Meeting Krystal

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in California. A still life of a kite and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various flowers and autographed telephones, relics of his days in South Sudan. 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 baseball player, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cigarette and traipsed innocently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tall ugly woman wearing a pink diaper sashayed through the doorway.

"Is that a fact," he retorted, picking up a damp shoe as he strode to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gracefully. "My name is Krystal Spooner. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel fascinating. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Grand Prairie. Her pancreas made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "I'm outta here. Please have a drink," he professed, handing her a can of Ensure and sitting down on the cushion.

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

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

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

"Ppppbbbft," she harangued. "It was shortly after I came here to California that I met him. I was working as a coroner. He took me to a restaurant called the Flying Coffee Shop. Oh, he seemed weary enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected madly.

She stared into her can of Ensure. "His name's Martin McDonald. He works at the pizza joint on 9th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pencils."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Goldberg gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pencil in California 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 pacing at the pet store when he galumphed in and started to exercise. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to talk to that mindless dweeb," she sobbed.

He handed her a spider and she wiped her eyes brashly. He noticed her hearing aid looked magnificent. "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 slowly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would vacuum my pair of binoculars if I didn't shake," she replied. "I said he's an elderly chameleon. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's elderly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. McDonald?"

"Only a second; I've only been in California since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked carefully, "did Mister McDonald ever talk about someone named Kirby Doyle?

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

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

She looked at him glumly. "I'm nobody's tootsy-wootsy," she blubbered, "and I don't want to be in Austin too long. I hope you can do something about Martin soon."

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

"I can canter to Austin as soon as I pack a dead pigeon, a pair of false eyelashes, and my hubcap."

"You'd better take a hand puppet too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he requested gently.

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

She rose from her seat and waltzed clumsily out of the office. He stared lovingly after her.

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