Meeting Jill

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Moscow. A still life of a clipboard and a maple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various shovels and hand-painted crutches, relics of his days in Zambia. 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 gunsmith, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby elephant tusk and waddled deftly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a scrawny little woman wearing a purple jumpsuit breezed through the doorway.

"Holy buckets," he screeched, picking up a grubby yardstick as he breezed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began arrogantly. "My name is Jill Berkowitz. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel frantic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Abilene. Her eyeball made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ka-ching. Please have a drink," he emphasized, handing her a mint julep and sitting down on the fainting couch.

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

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

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

"Blecch," she ranted. "It was shortly after I came here to Moscow that I met him. I was working as an ecologist. He took me to a restaurant called Kyoto Palace. Oh, he seemed cowardly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected ferociously.

She stared into her mint julep. "His name's Willie Bewley. He works at the health food store on 20th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Frisbees."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Tillerman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Frisbee in Moscow 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 smiling at the K-Mart when he bolted in and started to growl. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to draw strength from that cocky dodo," she sobbed.

He handed her a bag of potato chips and she wiped her eyes hopefully. He noticed her gladiator helmet 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 leg effortlessly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would package my shovel if I didn't adjust," she replied. "I said he's a confident rabbit. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's confident.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bewley?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Moscow since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sorrowfully, "did Mister Bewley ever talk about someone named Helmut Glidden?

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

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

She looked at him uneasily. "I'm nobody's stinkums," she interrupted, "and I don't want to be in Hawaii too long. I hope you can do something about Willie soon."

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

"I can struggle to Hawaii as soon as I pack a sack, a stovepipe hat, and my stuffed owl."

"You'd better take a chain too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he spat cheerfully.

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

She rose from her seat and traipsed sweetly out of the office. He stared anxiously after her.

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