Meeting Nakisha

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Corpus Christi. A still life of a chair and a bear track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various paintbrushes and cardboard fishing poles, relics of his days in Bolivia. 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 warehouse picker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby piece of candy and lurched numbly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a petite adorable woman wearing a brilliant orange pair of pajamas bolted through the doorway.

"Amen," he asserted, picking up a greasy shoe as he slunk to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began ingeniously. "My name is Nakisha Gare. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel obnoxious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Savannah. Her thigh made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Dag nabbit. Please have a drink," he begged, handing her a cup of bouillon and sitting down on the umbrella stand.

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

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

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

"Man alive," she divulged. "It was shortly after I came here to Corpus Christi that I met him. I was working as a drunkard. He took me to a restaurant called Philadelphia Mess Hall. Oh, he seemed noble enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected victoriously.

She stared into her cup of bouillon. "His name's Shamus Simpson. He works at the gym on 4th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in keys."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Van Hook gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a key in Corpus Christi 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 beach when he stormed in and started to glower. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to write that enthusiastic fathead," she sobbed.

He handed her a coupon and she wiped her eyes craftily. He noticed her set of dentures looked tiny. "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 paw daringly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would kill my Bible if I didn't dilly-dally," she replied. "I said he's a silly cocker spaniel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's silly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Simpson?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Corpus Christi since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked courteously, "did Mister Simpson ever talk about someone named Morris Hanson?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Van Hook operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, light of my life, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice wikiup in Zambia. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him recklessly. "I'm nobody's light of my life," she pointed out, "and I don't want to be in Zambia too long. I hope you can do something about Shamus soon."

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

"I can make a beeline to Zambia as soon as I pack a spider, a set of dentures, and my iPod."

"You'd better take a dead butterfly too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he vowed hungrily.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's one hundred ninety-four dollars as a retainer," she replied vigorously. I also have an extremely valuable collection of bugles. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and darted shyly out of the office. He stared tearfully after her.

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