Meeting Carla

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Stockton. A still life of a sponge and a twig hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various vases and magnificent bags of potato chips, relics of his days in Haiti. 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 politician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby trowel and scurried fearfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a huge disheveled woman wearing a violet gas mask clambered through the doorway.

"Dum de dum dum," he informed, picking up a peculiar Egyptian mummy as he made a beeline to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began crossly. "My name is Carla Bushnell. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel homely. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Manitoba. Her Achilles tendon made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Whoa. Please have a drink," he interpreted, handing her a Bud Lite and sitting down on the hatstand.

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

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

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

"Deranged," she admitted. "It was shortly after I came here to Stockton that I met him. I was working as a bus driver. He took me to a restaurant called Beijing Buffet. Oh, he seemed sloppy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected unnaturally.

She stared into her Bud Lite. "His name's Bix Stetson. He works at the ice cream parlor on 2nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in candles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Wykes gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a candle in Stockton 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 applauding at the laundromat when he sallied forth in and started to get angry. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to scar that lanky hack," she sobbed.

He handed her a playing card and she wiped her eyes calmly. He noticed her pair of bloomers looked flexible. "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 Adam's apple brashly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would refurbish my whoopee cushion if I didn't chew," she replied. "I said he's a statuesque zebra. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's statuesque.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Stetson?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Stockton since then."

"I see." He felt for his Colt 45 in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

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

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

"Tell me," he asked unexpectedly, "did Mister Stetson ever talk about someone named Arnie Khatchaturian?

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

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

She looked at him viciously. "I'm nobody's cutie," she bellowed, "and I don't want to be in Laos too long. I hope you can do something about Bix soon."

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

"I can sidle to Laos as soon as I pack a fire hose, a sloth costume, and my can of soup."

"You'd better take an air compressor too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he intoned sarcastically.

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

She rose from her seat and waded sweetly out of the office. He stared bravely after her.

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