Meeting Cheryl

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Kansas. A still life of a button and a mushroom hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various candles and primitive cans of beans, relics of his days in Algeria. 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 graphic designer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby necklace and stormed craftily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lanky white woman wearing a chocolate brown Armani suit marched through the doorway.

"Grrrrr," he piped up, picking up a gleaming painting as he bolted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began positively. "My name is Cheryl Sartre. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sassy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Rio de Janeiro. Her pancreas made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Eureka. Please have a drink," he indicated, handing her a Cuba libre and sitting down on the coffee table.

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

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

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

"Anyhow," she simpered. "It was shortly after I came here to Kansas that I met him. I was working as a manager. He took me to a restaurant called the Copper Cafe. Oh, he seemed contented enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected brashly.

She stared into her Cuba libre. "His name's Abe Kuma. He works at the pet shop on 47th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in crutches."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Comstad gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a crutch in Kansas 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 begging at the library when he bounded in and started to yell. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to operate on that undignified hellhound," she sobbed.

He handed her a model airplane and she wiped her eyes hysterically. He noticed her sombrero looked grubby. "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 horn kindly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would smear my dollar bill if I didn't chatter," she replied. "I said he's a noxious dragon. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's noxious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Kuma?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Kansas since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked ignobly, "did Mister Kuma ever talk about someone named Brandon Madison?

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

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

She looked at him lightly. "I'm nobody's little one," she sneered, "and I don't want to be in Burbank too long. I hope you can do something about Abe soon."

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

"I can slink to Burbank as soon as I pack a rubber stamp, a pair of boxing gloves, and my hubcap."

"You'd better take a flyswatter too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he yawned sleepily.

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

She rose from her seat and sauntered suddenly out of the office. He stared lazily after her.

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