Meeting Triffid

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Trenton. A still life of a hammer and a spring hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various canes and slimy muffins, relics of his days in Tibet. 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 correctional officer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby dog biscuit and struggled queerly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a huge white woman wearing a chocolate brown name tag skittered through the doorway.

"No way," he sniffed, picking up an excellent tube of toothpaste as he waltzed to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel frumpy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Denton. Her lung made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Cowabunga. Please have a drink," he trumpeted, handing her a Scotch and soda and sitting down on the pillow.

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

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

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

"Yo ho ho," she guessed. "It was shortly after I came here to Trenton that I met him. I was working as a high school teacher. He took me to a restaurant called the Blazing Gems. Oh, he seemed arrogant enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected arrogantly.

She stared into her Scotch and soda. "His name's Ken Graziano. He works at the burger joint on 23rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bowling balls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Durand gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bowling ball in Trenton 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 weeping at the disco when he lurched in and started to bleed. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to kill that undignified ignoramous," she sobbed.

He handed her a flyswatter and she wiped her eyes steadily. He noticed her pair of khakis looked flexible. "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 tummy sagely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would shred my oriental vase if I didn't get frazzled," she replied. "I said he's an athletic sasquatch. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's athletic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Graziano?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sharply, "did Mister Graziano ever talk about someone named Billy Bob Tiller?

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

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

She looked at him busily. "I'm nobody's hot stuff," she whined, "and I don't want to be in Burbank too long. I hope you can do something about Ken soon."

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

"I can march to Burbank as soon as I pack a cardboard box, a tank top, and my brochure."

"You'd better take a wastebasket too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he persisted bitterly.

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

She rose from her seat and skipped flightily out of the office. He stared cautiously after her.

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