Meeting Kaylee

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Peru. A still life of a baton and a wolf track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pinwheels and mysterious Helmholz resonators, relics of his days in the Congo. 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 consultant, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bouquet and hopped despondently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stumpy little woman wearing a tan flour sack reeled through the doorway.

"Spiffy," he blustered, picking up an automatic sack of potatoes as he cantered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began surreptitiously. "My name is Kaylee Sartre. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel athletic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Mesa. Her hair made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Shoot. Please have a drink," he clarified, handing her a Bacardi and sitting down on the bench.

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

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

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

"Thunderation," she stuttered. "It was shortly after I came here to Peru that I met him. I was working as an insurance agent. He took me to a restaurant called the Hometown Enchiladas. Oh, he seemed stinky enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected confidently.

She stared into her Bacardi. "His name's Devin Stewart. He works at the restaurant on 3rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in wastebaskets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Dayton gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a wastebasket in Peru 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 fainting at the mall when he paraded in and started to tremble. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to wrestle with that fascinating ruffian," she sobbed.

He handed her an iPad and she wiped her eyes fearlessly. He noticed her fedora looked jagged. "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 thigh grudgingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would hook my biscuit if I didn't get sleepy," she replied. "I said he's a weird goldfish. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's weird.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Stewart?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Peru since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked repeatedly, "did Mister Stewart ever talk about someone named Quinn Goldberg?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Dayton operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, tootsy-wootsy, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice mud hut in Soweto. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him fiercely. "I'm nobody's tootsy-wootsy," she spewed, "and I don't want to be in Soweto too long. I hope you can do something about Devin soon."

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

"I can sidle to Soweto as soon as I pack a pot, a pair of cowboy boots, and my pop bottle."

"You'd better take a telephone book too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he stated needlessly.

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

She rose from her seat and sashayed blindly out of the office. He stared warily after her.

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