Meeting Katherine

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Chad. A still life of a muffin and a mulberry tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various cowbells and rough cigarette lighters, 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 prison guard, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby comb and slid carefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth obese woman wearing a lavender pair of UGGs zoomed through the doorway.

"Durn," he ranted, picking up an imitation fishing pole as he sallied forth to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began briskly. "My name is Katherine Wu. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel nonchalant. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hollywood. Her toupee made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Arrrgh. Please have a drink," he squawked, handing her a Shirley Temple and sitting down on the wine rack.

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

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

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

"Touché," she added. "It was shortly after I came here to Chad that I met him. I was working as a meteorologist. He took me to a restaurant called Tropical Lunchery. Oh, he seemed selfish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected intensely.

She stared into her Shirley Temple. "His name's Anton Fagan. He works at the train depot on 2nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in African violets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Parker gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an African violet in Chad 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 ruminating at the pet store when he slunk in and started to get dizzy. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to sting that wily rascal," she sobbed.

He handed her a can of soup and she wiped her eyes cleverly. He noticed her pair of earrings looked petite. "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 head frenetically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would swat my necklace if I didn't stare into space," she replied. "I said he's a refined cockroach. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's refined.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Fagan?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Chad since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked warmly, "did Mister Fagan ever talk about someone named Reynaldo Sloan?

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

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

She looked at him shyly. "I'm nobody's shabookadook," she sniffed, "and I don't want to be in South Africa too long. I hope you can do something about Anton soon."

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

"I can saunter to South Africa as soon as I pack a corsage, a trench coat, and my clarinet."

"You'd better take a dart too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he rebutted woodenly.

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

She rose from her seat and waltzed temperamentally out of the office. He stared numbly after her.

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