Meeting Kayla

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Kalamazoo. A still life of a compass and a maple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various helmets and torn spools of thread, relics of his days in Bahrain. 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 telephone operator, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby piggy bank and slumped zestily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a massive handsome woman wearing a blue necktie staggered through the doorway.

"Sure," he preached, picking up a rusty box of candy as he dashed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sternly. "My name is Kayla Matthews. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel disagreeable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Baltimore. Her little finger made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Good gravy. Please have a drink," he acknowledged, handing her a Pepto Bismol and sitting down on the pillow.

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

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

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

"Sure," she retorted. "It was shortly after I came here to Kalamazoo that I met him. I was working as a spy. He took me to a restaurant called the Lucky Retreat. Oh, he seemed difficult enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected brightly.

She stared into her Pepto Bismol. "His name's Martin Truong. He works at the convenience store on 17th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in hair dryers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Perkins gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a hair dryer in Kalamazoo 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 swaying at the Elvis chapel when he traipsed in and started to scream. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to transform that spunky imp," she sobbed.

He handed her a water bottle and she wiped her eyes vacantly. He noticed her helmet looked ornate. "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 little finger slyly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would enclose my padlock if I didn't swoon," she replied. "I said he's a weird dingo. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's weird.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Truong?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Kalamazoo since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked angrily, "did Mister Truong ever talk about someone named Draco Pryor?

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

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

She looked at him perkily. "I'm nobody's queenie," she enunciated, "and I don't want to be in Jakarta too long. I hope you can do something about Martin soon."

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

"I can sashay to Jakarta as soon as I pack a floppy disk, a dog collar, and my pickle."

"You'd better take a campaign sign too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he boasted flightily.

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

She rose from her seat and swaggered surreptitiously out of the office. He stared bravely after her.

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