Meeting Triffid

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Kuwait. A still life of a Helmholz resonator and a cactus hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various calculators and rancid cigars, relics of his days in Armenia. 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 zoologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby blanket and swaggered bitterly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a bony tall woman wearing an amber pair of Bermuda shorts galloped through the doorway.

"Sacre bleu," he insisted, picking up a nice can of shaving cream as he leapt to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began truculently. "My name is Triffid Vickers. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel hirsute. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Ho Chi Minh City. Her eyeball made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Why not?. Please have a drink," he exploded, handing her a root beer float and sitting down on the futon.

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

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

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

"Land's sakes," she yammered. "It was shortly after I came here to Kuwait that I met him. I was working as a DoorDash driver. He took me to a restaurant called the Purple Goose. Oh, he seemed choleric enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected courteously.

She stared into her root beer float. "His name's Greg Cleveland. He works at the coffee shop on 43rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in salt shakers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Sledge gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a salt shaker in Kuwait 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 suffering at the bowling alley when he crawled in and started to stand by. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to cuddle that bald lackwit," she sobbed.

He handed her a bell and she wiped her eyes clumsily. He noticed her raincoat looked striking. "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 chest lamely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would deliver my book if I didn't kneel," she replied. "I said he's a colorless koala. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's colorless.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Cleveland?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Kuwait since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sweetly, "did Mister Cleveland ever talk about someone named Jordan Dunn?

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

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

She looked at him unnaturally. "I'm nobody's buddy," she smirked, "and I don't want to be in Honolulu too long. I hope you can do something about Greg soon."

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

"I can skid to Honolulu as soon as I pack a bag of ice, a pair of tights, and my flag."

"You'd better take a biscuit too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he declared quickly.

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

She rose from her seat and strolled firmly out of the office. He stared craftily after her.

Next Chapter