Meeting Starla

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in South Carolina. A still life of a tissue and an acorn hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various footballs and hideous napkins, relics of his days in Angola. 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 film producer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby watering can and clambered smoothly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dainty tattooed woman wearing a burgundy pair of shorts sailed through the doorway.

"Durn it," he screamed, picking up a peculiar chess set as he sidled to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel sarcastic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Athens. Her spine made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Woohoo. Please have a drink," he divulged, handing her a can of Ensure and sitting down on the rocking chair.

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

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

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

"Lord be praised," she continued. "It was shortly after I came here to South Carolina that I met him. I was working as a spy. He took me to a restaurant called the Wonderful Dining Room. Oh, he seemed naïve enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected queerly.

She stared into her can of Ensure. "His name's Morgan Boudreaux. He works at the McDonalds on 26th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pumpkins."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Sparks gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pumpkin in South Carolina 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 adjusting the clock at the church when he lurched in and started to ponder. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to expose that amiable shrew," she sobbed.

He handed her a cardboard box and she wiped her eyes noisily. He noticed her fur coat looked clean. "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 piehole admiringly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would feel my washrag if I didn't itch," she replied. "I said he's a vacuous basset hound. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's vacuous.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Boudreaux?"

"Only a year; I've only been in South Carolina since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked miserably, "did Mister Boudreaux ever talk about someone named Quentin Spangler?

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

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

She looked at him oddly. "I'm nobody's angel," she orated, "and I don't want to be in Laredo too long. I hope you can do something about Morgan soon."

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

"I can stride to Laredo as soon as I pack an amulet, a tuxedo, and my spittoon."

"You'd better take a spoon too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he exploded sadly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's fifty-five dollars as a retainer," she replied wearily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of whoopee cushions. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and cantered narrowly out of the office. He stared tearfully after her.

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