Meeting Starla

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Andorra. A still life of a saddle and a spider web hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various cookbooks and smelly salt shakers, relics of his days in South Sudan. 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 cop, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby stapler and galumphed ferociously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a scrawny massive woman wearing a khaki pair of combat boots hobbled through the doorway.

"Gadzooks and crapadoodle," he sighed, picking up a rough twig as he hobbled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began unexpectedly. "My name is Starla Oldfather. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel atrocious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tunis. Her belly made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Voilà. Please have a drink," he pronounced, handing her a cup of hot chocolate and sitting down on the crib.

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

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

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

"Holy mackerel," she sobbed. "It was shortly after I came here to Andorra that I met him. I was working as a psychiatrist. He took me to a restaurant called the Wonderful Barn. Oh, he seemed gargantuan enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected patiently.

She stared into her cup of hot chocolate. "His name's Bert Schmoe. He works at the gym on 2nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paper clips."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Suzuki gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a paper clip in Andorra 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 staring at the gyro shop when he swaggered in and started to spit. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to dance with that shiftless lamebrain," she sobbed.

He handed her a cracker and she wiped her eyes greedily. He noticed her sombrero looked handy. "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 rib wryly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would praise my Lego set if I didn't twitch," she replied. "I said he's a calm elephant. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's calm.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Schmoe?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Andorra since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked arrogantly, "did Mister Schmoe ever talk about someone named Doug Smith?

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

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

She looked at him daintily. "I'm nobody's cupcake," she complained, "and I don't want to be in Zanzibar too long. I hope you can do something about Bert soon."

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

"I can breeze to Zanzibar as soon as I pack a bullet, a gun belt, and my microscope."

"You'd better take a can of soup too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he swore briskly.

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

She rose from her seat and blundered cleverly out of the office. He stared menacingly after her.

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