Meeting Carina

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Kalamazoo. A still life of a box and a dead fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pillows and gigantic telephone books, relics of his days in Angola. 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 sign painter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby flute and breezed glibly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an emaciated dapper woman wearing an olive drab gladiator helmet sidled through the doorway.

"Godspeed," he debated, picking up a spongy box of Kleenex as he jumped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began glibly. "My name is Carina Clemmons. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel merry. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Orlando. Her femur made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Dum de dum dum. Please have a drink," he purred, handing her a painkiller and sitting down on the canopy bed.

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

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

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

"Pish posh," she spat. "It was shortly after I came here to Kalamazoo that I met him. I was working as a drummer. He took me to a restaurant called the Purple Galaxy. Oh, he seemed lethargic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected silently.

She stared into her painkiller. "His name's Vance Zwiebel. He works at the coffee shop on 16th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bottles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Sparks gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bottle in Kalamazoo 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 getting along at the Elvis chapel when he walked in and started to daydream. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to annoy that weary psycho," she sobbed.

He handed her an abacus and she wiped her eyes caustically. He noticed her pair of shorts looked gooey. "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 tummy ferociously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would slap my twig if I didn't squeak," she replied. "I said he's a dapper ant. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's dapper.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Zwiebel?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Kalamazoo since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked humbly, "did Mister Zwiebel ever talk about someone named Franklin Stetson?

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

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

She looked at him unnaturally. "I'm nobody's rose petal," she began, "and I don't want to be in London too long. I hope you can do something about Vance soon."

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

"I can tear to London as soon as I pack a coffee pot, a tam o'shanter, and my piece of candy."

"You'd better take a cane too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he muttered languidly.

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

She rose from her seat and dashed viciously out of the office. He stared bitterly after her.

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