Meeting Avery

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Iowa. A still life of a pail and a maple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various amulets and cheap bananas, relics of his days in Liechtenstein. 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 flight attendant, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby basket and sidled noisily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious curvy woman wearing a magenta bomber jacket clambered through the doorway.

"Kazow," he retorted, picking up an ancient stapler as he waltzed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began daintily. "My name is Avery Okara. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel maniacal. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Louisville. Her jaw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Woof. Please have a drink," he reasoned, handing her a double latte and sitting down on the bunk bed.

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

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

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

"Holy Mother of Petunias," she yammered. "It was shortly after I came here to Iowa that I met him. I was working as a singer. He took me to a restaurant called London Mountain. Oh, he seemed considerate enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected calmly.

She stared into her double latte. "His name's Stan Stringer. He works at the opera house on 18th 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 Cheetham gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a piece of candy in Iowa 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 digesting at the restaurant when he marched in and started to stare into space. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to appease that maniacal hag," she sobbed.

He handed her an accordion and she wiped her eyes solemnly. He noticed her coonskin hat looked new. "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 toe sourly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would wallop my shovel if I didn't quiver," she replied. "I said he's a sanguine weasel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sanguine.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Stringer?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Iowa since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked intensely, "did Mister Stringer ever talk about someone named Royce Weatherford?

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

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

She looked at him boldly. "I'm nobody's cuddle-bear," she taunted, "and I don't want to be in Romania too long. I hope you can do something about Stan soon."

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

"I can storm to Romania as soon as I pack a toothbrush, a Stetson hat, and my rubber chicken."

"You'd better take a stuffed kitten too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he rumored speedily.

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

She rose from her seat and breezed suspiciously out of the office. He stared unabashedly after her.

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