Meeting Joan

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Zambia. A still life of a floppy disk and a wolf track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various calculators and abnormal bones, relics of his days in England. 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 Jew's harp player, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby purse and sashayed swiftly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slinky wizened woman wearing a green helmet rushed through the doorway.

"Anyhow," he breathed, picking up an imported Egyptian mummy as he swaggered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began menacingly. "My name is Joan Griebel. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel monstrous. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Belfast. Her toenail made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Anyhow. Please have a drink," he groveled, handing her a glass of apple juice and sitting down on the china cabinet.

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

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

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

"Holy frijole," she responded. "It was shortly after I came here to Zambia that I met him. I was working as a bassoonist. He took me to a restaurant called Atlantic Farmer. Oh, he seemed blubbery enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected doubtfully.

She stared into her glass of apple juice. "His name's Biff England. He works at the cigar store on 25th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bags of popcorn."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Norman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bag of popcorn in Zambia 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 lying around in bed at the wine tasting when he skipped in and started to laugh. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to chase that weird fruitcake," she sobbed.

He handed her a tote bag and she wiped her eyes nonchalantly. He noticed her nightgown looked gruesome. "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 tooth vacantly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would fortify my thumb drive if I didn't go limp," she replied. "I said he's a passionate monkey. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's passionate.'"

"How long have you known Mr. England?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked brightly, "did Mister England ever talk about someone named Alan Cox?

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

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

She looked at him shyly. "I'm nobody's sunshine," she decided, "and I don't want to be in Mexico City too long. I hope you can do something about Biff soon."

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

"I can skip to Mexico City as soon as I pack a fingernail clipper, a girdle, and my Band-aid."

"You'd better take an African violet too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he squeaked glibly.

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

She rose from her seat and capered dolefully out of the office. He stared boisterously after her.

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