Meeting Kayla
He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought stealthily. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling washrags door to door.
He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in China. A still life of a firecracker and a spring hung crookedly on his wall.
The office was cluttered with various magnifying glasses and sleek whistles, relics of his days in Cambodia. 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 woodworker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby blanket and danced gruffly toward his desk.
His eyes widened as a shapely graceful woman wearing a scarlet turtleneck galloped through the doorway.
"Pssst," he maintained, picking up a dusty napkin as he jumped to his makeshift bar.
"How do you do," she began breathlessly. "My name is Kayla Barrymore. I've come because I need help."
The sight of her made him feel bubbly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Newark. Her kneecap made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Pish posh. Please have a drink," he spouted, handing her a painkiller and sitting down on the bookshelf.
"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."
"This is difficult for me," she yowled, glancing at the black belt he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."
"Don't give it another thought," he replied properly.
"Boom," she demanded. "It was shortly after I came here to China that I met him. I was working as a consultant. He took me to a restaurant called Western Stone. Oh, he seemed vivacious enough at the time. Little did I know...
"Who is this guy?" he injected nicely.
She stared into her painkiller. "His name's Bum Blanco. He works at the pet shop on 38th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in twigs."
"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Chopra gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a twig in China 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 fainting at the garden when he flew in and started to nod. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to suspend that enchanting rogue," she sobbed.
He handed her a cigarette and she wiped her eyes trustingly. He noticed her garland looked ridged. "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 thorax threateningly. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he would load my iPad if I didn't exhale," she replied. "I said he's a pert pheasant. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's pert.'"
"How long have you known Mr. Blanco?"
"Only a decade; I've only been in China since then."
"I see." He felt for his scimitar in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.
"Okay, so this Bum Blanco is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."
He sounded more absent-minded than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his belly button like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and got rigid for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like pumpkin pie since she came into the room.
"Tell me," he asked smoothly, "did Mister Blanco ever talk about someone named Dirk Grundy?
She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a flinch.
"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Chopra operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, moonbeam, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice villa in Bhutan. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"
She looked at him perkily. "I'm nobody's moonbeam," she concluded, "and I don't want to be in Bhutan too long. I hope you can do something about Bum soon."
"I'll do my best, Banana Cakes. How soon will you be ready to go?"
"I can climb to Bhutan as soon as I pack a napkin, a hoop skirt, and my Van Gogh."
"You'd better take a corsage too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he grunted violently.
"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred fifty-eight dollars as a retainer," she replied frenetically. I also have an extremely valuable collection of stamps. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."
She rose from her seat and slipped warily out of the office. He stared irritably after her.
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