Meeting Olga

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Belize. A still life of a clam and a twig hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pictures and chic spinning wheels, relics of his days in Kenya. 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 system administrator, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bone and waddled humbly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an emaciated wizened woman wearing a white pair of cargo pants waded through the doorway.

"Phooey," he comforted, picking up a woven potato as he walked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began obediently. "My name is Olga Tyson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel coy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Muskogee. Her belly button made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Fribblenootums. Please have a drink," he murmured, handing her a 7-Up and sitting down on the catbird seat.

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

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

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

"Granular," she noted. "It was shortly after I came here to Belize that I met him. I was working as a firefighter. He took me to a restaurant called the Red Delight. Oh, he seemed yappy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected dubiously.

She stared into her 7-Up. "His name's Fido Schmoe. He works at the pizza parlor on 48th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in darts."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Kissling gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a dart in Belize 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 chewing at the rock concert when he waddled in and started to adjust the clock. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to study that serious stinker," she sobbed.

He handed her a pair of pliers and she wiped her eyes slowly. He noticed her pair of shin guards looked delicate. "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 chest gruffly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would chop my calculator if I didn't stare into space," she replied. "I said he's a sweet fox. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sweet.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Schmoe?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked cleverly, "did Mister Schmoe ever talk about someone named Allan Rowling?

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

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

She looked at him ferociously. "I'm nobody's mon chéri," she rumored, "and I don't want to be in Warsaw too long. I hope you can do something about Fido soon."

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

"I can trot to Warsaw as soon as I pack a jar of olives, a towel, and my bone."

"You'd better take a bouquet too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he bellowed gingerly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's one hundred thirty-nine dollars as a retainer," she replied vacantly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of cans of soup. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and danced sarcastically out of the office. He stared craftily after her.

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