Raffi is the name of my new interpreter.
I forgot to introduce him in my previous post because his unprofessional behavior in the Rose Garden distracted me. However, following the interview with the gardener, Raffi surprised me by offering to buy lunch.
I followed Raffi’s long-legged stride to an outdoor market near the headquarters of the Department of Farmland Security. He halted at a kiosk that smelled of melted butter and boiled corn cobs.
“I’m a great fan of yours, Detective,” Raffi said thrusting a five-dollar bill into the vendor’s hand.
Flattered, I asked. “Where did you learn your craft?"
Raffi set a corn of cob between my teeth and motioned toward a bit of grass off the main boulevard. “In a small village in Peru where my mother nursed sick animals and my father trained wild ponies.”
“When did you come to America?” I asked and sunk my teeth into the corn.
Raffi sat on the grass with his enormous feet stuck out in front of him. “Two years ago. After learning all about you on the Internet, I honed my interpreter skills and applied to the department.”
Flushed with good feeling toward my new friend, I nibbled on the cob. “And what are your thoughts regarding the White House incident and Kiki the cat?” I asked.
“I see no way to solve this mystery,” he said. Then, waving his corn-on-the-cob at me, he laughed, “However, that mischievous look in your eyes tells me you’ve already got some clues.”
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