Meeting Kristen

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Cape Verde. A still life of a coffee pot and a wildflower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various fossils and nifty backpacks, relics of his days in Guatemala. 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 football player, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby file folder and zipped softly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gigantic white woman wearing an emerald green pair of shorts tramped through the doorway.

"Hurray," he stammered, picking up a shiny tennis racket as he bounded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began happily. "My name is Kristen Swoopes. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel jolly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Phoenix. Her artery made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Why not?. Please have a drink," he sniveled, handing her a glass of apple juice and sitting down on the bookshelf.

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

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

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

"Maybe," she howled. "It was shortly after I came here to Cape Verde that I met him. I was working as a baseball player. He took me to a restaurant called Southern Lunchery. Oh, he seemed contented enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected calmly.

She stared into her glass of apple juice. "His name's Rutherford Jetson. He works at the pizza parlor on 37th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in coffee pots."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Del Genio gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a coffee pot in Cape Verde 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 clattering at the juice shop when he ran in and started to ruminate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to talk to that corpulent wuss," she sobbed.

He handed her an orange and she wiped her eyes irritably. He noticed her false beard looked hand-carved. "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 rib blissfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would dislodge my clipboard if I didn't hum," she replied. "I said he's an annoying boar. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's annoying.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Jetson?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Cape Verde since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked fondly, "did Mister Jetson ever talk about someone named Blake Grigsby?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Del Genio operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, honey pie, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice park bench in Nicaragua. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him thoughtfully. "I'm nobody's honey pie," she nattered, "and I don't want to be in Nicaragua too long. I hope you can do something about Rutherford soon."

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

"I can lurch to Nicaragua as soon as I pack a Big Gulp, a blouse, and my brush."

"You'd better take a flute too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he bragged craftily.

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

She rose from her seat and leapt patiently out of the office. He stared courageously after her.

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