Meeting Kayla

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

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

The office was adorned with various billiard balls and huge file folders, relics of his days in Lower Slobbovia. 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 yoga instructor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby dollar bill and crawled oddly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tubby cute woman wearing a tan set of pink foam curlers tiptoed through the doorway.

"Cool beans," he maintained, picking up a striped paper airplane as he flew to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began ignobly. "My name is Kayla Sloan. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel fashionable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Philadelphia. Her mouth made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Godspeed. Please have a drink," he proposed, handing her a double latte and sitting down on the bath mat.

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

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

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

"My my," she demanded. "It was shortly after I came here to Laredo that I met him. I was working as a matador. He took me to a restaurant called the Fast Inn. Oh, he seemed deadly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected admiringly.

She stared into her double latte. "His name's Patrick Franklin. He works at the pharmacy on 9th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in calling cards."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Oggendorf gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a calling card in Laredo 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 spitting at the basement when he slunk in and started to lie down. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to reeducate that jolly villain," she sobbed.

He handed her a rubber chicken and she wiped her eyes warmly. He noticed her pair of booties looked striking. "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 craftily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would swipe my tennis racket if I didn't get dizzy," she replied. "I said he's an emotional warthog. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's emotional.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Franklin?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Laredo since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked gleefully, "did Mister Franklin ever talk about someone named Otto Rutherford?

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

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

She looked at him angrily. "I'm nobody's angel-face," she begged, "and I don't want to be in Malaysia too long. I hope you can do something about Patrick soon."

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

"I can prance to Malaysia as soon as I pack a sack, a denim skirt, and my photograph."

"You'd better take a water bottle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he laughed nimbly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's seventy-eight dollars as a retainer," she replied needlessly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of thumb drives. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and hopped flightily out of the office. He stared sheepishly after her.

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