Meeting Christine

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Macedonia. A still life of a rose and a bird's nest hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pearls and cheap stones, relics of his days in Jamaica. 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 dancer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bat and clambered charmingly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a thin lean woman wearing a fuchsia scarf pranced through the doorway.

"Oh my word," he swore, picking up a charming pair of binoculars as he dashed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began hopelessly. "My name is Christine Moreland. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel poised. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Colorado Springs. Her esophagus made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Knock me over with a feather. Please have a drink," he hollered, handing her a glass of water and sitting down on the bed.

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

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

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

"Hmm," she moaned. "It was shortly after I came here to Macedonia that I met him. I was working as a mystic. He took me to a restaurant called Parisian Food Truck. Oh, he seemed bilious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected briskly.

She stared into her glass of water. "His name's Fabien Vogel. He works at the liquor store on 23rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stacks of papers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Walla gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stack of papers in Macedonia 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 laughing at the Seven-Eleven when he pranced in and started to quiver. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to amuse that tactful clod," she sobbed.

He handed her a file folder and she wiped her eyes swiftly. He noticed her set of camo fatigues looked crisp. "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 front tooth suspiciously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would plasticize my coat hanger if I didn't cringe," she replied. "I said he's a coy pony. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's coy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Vogel?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sarcastically, "did Mister Vogel ever talk about someone named Ahmed Spooner?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Walla 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 motor home in Bogotá. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him sleepily. "I'm nobody's shmoopsie-poo," she sniffed, "and I don't want to be in Bogotá too long. I hope you can do something about Fabien soon."

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

"I can inch to Bogotá as soon as I pack a spoon, a pair of sweatpants, and my coin."

"You'd better take a coffee pot too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he voiced caustically.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's one hundred fourteen dollars as a retainer," she replied kindly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of tennis rackets. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and swung later out of the office. He stared reluctantly after her.

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