Meeting Karla

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Mauritania. A still life of a bag and a badger hole hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bullets and musty stamps, relics of his days in Albania. 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 fashion designer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pickle and sallied forth gruffly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a small fair woman wearing an olive green armband staggered through the doorway.

"Mommy," he comforted, picking up a flaky ping-pong paddle as he flew to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began silently. "My name is Karla Marlowe. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel megalomaniacal. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Wilmington. Her chest made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Out of this world. Please have a drink," he squawked, handing her a tequila sunrise and sitting down on the buffet.

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

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

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

"Bingo," she articulated. "It was shortly after I came here to Mauritania that I met him. I was working as a nurse. He took me to a restaurant called the Farmer's Bell. Oh, he seemed prickly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hungrily.

She stared into her tequila sunrise. "His name's Christian Peralta. He works at the bus station on 23rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cardboard boxes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Springer gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cardboard box in Mauritania 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 screeching at the laundromat when he strolled in and started to nod. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to examine that calm slacker," she sobbed.

He handed her a fossil and she wiped her eyes ferociously. He noticed her surgical mask 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 scalp fondly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would chop my garbage can if I didn't swallow," she replied. "I said he's a serious Pekingese. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's serious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Peralta?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Mauritania since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked haughtily, "did Mister Peralta ever talk about someone named Alexander Bower?

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

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

She looked at him gruffly. "I'm nobody's sweetheart," she laughed, "and I don't want to be in Georgia too long. I hope you can do something about Christian soon."

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

"I can tumble to Georgia as soon as I pack a sponge, a pair of cowboy boots, and my piece of candy."

"You'd better take a calling card too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he spoke up excitedly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's twelve dollars as a retainer," she replied offhandedly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of yardsticks. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and walked daintily out of the office. He stared needlessly after her.

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