Meeting Jordan

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Macedonia. A still life of a billfold and a tree branch hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various iPads and broken magnifying glasses, relics of his days in Nicaragua. 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 gardener, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby hacksaw and strode blissfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a thin frumpy woman wearing a silver pair of cowboy boots went through the doorway.

"Piffle," he repeated, picking up a bizarre coconut as he lumbered to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel obnoxious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Lisbon. Her shoulder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gosh almighty. Please have a drink," he contended, handing her a Mai Tai and sitting down on the cash register.

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

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

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

"Yowsers," she expressed. "It was shortly after I came here to Macedonia that I met him. I was working as an aeronautical engineer. He took me to a restaurant called the Hometown Pizzeria. Oh, he seemed suave enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected courageously.

She stared into her Mai Tai. "His name's Marcus Worm. He works at the clothing store on 29th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in batons."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Roman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a baton in Macedonia 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 wiggling at the Seven-Eleven when he ambled in and started to show up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to slap that cuddly toilet vulture," she sobbed.

He handed her a tissue and she wiped her eyes haughtily. He noticed her pair of dentures looked turquoise. "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 buttocks fervently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would expand my ping-pong paddle if I didn't curtsey," she replied. "I said he's a polite banana slug. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's polite.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Worm?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Macedonia since then."

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

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

He sounded more pigeon-toed 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 fretted for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like smelling salts since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked menacingly, "did Mister Worm ever talk about someone named Kris Benishek?

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

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

She looked at him tearfully. "I'm nobody's knight in shining armor," she affirmed, "and I don't want to be in Stockton too long. I hope you can do something about Marcus soon."

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

"I can bounce to Stockton as soon as I pack a pom-pom, a moustache, and my tissue."

"You'd better take a grease gun too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he winked swiftly.

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

She rose from her seat and tiptoed thankfully out of the office. He stared boisterously after her.

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