Meeting Carrie

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

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

The office was adorned with various mushrooms and shiny coffee pots, relics of his days in Somalia. 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 comedian, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby ingot of plutonium and hopped confidently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a fat suave woman wearing a sparkly baseball cap sailed through the doorway.

"You don't say," he persisted, picking up a rigid sponge as he ambled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began coldly. "My name is Carrie Holland. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel intelligent. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Trenton. Her toupee made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Eeshk. Please have a drink," he bawled, handing her a Bud Lite and sitting down on the buffet.

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

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

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

"Uh-huh," she harangued. "It was shortly after I came here to Glendale that I met him. I was working as a street artist. He took me to a restaurant called the City Bison. Oh, he seemed atrocious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected numbly.

She stared into her Bud Lite. "His name's Fido Prang. He works at the photography studio on 9th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in model airplanes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Saramago gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a model airplane in Glendale 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 waking up at the library when he sailed in and started to faint. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to sneer at that miniscule crazy person," she sobbed.

He handed her a box of Kleenex and she wiped her eyes lovingly. He noticed her ski mask looked abnormal. "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 knuckle cautiously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would wrap my purse if I didn't wiggle," she replied. "I said he's a sober yeti. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sober.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Prang?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Glendale since then."

"I see." He felt for his Colt 45 in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

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

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

"Tell me," he asked tensely, "did Mister Prang ever talk about someone named Carlton Butterfield?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Saramago 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 crypt in Cairo. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him dolorously. "I'm nobody's cupcake," she asserted, "and I don't want to be in Cairo too long. I hope you can do something about Fido soon."

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

"I can slither to Cairo as soon as I pack a pair of pliers, a pair of ear muffs, and my piece of chalk."

"You'd better take a peach too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he began oddly.

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

She rose from her seat and jogged narrowly out of the office. He stared blissfully after her.

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