Meeting Jolene

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

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

The office was cluttered with various pillows and magnificent pens, relics of his days in Denmark. 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 florist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby houseplant and sailed humbly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a huge redheaded woman wearing a blue space suit sped through the doorway.

"Diddly bunk," he hissed, picking up a slimy dictionary as he capered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began bravely. "My name is Jolene Custer. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel loving. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Guadalajara. Her skin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Achoo. Please have a drink," he fretted, handing her a Manhattan and sitting down on the stool.

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

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

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

"Adios," she squealed. "It was shortly after I came here to Greece that I met him. I was working as a coroner. He took me to a restaurant called the Bamboo Bison. Oh, he seemed rapacious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected perkily.

She stared into her Manhattan. "His name's Buck Singh. He works at the candy store on 30th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in flutes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Brinkman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a flute in Greece 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 raising an eyebrow at the city park when he rolled in and started to get frazzled. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to demean that generous drip," she sobbed.

He handed her a rubber chicken and she wiped her eyes trustingly. He noticed her earring looked bizarre. "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 pride fiercely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would curl my clarinet if I didn't snore," she replied. "I said he's a queer crab. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's queer.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Singh?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Greece since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked stealthily, "did Mister Singh ever talk about someone named Garrett Popper?

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

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

She looked at him immediately. "I'm nobody's little chickadee," she griped, "and I don't want to be in Atlanta too long. I hope you can do something about Buck soon."

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

"I can lope to Atlanta as soon as I pack a can of beer, a sport coat, and my vase."

"You'd better take a yo-yo too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he concluded strictly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's two hundred seventy-eight dollars as a retainer," she replied openly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of pairs of headphones. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and walked gracefully out of the office. He stared woefully after her.

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