Meeting Carrie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Nairobi. A still life of a spoon and a weed hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various plaques and clean tubes of toothpaste, relics of his days in Russia. 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 gastroenterologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pickle and scooted intensely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a divine scraggly woman wearing a scarlet military uniform walked through the doorway.

"Ahem," he squealed, picking up a stuffed church key as he swung to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gruffly. "My name is Carrie Marchetti. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel frumpy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Nashville. Her forehead made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Far out, man. Please have a drink," he prattled, handing her a cup of espresso and sitting down on the file cabinet.

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

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

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

"Hmmm," she trumpeted. "It was shortly after I came here to Nairobi that I met him. I was working as a rock musician. He took me to a restaurant called the Fast Sandwich Shop. Oh, he seemed naïve enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected gruffly.

She stared into her cup of espresso. "His name's Lauren Bratt. He works at the health food store on 7th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in coat hangers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Pough gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a coat hanger in Nairobi 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 wobbling at the rock concert when he straggled in and started to run away. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to frighten that refined dorf," she sobbed.

He handed her a paper bag and she wiped her eyes sheepishly. He noticed her wet suit looked overgrown. "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 suavely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would jab my pinwheel if I didn't fidget," she replied. "I said he's a monstrous manticore. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's monstrous.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bratt?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked glumly, "did Mister Bratt ever talk about someone named Robert Goldwater?

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

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

She looked at him steadily. "I'm nobody's poopsie," she interpreted, "and I don't want to be in India too long. I hope you can do something about Lauren soon."

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

"I can roll to India as soon as I pack a bedpan, an armband, and my box."

"You'd better take a dog biscuit too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he rebutted pityingly.

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

She rose from her seat and padded tenderly out of the office. He stared stupidly after her.

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