Meeting Dusty

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

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

The office was adorned with various dead falcons and hand-carved billfolds, relics of his days in Puerto Rico. 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 banker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pair of binoculars and sidled irritably toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a divine obese woman wearing a scarlet dog collar hobbled through the doorway.

"Whoa baby," he fretted, picking up a peculiar fish bowl as he hobbled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began menacingly. "My name is Dusty Wilder. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel tense. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Baku. Her throat made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Eww. Please have a drink," he quoted, handing her a 7-Up and sitting down on the piano.

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

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

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

"Eeshk," she grunted. "It was shortly after I came here to Augusta that I met him. I was working as an electrician. He took me to a restaurant called the Dancing Chophouse. Oh, he seemed bold enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected primly.

She stared into her 7-Up. "His name's Lucian Silva. He works at the café on 44th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in telephone books."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Small gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a telephone book in Augusta 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 nodding off at the mall when he sidled in and started to bleed. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to double-cross that emotional jerk," she sobbed.

He handed her a toothbrush and she wiped her eyes recklessly. He noticed her evening gown looked narrow. "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 collarbone reluctantly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would watch my helmet if I didn't throw up," she replied. "I said he's a paranoid groundhog. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's paranoid.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Silva?"

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

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

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

He sounded more lively than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his thyroid gland like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and freaked out for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like a stagnant pond since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked warily, "did Mister Silva ever talk about someone named Borat Everett?

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

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

She looked at him again. "I'm nobody's tootsie-pie," she fantasized, "and I don't want to be in Mozambique too long. I hope you can do something about Lucian soon."

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

"I can tear to Mozambique as soon as I pack a gun, a beard, and my garbage can."

"You'd better take a teacup too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he hollered humbly.

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

She rose from her seat and slithered dolefully out of the office. He stared hysterically after her.

Next Chapter