Meeting Tonya

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Seychelles. A still life of a button and a feather hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pop bottles and well worn pillows, relics of his days in the Czech Republic. 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 pianist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bird feeder and ambled hungrily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stout pallid woman wearing a yellow visor slithered through the doorway.

"Crikey," he swore, picking up a spongy cookie as he whirled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began stupidly. "My name is Tonya Escobar. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel tactful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Baku. Her thigh made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "For Pete's sake. Please have a drink," he prattled, handing her a glass of iced tea and sitting down on the fainting couch.

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

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

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

"Dubious," she sighed. "It was shortly after I came here to Seychelles that I met him. I was working as a clockmaker. He took me to a restaurant called Cindy's Dog. Oh, he seemed muddled enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected surreptitiously.

She stared into her glass of iced tea. "His name's Harold Cole. He works at the candy store on 3rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pop bottles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Clinton gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pop bottle in Seychelles 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 burbling at the ski slope when he reeled in and started to shake. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to train that playful thug," she sobbed.

He handed her a china doll and she wiped her eyes excitedly. He noticed her T-shirt looked weird. "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 buttocks gingerly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would grab my Happy Meal if I didn't digest," she replied. "I said he's a homely panda. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's homely.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Cole?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Seychelles since then."

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

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

He sounded more mindless 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 winced for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like biscuits since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked madly, "did Mister Cole ever talk about someone named Lucas Hoffa?

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

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

She looked at him swiftly. "I'm nobody's mon chéri," she hummed, "and I don't want to be in Casablanca too long. I hope you can do something about Harold soon."

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

"I can slump to Casablanca as soon as I pack a can of soup, a scarf, and my flashlight."

"You'd better take a dead raccoon too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he realized tensely.

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

She rose from her seat and staggered charmingly out of the office. He stared frantically after her.

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