Meeting Krista

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in the Swiss Alps. A still life of a dead caribou and a stone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pizzas and authentic tops, relics of his days in Saudi Arabia. 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 con artist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby flowerpot and bounced later toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth angelic woman wearing a lime-green ring struggled through the doorway.

"Phew," he cackled, picking up a stuffed doll as he slunk to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began unnaturally. "My name is Krista England. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel comely. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hastings. Her thyroid gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Turn blue. Please have a drink," he taunted, handing her a tequila sunrise and sitting down on the water bed.

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

"This is difficult for me," she pleaded, glancing at the T-shirt he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Inconceivable," she simpered. "It was shortly after I came here to the Swiss Alps that I met him. I was working as an ecologist. He took me to a restaurant called Cindy's Apple. Oh, he seemed megalomaniacal enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected accidentally.

She stared into her tequila sunrise. "His name's Drover Simmons. He works at the office supply store on 49th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stuffed owls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cunningham gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stuffed owl in the Swiss Alps 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 jiggling at the tattoo parlor when he sprinted in and started to gaze. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to scar that cruel goon," she sobbed.

He handed her a cane and she wiped her eyes brashly. He noticed her stethoscope looked leather. "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 larynx bravely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would uncover my bottle of painkillers if I didn't ponder," she replied. "I said he's a prickly chimpanzee. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's prickly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Simmons?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in the Swiss Alps since then."

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

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

He sounded more high-strung 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 blinked for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like freshly baked cookies since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked gratefully, "did Mister Simmons ever talk about someone named Adrian Falcon?

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

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

She looked at him brashly. "I'm nobody's little blossom," she babbled, "and I don't want to be in Botswana too long. I hope you can do something about Drover soon."

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

"I can straggle to Botswana as soon as I pack a coffee pot, a cat suit, and my trash can."

"You'd better take a shoe too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he proposed hastily.

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

She rose from her seat and breezed softly out of the office. He stared happily after her.

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