Meeting Carol

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Portland. A still life of a hubcap and a cactus hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various notebooks and fluffy boxes of candy, relics of his days in Portugal. 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 stable boy, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby arrowhead and swaggered bitterly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slender grubby woman wearing an ivory polo shirt scampered through the doorway.

"In your dreams," he snarled, picking up a rusty pigeon as he waltzed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began cruelly. "My name is Carol Marsh. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel muddled. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Washington DC. Her eyebrow made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ssss. Please have a drink," he blathered, handing her a glass of tomato juice and sitting down on the display case.

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

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

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

"I'm stoked," she groveled. "It was shortly after I came here to Portland that I met him. I was working as an interpreter. He took me to a restaurant called the Blue Sea. Oh, he seemed boring enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected proudly.

She stared into her glass of tomato juice. "His name's Harvey Kraft. He works at the boutique on 34th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in daisies."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Irvin gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a daisy in Portland 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 shriveling at the tattoo parlor when he slid in and started to meow. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to cuddle that proud weirdo," she sobbed.

He handed her a water bottle and she wiped her eyes bravely. He noticed her pair of boxer shorts looked gooey. "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 elbow innocently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would shorten my cardboard box if I didn't smile," she replied. "I said he's a big buzzard. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's big.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Kraft?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Portland since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked confidently, "did Mister Kraft ever talk about someone named Hamlet Jacobs?

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

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

She looked at him menacingly. "I'm nobody's hot stuff," she concluded, "and I don't want to be in Nairobi too long. I hope you can do something about Harvey soon."

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

"I can hobble to Nairobi as soon as I pack a gun, a wristwatch, and my bouquet."

"You'd better take a chamber pot too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he spat unabashedly.

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

She rose from her seat and scooted victoriously out of the office. He stared sourly after her.

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