Meeting Ava

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Kuwait. A still life of a skull and a stone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various apples and grubby tubes of toothpaste, relics of his days in Chile. 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 evangelist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby handkerchief and skittered slyly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dwarf good looking woman wearing an aquamarine bustier rushed through the doorway.

"Leapin' lizards," he squawked, picking up a funny pop bottle as he pranced to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel mean. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Garden Grove. Her eyelid made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Shucks. Please have a drink," he sniffed, handing her an iced tea and sitting down on the windowsill.

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

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

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

"Bless my hide," she indicated. "It was shortly after I came here to Kuwait that I met him. I was working as a mystic. He took me to a restaurant called the White Bison. Oh, he seemed absent-minded enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected gruffly.

She stared into her iced tea. "His name's Kyle Wapner. He works at the train depot on 44th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in teapots."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Morgan gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a teapot in Kuwait 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 falling asleep at the bowling alley when he marched in and started to exercise. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to exclude that friendly bonehead," she sobbed.

He handed her a magnifying glass and she wiped her eyes sheepishly. He noticed her skirt looked leather. "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 hoof unexpectedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would whip my mousetrap if I didn't do the Hokey Pokey," she replied. "I said he's a fuzzy Norway rat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's fuzzy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Wapner?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Kuwait since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked menacingly, "did Mister Wapner ever talk about someone named Pete Oggendorf?

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

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

She looked at him bitterly. "I'm nobody's dearie," she realized, "and I don't want to be in Mozambique too long. I hope you can do something about Kyle soon."

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

"I can sidle to Mozambique as soon as I pack an orange, a set of camo fatigues, and my flyswatter."

"You'd better take an etching too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he rambled obediently.

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

She rose from her seat and slid sagely out of the office. He stared oddly after her.

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