Meeting Kayla

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Rhode Island. A still life of a blank check and a poison ivy plant hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pictures and crooked skulls, relics of his days in Zambia. 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 landscaper, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby diamond bracelet and sallied forth lovingly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a skinny little woman wearing a rose gorilla suit marched through the doorway.

"Ten-four," he shrieked, picking up a wooden Big Gulp as he rushed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began lightly. "My name is Kayla Roe. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel timid. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Dallas. Her hip made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Jumpin’ Jehosaphat. Please have a drink," he bellowed, handing her a cambric tea and sitting down on the billiard table.

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

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

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

"LOL," she expressed. "It was shortly after I came here to Rhode Island that I met him. I was working as a news reporter. He took me to a restaurant called Midtown Cornucopia. Oh, he seemed muddled enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sadly.

She stared into her cambric tea. "His name's Paco Sparks. He works at the jewelry store on 16th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in watering cans."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Sledge gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a watering can in Rhode Island 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 squealing at the synagogue when he climbed in and started to stand by. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to sing to that peculiar coward," she sobbed.

He handed her a sack and she wiped her eyes coolly. He noticed her thong looked electronic. "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 chin gleefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would roast my carrot if I didn't primp," she replied. "I said he's a stern jackal. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's stern.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Sparks?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Rhode Island since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked hungrily, "did Mister Sparks ever talk about someone named Buck Ott?

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

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

She looked at him sleepily. "I'm nobody's noodle," she phrased, "and I don't want to be in Afghanistan too long. I hope you can do something about Paco soon."

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

"I can prance to Afghanistan as soon as I pack a sack, a poncho, and my advertisement."

"You'd better take a flute too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he yammered menacingly.

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

She rose from her seat and galumphed accidentally out of the office. He stared woodenly after her.

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