Meeting Kristi

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Botswana. A still life of a lemon and a tree branch hung crookedly on his wall. The office was cluttered with various fishhooks and rigid garbage cans, relics of his days in Kenya. 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 chef, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby necklace and loped sternly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a miniature adorable woman wearing a peach big red rose tiptoed through the doorway.

"Horse feathers," he smiled, picking up a leather duffel bag as he trekked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began crankily. "My name is Kristi Romer. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel fearless. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Madrid. Her esophagus made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hallelujah. Please have a drink," he preached, handing her a shot of bourbon and sitting down on the pool table.

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

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

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

"Bless my britches," she rationalized. "It was shortly after I came here to Botswana that I met him. I was working as a ditch digger. He took me to a restaurant called the City Lounge. Oh, he seemed sensible enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected resignedly.

She stared into her shot of bourbon. "His name's Hugh Seagram. He works at the McDonalds on 29th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in campaign signs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Wibbles gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a campaign sign in Botswana 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 coming over at the Seven-Eleven when he waddled in and started to applaud. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to talk to that bald baby," she sobbed.

He handed her a campaign sign and she wiped her eyes unnaturally. He noticed her helmet looked thick. "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 adrenal gland gruffly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pack my muffin if I didn't fret," she replied. "I said he's an athletic nightingale. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's athletic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Seagram?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Botswana since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked temperamentally, "did Mister Seagram ever talk about someone named Biff DeMille?

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

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

She looked at him innocently. "I'm nobody's homie," she asked, "and I don't want to be in Chad too long. I hope you can do something about Hugh soon."

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

"I can zip to Chad as soon as I pack a pencil, a gun belt, and my houseplant."

"You'd better take a fork too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he yawned suspiciously.

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

She rose from her seat and traipsed trustingly out of the office. He stared anxiously after her.

Next Chapter