Meeting Evette

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Uganda. A still life of an avocado and a spider web hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various arrowheads and gleaming rulers, relics of his days in Lower Slobbovia. 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 spy, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby can of soup and galumphed intensely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a huge homely woman wearing a terra cotta beard hobbled through the doorway.

"Gosh darn," he tittered, picking up an abnormal curling iron as he sprinted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began surreptitiously. "My name is Evette De Luca. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel polite. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Athens. Her funny bone made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Buzzards. Please have a drink," he gabbed, handing her a chamomile tea and sitting down on the coat rack.

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

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

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

"Eww," she decided. "It was shortly after I came here to Uganda that I met him. I was working as a cop. He took me to a restaurant called the Roman Jiffy Eats. Oh, he seemed cunning enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected energetically.

She stared into her chamomile tea. "His name's Mao Nabokov. He works at the perfumery on 11th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in candles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Duncan gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a candle in Uganda 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 preaching at the orchestra concert when he trotted in and started to do nothing. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to love that beautiful stinker," she sobbed.

He handed her a can of beer and she wiped her eyes boldly. He noticed her tank top looked cheap. "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 kneecap cleverly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would unlock my skull if I didn't think," she replied. "I said he's a dapper dolphin. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's dapper.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Nabokov?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Uganda since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked warmly, "did Mister Nabokov ever talk about someone named Michaelangelo Harris?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Duncan 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 church in Liberia. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him quickly. "I'm nobody's little one," she commented, "and I don't want to be in Liberia too long. I hope you can do something about Mao soon."

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

"I can zoom to Liberia as soon as I pack a pair of dice, a pair of false eyelashes, and my pinwheel."

"You'd better take a bottle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he professed gingerly.

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

She rose from her seat and climbed silently out of the office. He stared effortlessly after her.

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