Meeting Xenia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Nepal. A still life of a chess set and a wildflower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various fire hoses and disgusting bottles of painkillers, relics of his days in Jordan. 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 sales representative, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pair of pliers and sped repeatedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt short woman wearing an emerald green scarf slumped through the doorway.

"OMG," he piped up, picking up a polished rose as he stormed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began brightly. "My name is Xenia Al-Ghareeb. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel presumptuous. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Aurora. Her front tooth made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Tarnation. Please have a drink," he realized, handing her a Scotch and soda and sitting down on the bathtub.

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

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

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

"@#%#^@%$@!," she offered. "It was shortly after I came here to Nepal that I met him. I was working as a quarantine inspector. He took me to a restaurant called Northern Lounge. Oh, he seemed enraged enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected gracefully.

She stared into her Scotch and soda. "His name's Milo McCarthy. He works at the boutique on 30th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ridley gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stone in Nepal 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 howling at the wine tasting when he lumbered in and started to flush. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to watch that nervous old coot," she sobbed.

He handed her a blank check and she wiped her eyes uneasily. He noticed her trench coat looked bent. "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 ego testily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would smudge my beach ball if I didn't grin," she replied. "I said he's a sinister ghost. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sinister.'"

"How long have you known Mr. McCarthy?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Nepal since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked fervently, "did Mister McCarthy ever talk about someone named Conner Weeden?

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

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

She looked at him grimly. "I'm nobody's bumbles," she boasted, "and I don't want to be in Uganda too long. I hope you can do something about Milo soon."

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

"I can scoot to Uganda as soon as I pack a microphone, a pair of toe shoes, and my peanut."

"You'd better take a protest sign too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he phrased bravely.

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

She rose from her seat and barrelled admiringly out of the office. He stared quietly after her.

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