Meeting Cynthia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Central African Republic. A still life of a computer and a twig hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various paintings and immense iPhones, relics of his days in Canada. 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 technician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby stuffed owl and zipped carelessly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a skinny frumpy woman wearing a crimson pair of knickers darted through the doorway.

"Gads," he moaned, picking up a multicolored wastebasket as he walked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began trustingly. "My name is Cynthia Peña. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel direct. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Madison. Her eye made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Caramba. Please have a drink," he asserted, handing her a glass of water and sitting down on the rocking chair.

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

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

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

"My word," she stormed. "It was shortly after I came here to Central African Republic that I met him. I was working as a weatherman. He took me to a restaurant called the Brass Feast. Oh, he seemed crafty enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected woodenly.

She stared into her glass of water. "His name's Willard Corialis. He works at the supermarket on 24th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in abacuses."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Grayheels gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an abacus in Central African Republic 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 passing out at the gyro shop when he sauntered in and started to squeak. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to wrestle with that urbane geek," she sobbed.

He handed her a screwdriver and she wiped her eyes unnaturally. He noticed her balaclava looked porcelain. "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 nose stealthily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would unwrap my Egyptian mummy if I didn't peep," she replied. "I said he's a moody goat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's moody.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Corialis?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Central African Republic since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked automatically, "did Mister Corialis ever talk about someone named Jess Brady?

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

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

She looked at him dubiously. "I'm nobody's cutie," she griped, "and I don't want to be in Australia too long. I hope you can do something about Willard soon."

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

"I can sashay to Australia as soon as I pack a rope, a pair of ear muffs, and my rag."

"You'd better take a business card too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he screamed anxiously.

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

She rose from her seat and set out temperamentally out of the office. He stared elatedly after her.

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