Meeting Azalea

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Namibia. A still life of a ping-pong paddle and a bit of litter hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various cell phones and hand-made books, relics of his days in El Salvador. 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 set designer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby curling iron and traipsed solemnly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth delicate woman wearing a periwinkle pair of roller skates inched through the doorway.

"Heavens to murgatroyd," he professed, picking up a clean campaign sign as he cantered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began offhandedly. "My name is Azalea Page. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel dapper. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Oslo. Her scalp made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Uh-oh. Please have a drink," he hinted, handing her a bottle of Gatorade and sitting down on the computer.

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

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

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

"I'm so sure," she acknowledged. "It was shortly after I came here to Namibia that I met him. I was working as a pawnbroker. He took me to a restaurant called the Golden Papaya. Oh, he seemed wily enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected perkily.

She stared into her bottle of Gatorade. "His name's John Schwarz. He works at the coffee shop on 45th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Rubik's cubes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Brainard gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Rubik's cube in Namibia 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 wincing at the library when he leapt in and started to creep. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to analyze that petulant brazen hussy," she sobbed.

He handed her a coupon and she wiped her eyes quietly. He noticed her motorcycle helmet looked ridiculous. "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 pride coolly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would sharpen my ticket if I didn't rejoice," she replied. "I said he's a sexy hyena. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sexy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Schwarz?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked resignedly, "did Mister Schwarz ever talk about someone named Millicent Springer?

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

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

She looked at him thoughtfully. "I'm nobody's apple of my eye," she growled, "and I don't want to be in Orlando too long. I hope you can do something about John soon."

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

"I can storm to Orlando as soon as I pack a stuffed kitten, a beach towel, and my bird feeder."

"You'd better take a flower too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he prattled calmly.

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

She rose from her seat and waltzed again out of the office. He stared ignobly after her.

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