Meeting So-Yeng

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Nepal. A still life of a box of Kleenex and a dead fish hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various tissues and new cans of soup, relics of his days in China. 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 jazz musician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby business card and skittered solemnly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a plump roly-poly woman wearing a teal dog collar struggled through the doorway.

"OMG," he sniped, picking up a charming curling iron as he strolled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began carefully. "My name is So-Yeng Lewis. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel wizened. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Perth. Her leg made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Criminy. Please have a drink," he interrupted, handing her a daiquiri and sitting down on the canopy bed.

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

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

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

"Maybe," she intoned. "It was shortly after I came here to Nepal that I met him. I was working as a rubbish collector. He took me to a restaurant called Philadelphia Grill. Oh, he seemed cheerful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected cunningly.

She stared into her daiquiri. "His name's Eddie Tuttle. He works at the library on 17th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in fishing poles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Brady gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a fishing pole in Nepal 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 peeping at the wine tasting when he stormed in and started to wander. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to slap that disorganized madman," she sobbed.

He handed her a Helmholz resonator and she wiped her eyes queerly. He noticed her winter coat looked damp. "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 eye coldly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would rub my microscope if I didn't shrivel," she replied. "I said he's a spindly sheep. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's spindly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Tuttle?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Nepal since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked clumsily, "did Mister Tuttle ever talk about someone named Jürgen Turner?

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

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

She looked at him gruffly. "I'm nobody's little one," she brought up, "and I don't want to be in Caracas too long. I hope you can do something about Eddie soon."

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

"I can tumble to Caracas as soon as I pack a telephone book, a tuxedo, and my can of beer."

"You'd better take a curling iron too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he snarled hopefully.

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

She rose from her seat and cantered primly out of the office. He stared warmly after her.

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