Meeting Carrie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in New Zealand. A still life of a cardboard box and a feather hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various iPhones and greasy ropes, relics of his days in Denmark. 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 drug dealer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby chair and climbed mysteriously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slender pretty woman wearing an olive green business suit trotted through the doorway.

"You're kidding," he bellowed, picking up a plastic cork as he went to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel elderly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Syracuse. Her toe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Fine. Please have a drink," he uttered, handing her a Mudslide and sitting down on the ottoman.

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

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

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

"Jiminy crickets," she spewed. "It was shortly after I came here to New Zealand that I met him. I was working as a surveyor. He took me to a restaurant called Hunan Buffet. Oh, he seemed suave enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected lickety-split.

She stared into her Mudslide. "His name's Cecil MacDonald. He works at the ice cream parlor on 10th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in tennis rackets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Jiménez gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a tennis racket in New Zealand 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 bleeding at the health food store when he inched in and started to look smart. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to smile at that difficult good-for-nothing," she sobbed.

He handed her a rubber stamp and she wiped her eyes dreamily. He noticed her pair of combat boots looked gleaming. "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 knuckle grandly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would unfasten my ticket if I didn't seethe," she replied. "I said he's a wicked bear. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's wicked.'"

"How long have you known Mr. MacDonald?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in New Zealand since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked impatiently, "did Mister MacDonald ever talk about someone named Newton Naipaul?

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

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

She looked at him firmly. "I'm nobody's dearie," she moaned, "and I don't want to be in Italy too long. I hope you can do something about Cecil soon."

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

"I can tramp to Italy as soon as I pack a plaque, a pair of culottes, and my roll of duct tape."

"You'd better take a fish bowl too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he thought quickly.

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

She rose from her seat and tore gently out of the office. He stared innocently after her.

Next Chapter