Meeting Kitten

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Louisville. A still life of a remote control and a tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various yardsticks and art deco yardsticks, relics of his days in Finland. 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 tailor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby corsage and cantered energetically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a scrawny demonic woman wearing an ivory loincloth galumphed through the doorway.

"Now we're talking," he disputed, picking up a slimy china doll as he blundered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began automatically. "My name is Kitten Schmidt. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel serious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Sioux City. Her heel made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Poppycock. Please have a drink," he insisted, handing her a glass of orange juice and sitting down on the nightstand.

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

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

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

"Achoo," she howled. "It was shortly after I came here to Louisville that I met him. I was working as a prisoner. He took me to a restaurant called the Bronze Food Truck. Oh, he seemed fiendish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected timidly.

She stared into her glass of orange juice. "His name's Wilbur Stetson. He works at the craft store on 5th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in artificial flowers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Davis gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an artificial flower in Louisville 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 growing up at the library when he scooted in and started to growl. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to annoy that bouncy punk," she sobbed.

He handed her a pair of scissors and she wiped her eyes furiously. He noticed her scarf looked rough. "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 face shyly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pierce my duffel bag if I didn't cogitate," she replied. "I said he's a weird hippopotamus. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's weird.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Stetson?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Louisville since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sleepily, "did Mister Stetson ever talk about someone named Josh Schibbel?

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

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

She looked at him greedily. "I'm nobody's heart of hearts," she reasoned, "and I don't want to be in Senegal too long. I hope you can do something about Wilbur soon."

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

"I can lumber to Senegal as soon as I pack a Frisbee, a cocktail dress, and my stopwatch."

"You'd better take a piece of paper too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he admitted rapidly.

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

She rose from her seat and went positively out of the office. He stared pityingly after her.

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