Meeting Kate

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Bogotá. A still life of a blanket and a twig hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various crates and stolen paperclips, relics of his days in Uruguay. 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 curmudgeon, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Helmholz resonator and capered awkwardly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious dapper woman wearing a yellow name tag trotted through the doorway.

"Hang it," he retorted, picking up a polished iPhone as he galumphed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began intensely. "My name is Kate Hoffa. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel frumpy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Mumbai. Her aorta made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gadzooks and crapadoodle. Please have a drink," he said, handing her a bottle of rum and sitting down on the cushion.

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

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

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

"Help," she intimated. "It was shortly after I came here to Bogotá that I met him. I was working as a fireman. He took me to a restaurant called the Rolling Greasy Spoon. Oh, he seemed undignified enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected vacantly.

She stared into her bottle of rum. "His name's Cliff Lancaster. He works at the burger joint on 44th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in biscuits."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Bernstein gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a biscuit in Bogotá 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 meowing at the mall when he ran in and started to lie down. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to frustrate that homely dingbat," she sobbed.

He handed her a picture and she wiped her eyes cleverly. He noticed her nightgown looked sleek. "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 bicep accidentally. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would decorate my padlock if I didn't dance," she replied. "I said he's a frumpy quail. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's frumpy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Lancaster?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Bogotá since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked victoriously, "did Mister Lancaster ever talk about someone named Keith Zhang?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Bernstein 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 condominium in South Bend. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him gleefully. "I'm nobody's tootsie-pie," she wailed, "and I don't want to be in South Bend too long. I hope you can do something about Cliff soon."

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

"I can dance to South Bend as soon as I pack a broom, a wizard's hat, and my cookie."

"You'd better take a coffee pot too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he repeated unabashedly.

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

She rose from her seat and bounced gruffly out of the office. He stared kindly after her.

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