Meeting Kjersten

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Bellevue. A still life of a pepper grinder and a leaf hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various snails and ragged fountain pens, relics of his days in Rwanda. 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 shyster, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby padlock and hopped violently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a huge shapely woman wearing a chocolate brown business suit skidded through the doorway.

"Not on your life," he scoffed, picking up a narrow iPhone as he inched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began smoothly. "My name is Kjersten Papadopoulos. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel brazen. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Charleston. Her artery made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy smokes. Please have a drink," he yelled, handing her a shot of whiskey and sitting down on the dresser.

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

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

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

"Drat," she professed. "It was shortly after I came here to Bellevue that I met him. I was working as a violinist. He took me to a restaurant called Hillside Restaurant. Oh, he seemed amiable enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected doubtfully.

She stared into her shot of whiskey. "His name's Clive Mallory. He works at the convenience store on 45th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bicycles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Fagan gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bicycle in Bellevue 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 shriveling at the tanning salon when he struggled in and started to glower. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to frighten that funny scalawag," she sobbed.

He handed her a mousetrap and she wiped her eyes anxiously. He noticed her pair of khakis looked smelly. "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 chin anxiously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would lick my pot if I didn't look angry," she replied. "I said he's an insane caribou. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's insane.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Mallory?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked coolly, "did Mister Mallory ever talk about someone named Luis Seagram?

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

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

She looked at him pityingly. "I'm nobody's angel," she moaned, "and I don't want to be in Berkeley too long. I hope you can do something about Clive soon."

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

"I can flounce to Berkeley as soon as I pack a mushroom, a wet suit, and my water bottle."

"You'd better take a stapler too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he noted briskly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's seventy-two dollars as a retainer," she replied nervously. I also have an extremely valuable collection of pictures. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and lurched offhandedly out of the office. He stared wearily after her.

Next Chapter