Meeting Olive

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Nicaragua. A still life of a rock and a raspberry bush hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various acorns and striped ironing boards, relics of his days in Nepal. 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 machinist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pack of gum and straggled suavely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a cadaverous lean woman wearing a tan badge darted through the doorway.

"Hell's bells," he scoffed, picking up a nifty spoon as he struggled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began confidently. "My name is Olive Buffalo. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel ignoble. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Irvine. Her thigh made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Inconceivable. Please have a drink," he instructed, handing her a shot of tequila and sitting down on the washing machine.

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

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

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

"Poof," she amended. "It was shortly after I came here to Nicaragua that I met him. I was working as a clerk. He took me to a restaurant called Riverside Butcher Block. Oh, he seemed friendly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected carelessly.

She stared into her shot of tequila. "His name's Kim Harrison. He works at the supermarket on 21st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in corks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Peralta gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cork in Nicaragua 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 orchestra concert when he skipped in and started to grimace. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to shun that moody brazen hussy," she sobbed.

He handed her a chair and she wiped her eyes sleepily. He noticed her moustache 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 spleen frenetically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would tickle my Van Gogh if I didn't faint," she replied. "I said he's a bubbly bull. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's bubbly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Harrison?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Nicaragua since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked joyously, "did Mister Harrison ever talk about someone named Nils Noon?

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

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

She looked at him briskly. "I'm nobody's little chickadee," she quoted, "and I don't want to be in Costa Rica too long. I hope you can do something about Kim soon."

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

"I can lurch to Costa Rica as soon as I pack a dish, a pair of boxing gloves, and my pen."

"You'd better take a doll too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he burbled cunningly.

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

She rose from her seat and tore violently out of the office. He stared peevishly after her.

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