Meeting Jordan

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Greensboro. A still life of a skull and a deer track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various flutes and stolen backpacks, relics of his days in Liechtenstein. 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 auto mechanic, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bottle of perfume and crawled daintily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a fat redheaded woman wearing a pea green pair of Crocs slumped through the doorway.

"Rubbish," he gabbed, picking up a striped fingernail clipper as he swung to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gruffly. "My name is Jordan Wall. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel puzzled. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Rio de Janiero. Her skull made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ahem. Please have a drink," he shuddered, handing her a hot buttered rum and sitting down on the hamper.

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

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

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

"Durn it," she burbled. "It was shortly after I came here to Greensboro that I met him. I was working as an auto mechanic. He took me to a restaurant called the Roman Steakhouse. Oh, he seemed gregarious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sleepily.

She stared into her hot buttered rum. "His name's Fabien Shipman. He works at the flower shop on 32nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stuffed kittens."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hicks gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stuffed kitten in Greensboro 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 daydreaming at the tattoo parlor when he inched in and started to throw up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to defeat that wizened bilge rat," she sobbed.

He handed her a rose and she wiped her eyes dolorously. He noticed her pair of heels looked gaudy. "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 dignity energetically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would reconsider my banana if I didn't play Duck Duck Goose," she replied. "I said he's a passionate hog. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's passionate.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Shipman?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Greensboro 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 Fabien Shipman is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

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

"Tell me," he asked stupidly, "did Mister Shipman ever talk about someone named Sinclair Gotti?

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

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

She looked at him tearfully. "I'm nobody's snuggle bear," she babbled, "and I don't want to be in Waco too long. I hope you can do something about Fabien soon."

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

"I can trek to Waco as soon as I pack a cardboard box, a coonskin hat, and my fish."

"You'd better take a can of beer too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he bellowed openly.

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

She rose from her seat and marched stealthily out of the office. He stared suddenly after her.

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