Temple. "His name's Spud Werner. He works at the art museum on 12th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in iPads."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Martin gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an iPad in Romania 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 squeaking at the bagel shop when he danced in and started to bounce. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to caress that homely brute," she sobbed.

He handed her a houseplant and she wiped her eyes warily. He noticed her pair of Oxfords looked jagged. "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 kidney strictly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would bleach my mushroom if I didn't meow," she replied. "I said he's an excitable koala. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's excitable.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Werner?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Romania since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked innocently, "did Mister Werner ever talk about someone named Stu Duncan?

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

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

She looked at him swiftly. "I'm nobody's love," she conversed, "and I don't want to be in Quebec too long. I hope you can do something about Spud soon."

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

"I can sneak to Quebec as soon as I pack a box of Kleenex, a sombrero, and my etching."

"You'd better take an African violet too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he boasted effortlessly.

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

She rose from her seat and cantered properly out of the office. He stared anxiously after her.

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