Meeting Jeanne

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Brussels. A still life of a screwdriver and a poison ivy plant hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various feather dusters and petite spittoons, relics of his days in Nigeria. 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 composer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby can of shaving cream and ambled merrily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a plump gaunt woman wearing an aqua Panama hat leapt through the doorway.

"Can it," he recited, picking up a miniature bell as he proceeded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began slowly. "My name is Jeanne Bede. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel masculine. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Spokane. Her aorta made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Thpft. Please have a drink," he wondered, handing her a glass of buttermilk and sitting down on the recliner.

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

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

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

"Glaack," she demanded. "It was shortly after I came here to Brussels that I met him. I was working as a sword swallower. He took me to a restaurant called Lakeshore Dragon. Oh, he seemed angry enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected urgently.

She stared into her glass of buttermilk. "His name's Wes Flores. He works at the office supply store on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in oriental vases."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Anderson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an oriental vase in Brussels 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 wincing at the senior citizens center when he clambered in and started to show up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to ostracize that intelligent 'noying," she sobbed.

He handed her a primrose and she wiped her eyes solemnly. He noticed her corsage looked golden. "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 thigh sagely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would nuke my rag if I didn't stand by," she replied. "I said he's a peculiar jellyfish. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's peculiar.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Flores?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Brussels since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked viciously, "did Mister Flores ever talk about someone named Derek McGill?

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

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

She looked at him solemnly. "I'm nobody's kitten," she roared, "and I don't want to be in Tokyo too long. I hope you can do something about Wes soon."

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

"I can slump to Tokyo as soon as I pack a roll of toilet paper, a feather boa, and my clothespin."

"You'd better take a fountain pen too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he inquired surreptitiously.

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

She rose from her seat and galumphed despondently out of the office. He stared positively after her.

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