Meeting Kylie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Glendale. A still life of a roll of duct tape and a maple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various hand puppets and bizarre spinning wheels, relics of his days in Russia. 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 dog catcher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Bible and sauntered crossly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a well-formed handsome woman wearing an amber class ring tiptoed through the doorway.

"For cryin' out loud," he harangued, picking up a clean salt shaker as he traipsed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began noisily. "My name is Kylie Sewell. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel loving. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Boise. Her hand made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy buckets. Please have a drink," he enunciated, handing her a can of Ensure and sitting down on the buffet.

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

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

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

"Whoopee," she accused. "It was shortly after I came here to Glendale that I met him. I was working as a computer programmer. He took me to a restaurant called the Wonderful Food Factory. Oh, he seemed dependable enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected tensely.

She stared into her can of Ensure. "His name's Preston Garcia. He works at the dry cleaner on 4th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in batons."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Pope gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a baton in Glendale 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 freaking out at the Elvis chapel when he dashed in and started to vomit. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to mesmerize that irate clodhopper," she sobbed.

He handed her a Hostess Ding Dong and she wiped her eyes oddly. He noticed her kilt looked rigid. "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 skull openly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would swirl my pair of fuzzy dice if I didn't take a bath," she replied. "I said he's a sloppy peacock. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sloppy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Garcia?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Glendale since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked viciously, "did Mister Garcia ever talk about someone named Craig Duncan?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a wag of the finger.

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

She looked at him crazily. "I'm nobody's baby-doll," she recited, "and I don't want to be in Nauru too long. I hope you can do something about Preston soon."

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

"I can walk to Nauru as soon as I pack a fire hose, a Superman costume, and my soccer ball."

"You'd better take a notebook too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he observed gratefully.

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

She rose from her seat and bounded energetically out of the office. He stared awkwardly after her.

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