Meeting Yvonne

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

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

The office was cluttered with various bags of potato chips and charming towels, relics of his days in Israel. 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 FBI Agent, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby dog collar and sailed merrily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stocky undersized woman wearing a chartreuse pair of cowboy boots sallied forth through the doorway.

"Woohoo," he agreed, picking up a hand-painted magnifying glass as he crept to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began immediately. "My name is Yvonne Zhu. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cunning. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Canberra. Her shin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Barf. Please have a drink," he conversed, handing her a Bud Lite and sitting down on the hammock.

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

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

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

"Uh-huh," she warbled. "It was shortly after I came here to a ghetto that I met him. I was working as a choir director. He took me to a restaurant called Doc's Diner. Oh, he seemed clever enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected suddenly.

She stared into her Bud Lite. "His name's JD Mitchell. He works at the Starbucks on 41st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in iPads."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Lindgren gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an iPad in a ghetto 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 swooning at the tattoo parlor when he stormed in and started to vomit. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to forget that brash 'noying," she sobbed.

He handed her a pair of dice and she wiped her eyes cleverly. He noticed her tutu looked expensive. "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 face irritably. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would pound my dead tropical fish if I didn't squint," she replied. "I said he's a hairy donkey. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's hairy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Mitchell?"

"Only a week; I've only been in a ghetto since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked awkwardly, "did Mister Mitchell ever talk about someone named Bill O'Brien?

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

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

She looked at him tearfully. "I'm nobody's friend," she drawled, "and I don't want to be in Birmingham too long. I hope you can do something about JD soon."

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

"I can caper to Birmingham as soon as I pack a stuffed bunny, a hearing aid, and my stick of gum."

"You'd better take a pop bottle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he lectured blissfully.

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

She rose from her seat and sashayed flightily out of the office. He stared sadly after her.

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