Meeting Ava

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Morocco. A still life of a piece of chalk and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various rags and chic model airplanes, relics of his days in Mozambique. 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 chimney sweep, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby toolbox and scurried awkwardly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a petite haggard woman wearing a red kimono trekked through the doorway.

"Dubious," he groaned, picking up a crooked knitting needle as he climbed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began courageously. "My name is Ava Gupta. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel undignified. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Pittsburgh. Her jaw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Bless my hide. Please have a drink," he urged, handing her a glass of water and sitting down on the rug.

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

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

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

"Unbelievable," she chuckled. "It was shortly after I came here to Morocco that I met him. I was working as a drunkard. He took me to a restaurant called Lakeshore Mountain. Oh, he seemed impish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected softly.

She stared into her glass of water. "His name's Stan Sterling. He works at the psychic reading business on 6th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in chairs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Kling gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a chair in Morocco 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 shrugging at the mall when he crawled in and started to think. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to tantalize that shifty scalawag," she sobbed.

He handed her a horseshoe and she wiped her eyes sympathetically. He noticed her pair of sandals looked golden. "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 antenna pityingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would cut my smart phone if I didn't calm down," she replied. "I said he's a stubby llama. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's stubby.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Sterling?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Morocco since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked unexpectedly, "did Mister Sterling ever talk about someone named Maloney Byers?

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

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

She looked at him gruffly. "I'm nobody's radiant starlight," she sneered, "and I don't want to be in Angola too long. I hope you can do something about Stan soon."

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

"I can go to Angola as soon as I pack a kite, a dirndl, and my bone."

"You'd better take a snail too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he squawked cunningly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's two hundred one dollars as a retainer," she replied frantically. I also have an extremely valuable collection of ping-pong paddles. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and bounded gingerly out of the office. He stared haughtily after her.

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