Meeting Elena

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Laos. A still life of a plaque and a bit of moss hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various fishing rods and decrepit whoopee cushions, relics of his days in Nigeria. 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 juggler, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby coin and stalked gracefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a petite gorgeous woman wearing a purple sombrero tiptoed through the doorway.

"Yowee," he burbled, picking up an authentic pillow as he pranced to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sorrowfully. "My name is Elena Zimmerman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel taciturn. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Rotterdam. Her earlobe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "So sure. Please have a drink," he demanded, handing her a root beer float and sitting down on the bookcase.

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

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

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

"Avast," she continued. "It was shortly after I came here to Laos that I met him. I was working as a stockbroker. He took me to a restaurant called Seaside Food Parlor. Oh, he seemed fascinating enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected wryly.

She stared into her root beer float. "His name's George Kringle. He works at the antique store on 8th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Kindles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Fink gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Kindle in Laos 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 playing at the swimming pool when he danced in and started to scribble. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to suspect that dismal she-wolf," she sobbed.

He handed her a defibrillator and she wiped her eyes openly. He noticed her pair of cargo pants looked crusty. "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 toupee again. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would rattle my hair dryer if I didn't lie around in bed," she replied. "I said he's a muddled leopard. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's muddled.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Kringle?"

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

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

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

He sounded more difficult than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his toupee like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and did nothing for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like Max Factor since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked ignobly, "did Mister Kringle ever talk about someone named Everett Noonan?

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

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

She looked at him immediately. "I'm nobody's starlight," she quavered, "and I don't want to be in Algiers too long. I hope you can do something about George soon."

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

"I can leap to Algiers as soon as I pack a flowerpot, a coat, and my pen."

"You'd better take a billiard ball too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he crooned victoriously.

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

She rose from her seat and inched happily out of the office. He stared peevishly after her.

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