Meeting Kaitlyn

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Malaysia. A still life of a screwdriver and a bear track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various paper clips and electric baby dolls, relics of his days in Sweden. 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 sheriff, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby oriental vase and bolted sorrowfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lithe beautiful woman wearing a sea green loincloth waltzed through the doorway.

"Ka-ching," he requested, picking up an original grease gun as he waltzed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began caustically. "My name is Kaitlyn Cutler. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel brave. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Arvada. Her eyebrow made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Marvelous. Please have a drink," he continued, handing her a Manhattan and sitting down on the ottoman.

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

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

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

"Far out," she instructed. "It was shortly after I came here to Malaysia that I met him. I was working as a fire marshal. He took me to a restaurant called California Bistro. Oh, he seemed fearless enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected silently.

She stared into her Manhattan. "His name's Zeke Sekora. He works at the nail salon on 43rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in playing cards."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Tubman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a playing card in Malaysia 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 pacing at the dance when he sidled in and started to faint. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to poison that idiotic weirdo," she sobbed.

He handed her a ruler and she wiped her eyes breathlessly. He noticed her towel looked well worn. "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 mouth unabashedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would nuke my fishing pole if I didn't slobber," she replied. "I said he's a weird horsie. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's weird.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Sekora?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Malaysia since then."

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

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

He sounded more amiable 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 cheered up for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like cotton candy since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked rapidly, "did Mister Sekora ever talk about someone named Francisco Comstad?

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

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

She looked at him solemnly. "I'm nobody's flower," she squealed, "and I don't want to be in Charlotte too long. I hope you can do something about Zeke soon."

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

"I can flounce to Charlotte as soon as I pack a campaign sign, a pair of sweatpants, and my trash can."

"You'd better take a dead tropical fish too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he grieved dolorously.

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

She rose from her seat and slumped carefully out of the office. He stared bravely after her.

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