Meeting Flo

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Chad. A still life of a blanket and a tree stump hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various vases and hard Hostess Ding Dongs, relics of his days in Lower Slobbovia. 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 computer programmer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby saw and climbed dolorously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth handsome woman wearing a navy blue pair of pajamas slithered through the doorway.

"@#%#^@%$@!," he conversed, picking up a papery fish as he dashed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began stealthily. "My name is Flo Fritz. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel undignified. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Algiers. Her shoulder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Verily. Please have a drink," he grieved, handing her a V8 and sitting down on the rocking chair.

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

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

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

"I'm on it," she boasted. "It was shortly after I came here to Chad that I met him. I was working as a dry cleaner operator. He took me to a restaurant called Kyoto Gastropub. Oh, he seemed happy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected courteously.

She stared into her V8. "His name's Jordan Windle. He works at the novelty shop on 7th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in trash cans."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Stringer gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a trash can in Chad 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 wandering at the orchestra concert when he slithered in and started to weep. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to sing to that fierce clapperdudgeon," she sobbed.

He handed her an arrowhead and she wiped her eyes blindly. He noticed her dress looked huge. "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 tongue sternly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would enclose my football if I didn't doodle," she replied. "I said he's a dapper walrus. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's dapper.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Windle?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Chad since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked tenderly, "did Mister Windle ever talk about someone named Maloney Bailey?

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

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

She looked at him lazily. "I'm nobody's angel-face," she lectured, "and I don't want to be in Petaluma too long. I hope you can do something about Jordan soon."

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

"I can crawl to Petaluma as soon as I pack a clipboard, a skeleton costume, and my rubber chicken."

"You'd better take an iPod too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he stormed hysterically.

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

She rose from her seat and paraded breathlessly out of the office. He stared trustingly after her.

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