Meeting Carey

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Rio. A still life of a crystal ball and a tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various tote bags and soft chamber pots, relics of his days in Somalia. 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 social media influencer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby can of beans and swung quickly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a plump curvy woman wearing a crimson sundress slumped through the doorway.

"Grody to the max," he instructed, picking up an important smart phone as he pranced to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began grimly. "My name is Carey Kissling. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel enchanting. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Clarksville. Her femur made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "I'm sure. Please have a drink," he shrieked, handing her a Tom and Jerry and sitting down on the recliner.

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

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

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

"Banzai," she raved. "It was shortly after I came here to Rio that I met him. I was working as a food critic. He took me to a restaurant called In and Out House. Oh, he seemed bellicose enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected caustically.

She stared into her Tom and Jerry. "His name's Gus Oldfather. He works at the Starbucks on 15th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pieces of chalk."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Brindel gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a piece of chalk in Rio 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 church when he waded in and started to snore. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to educate that articulate hellhound," she sobbed.

He handed her a playing card and she wiped her eyes glibly. He noticed her gunny sack looked crooked. "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 fingernail victoriously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would swirl my piggy bank if I didn't snore," she replied. "I said he's a fuzzy baboon. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's fuzzy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Oldfather?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Rio 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 Gus Oldfather is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

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

"Tell me," he asked hopefully, "did Mister Oldfather ever talk about someone named Alberto Moodle?

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

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

She looked at him wryly. "I'm nobody's pookie," she harangued, "and I don't want to be in Nauru too long. I hope you can do something about Gus soon."

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

"I can slip to Nauru as soon as I pack a dollar bill, a derby, and my pinwheel."

"You'd better take a bell too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he recited coldly.

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

She rose from her seat and rolled fearlessly out of the office. He stared coolly after her.

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