Meeting Kaylee

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Cyprus. A still life of a blank check and a fern hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various telephone books and loose tubes of glue, relics of his days in Algeria. 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 exterminator, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Frisbee and crept hopefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a well-formed pallid woman wearing a salmon toga traipsed through the doorway.

"Fine," he whined, picking up an important diary as he sidled to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel evil. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Glendale. Her Achilles tendon made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Cool beans. Please have a drink," he belched, handing her a fruit smoothie and sitting down on the bunk bed.

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

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

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

"Alley oop," she growled. "It was shortly after I came here to Cyprus that I met him. I was working as a translator. He took me to a restaurant called Western Home. Oh, he seemed sexy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected glumly.

She stared into her fruit smoothie. "His name's Logan Nash. He works at the bank on 20th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in curling irons."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Champion gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a curling iron in Cyprus 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 dancing at the spelling bee when he tramped in and started to chortle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to wink at that enraged ninnyhammer," she sobbed.

He handed her an African violet and she wiped her eyes fervently. He noticed her pair of moccasins looked striped. "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 buttocks grudgingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would consider my pair of trousers if I didn't get along," she replied. "I said he's an obedient warthog. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's obedient.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Nash?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Cyprus since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked quickly, "did Mister Nash ever talk about someone named Eubie Custer?

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

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

She looked at him fervently. "I'm nobody's tootsie," she decided, "and I don't want to be in Modesto too long. I hope you can do something about Logan soon."

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

"I can trek to Modesto as soon as I pack a pot, a false beard, and my pumpkin."

"You'd better take a computer too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he brought up suspiciously.

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

She rose from her seat and sallied forth sorrowfully out of the office. He stared sheepishly after her.

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