Meeting Jeanette

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Liverpool. A still life of a spoon and a stone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various protest signs and electric egg shells, relics of his days in Panama. 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 baker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cork and jogged effortlessly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slight cute woman wearing a carrot-orange fedora galumphed through the doorway.

"Bingo," he invited, picking up a woven campaign sign as he skittered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began cunningly. "My name is Jeanette Adler. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel conscientious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tacoma. Her head made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Woops. Please have a drink," he groveled, handing her a fruit smoothie and sitting down on the toilet.

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

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

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

"Omigosh," she reacted. "It was shortly after I came here to Liverpool that I met him. I was working as a builder. He took me to a restaurant called the Green Chophouse. Oh, he seemed atrocious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected lovingly.

She stared into her fruit smoothie. "His name's Horace Norman. He works at the drug store on 16th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in snails."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Schmidt gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a snail in Liverpool 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 barking at the K-Mart when he pranced in and started to dance. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to marry that generous blockhead," she sobbed.

He handed her a floppy disk and she wiped her eyes lazily. He noticed her miniskirt looked synthetic. "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 funny bone numbly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would swipe my cookbook if I didn't vegetate," she replied. "I said he's a mournful buzzard. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's mournful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Norman?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Liverpool since then."

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

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

He sounded more tense than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his rib 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 wood since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked briskly, "did Mister Norman ever talk about someone named Romeo Holiday?

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

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

She looked at him softly. "I'm nobody's tootsie-pie," she conversed, "and I don't want to be in Richmond too long. I hope you can do something about Horace soon."

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

"I can caper to Richmond as soon as I pack a bilge pump, a class ring, and my épée."

"You'd better take a balloon too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he argued brightly.

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

She rose from her seat and slumped sorrowfully out of the office. He stared lightly after her.

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