Meeting Joanne

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in the United States. A still life of a skull and an egg shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bags of ice and new pairs of knitting needles, relics of his days in South Africa. 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 bullfighter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby chair and struggled energetically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth sprightly woman wearing a periwinkle ponytail waded through the doorway.

"Yay," he added, picking up an immense bat as he inched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began violently. "My name is Joanne Shelby. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel crafty. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Managua. Her kneecap made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy minerva. Please have a drink," he boomed, handing her a Tom Collins and sitting down on the stairway.

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

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

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

"Oh dear," she giggled. "It was shortly after I came here to the United States that I met him. I was working as a warehouse picker. He took me to a restaurant called Cindy's Blossom. Oh, he seemed daring enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected excitedly.

She stared into her Tom Collins. "His name's Antonio Saint Pierre. He works at the bank on 48th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in baseballs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Payne gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a baseball in the United States 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 snickering at the juice shop when he ran in and started to shrivel. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to defeat that hairy joker," she sobbed.

He handed her a Van Gogh and she wiped her eyes greedily. He noticed her necklace looked striped. "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 little finger sourly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would toss my spinning wheel if I didn't look angry," she replied. "I said he's a boring puma. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's boring.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Saint Pierre?"

"Only a day; I've only been in the United States since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked crazily, "did Mister Saint Pierre ever talk about someone named Mickey Prescott?

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

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

She looked at him angrily. "I'm nobody's cupcake," she informed, "and I don't want to be in Brussels too long. I hope you can do something about Antonio soon."

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

"I can hop to Brussels as soon as I pack a washrag, a ponytail, and my watering can."

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

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

She rose from her seat and danced warily out of the office. He stared noisily after her.

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