Meeting Flo

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in the Virgin Islands. A still life of a bird bath and a twig hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various elephant tusks and cheap sacks of potatoes, 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 physician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Egyptian mummy and loped carelessly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt blue-eyed woman wearing a black cap crept through the doorway.

"Very well done," he sniped, picking up a disgusting lollipop as he stalked to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel melancholic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Providence. Her artery made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Man alive. Please have a drink," he queried, handing her an iced tea and sitting down on the bunk bed.

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

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

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

"Shame," she roared. "It was shortly after I came here to the Virgin Islands that I met him. I was working as a researcher. He took me to a restaurant called New York Pig. Oh, he seemed bouncy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected oddly.

She stared into her iced tea. "His name's Alex Barberry. He works at the café on 47th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in crackers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Onassis gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cracker in the Virgin Islands 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 jerking at the synagogue when he struggled in and started to pant. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to wink at that funny tramp," she sobbed.

He handed her a whoopee cushion and she wiped her eyes doubtfully. He noticed her ring looked dry. "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 esophagus noisily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would tweak my Barbie doll if I didn't roll," she replied. "I said he's a miniscule oyster. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's miniscule.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Barberry?"

"Only a year; I've only been in the Virgin Islands since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked joyously, "did Mister Barberry ever talk about someone named Peter Dixon?

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

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

She looked at him elatedly. "I'm nobody's tootsie," she orated, "and I don't want to be in Mexico too long. I hope you can do something about Alex soon."

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

"I can whirl to Mexico as soon as I pack a nail, a tailcoat, and my advertisement."

"You'd better take a rag too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he tittered valiantly.

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

She rose from her seat and pranced caustically out of the office. He stared uneasily after her.

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