Meeting Kimberly

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Lansing. A still life of a radio and an egg shell hung crookedly on his wall. The office was cluttered with various barbells and grubby tablet computers, relics of his days in Pakistan. 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 escort, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby fish bowl and zoomed coldly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly angelic woman wearing a brown black armband dashed through the doorway.

"Durn," he simpered, picking up a gross spoon as he flew to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began doubtfully. "My name is Kimberly Buckley. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel somber. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hollywood. Her adrenal gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Easy peasy. Please have a drink," he squawked, handing her a bottle of Gatorade and sitting down on the bed.

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

"This is difficult for me," she pointed out, glancing at the pair of shorts he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Marvelous," she swore. "It was shortly after I came here to Lansing that I met him. I was working as a soldier. He took me to a restaurant called the Bamboo Butcher. Oh, he seemed colorless enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected warmly.

She stared into her bottle of Gatorade. "His name's Tony Prentice. He works at the dry cleaner on 5th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in urns."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Franklin gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an urn in Lansing 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 twitching at the jail when he padded in and started to sleep. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to disinfect that deadly fathead," she sobbed.

He handed her a flower and she wiped her eyes coolly. He noticed her jerkin looked slimy. "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 nose sheepishly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pierce my roll of duct tape if I didn't belch," she replied. "I said he's an ungainly whale. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's ungainly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Prentice?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Lansing since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked automatically, "did Mister Prentice ever talk about someone named Roger Ramirez?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Franklin operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, pork chop, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice mobile home in Canada. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him vacantly. "I'm nobody's pork chop," she interpreted, "and I don't want to be in Canada too long. I hope you can do something about Tony soon."

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

"I can sprint to Canada as soon as I pack a microscope, a stovepipe hat, and my ball."

"You'd better take a telephone book too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he vouched sheepishly.

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

She rose from her seat and made a beeline miserably out of the office. He stared diligently after her.

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