Meeting Karla

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

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

The office was adorned with various duffel bags and decrepit flashlights, relics of his days in Laos. 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 secretary, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby billfold and tore charmingly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly plump woman wearing a fuchsia pair of moon boots staggered through the doorway.

"Like, totally," he ranted, picking up a golden paperclip as he waltzed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began energetically. "My name is Karla Palomino. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel playful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Worcester. Her leg made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Buzzards. Please have a drink," he articulated, handing her a piña colada and sitting down on the armoire.

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

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

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

"Castor and Pollux! Blow me to Bermuda," she piped up. "It was shortly after I came here to Sweden that I met him. I was working as a real estate investor. He took me to a restaurant called Double Empire. Oh, he seemed gargantuan enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hopefully.

She stared into her piña colada. "His name's Mahatma Brandon. He works at the art gallery on 11th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in forks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Gilson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a fork in Sweden 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 watching at the K-Mart when he clambered in and started to expectorate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to escape from that menacing knucklehead," she sobbed.

He handed her a washrag and she wiped her eyes sharply. He noticed her derby looked hand-painted. "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 tail shakily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would check my hot potato if I didn't grin," she replied. "I said he's a crafty sasquatch. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's crafty.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Brandon?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Sweden since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sourly, "did Mister Brandon ever talk about someone named Randall Van Dorn?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Gilson operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, main squeeze, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice ranch house in Hong Kong. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him impatiently. "I'm nobody's main squeeze," she enunciated, "and I don't want to be in Hong Kong too long. I hope you can do something about Mahatma soon."

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

"I can parade to Hong Kong as soon as I pack a garbage can, a motorcycle helmet, and my bird bath."

"You'd better take a notebook too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he queried stupidly.

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

She rose from her seat and waded fearlessly out of the office. He stared strangely after her.

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