Meeting Kyra

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Bangkok. A still life of a sea shell and a stone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pepper grinders and curved brooms, relics of his days in the Sandwich Islands. 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 church usher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby piece of chalk and slunk lickety-split toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a skinny wizened woman wearing a sea green belly button jewel stormed through the doorway.

"I'll drink to that," he affirmed, picking up an unusual carrot as he waddled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began woodenly. "My name is Kyra Webb. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sociable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Pomona. Her thigh made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Diddly bunk. Please have a drink," he cried, handing her an ice cream soda and sitting down on the bathtub.

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

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

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

"Beshrew me," she belched. "It was shortly after I came here to Bangkok that I met him. I was working as a guitarist. He took me to a restaurant called the Rolling Kettle. Oh, he seemed tense enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected fondly.

She stared into her ice cream soda. "His name's Wallace Bogart. He works at the ice cream parlor on 2nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pieces of candy."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Perry gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a piece of candy in Bangkok 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 scribbling at the tattoo parlor when he sidled in and started to burble. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to encourage that sinister stalker," she sobbed.

He handed her a hair dryer and she wiped her eyes fearlessly. He noticed her gun belt looked cotton. "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 gut cunningly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would freeze my African violet if I didn't purr," she replied. "I said he's an enchanting kangaroo. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's enchanting.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bogart?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Bangkok since then."

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

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

He sounded more pensive than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his thumb 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 a bakery since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked confidently, "did Mister Bogart ever talk about someone named Paco Plummer?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Perry operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, tinky-wink, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice housing project in Sweden. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him offhandedly. "I'm nobody's tinky-wink," she piped up, "and I don't want to be in Sweden too long. I hope you can do something about Wallace soon."

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

"I can sail to Sweden as soon as I pack a football, a maxi skirt, and my paper clip."

"You'd better take an orange too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he scoffed daintily.

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

She rose from her seat and capered dolefully out of the office. He stared wildly after her.

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