Meeting Jill

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Detroit. A still life of a hip flask and a spring hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various hand puppets and waxy batteries, relics of his days in Russia. 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 rodeo cowboy, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby compass and staggered gleefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stout albino woman wearing a blue letter jacket scampered through the doorway.

"Who cares," he boasted, picking up an unusual rope as he bounded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began angrily. "My name is Jill O'Sullivan. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel queer. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Beijing. Her head made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Knock me over with a feather. Please have a drink," he spat, handing her a glass of fruit punch and sitting down on the stairway.

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

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

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

"Oh my word," she vowed. "It was shortly after I came here to Detroit that I met him. I was working as a real estate investor. He took me to a restaurant called the Roman Orchid. Oh, he seemed bad enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected victoriously.

She stared into her glass of fruit punch. "His name's Parson Hillman. He works at the laboratory on 16th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in rolls of toilet paper."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Osborne gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a roll of toilet paper in Detroit 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 yelling at the restaurant when he proceeded in and started to party. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to giggle at that creepy maniac," she sobbed.

He handed her a pot and she wiped her eyes positively. He noticed her few new rags looked stolen. "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 pancreas flightily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would stitch my flower if I didn't laugh," she replied. "I said he's an impish badger. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's impish.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hillman?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Detroit since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sternly, "did Mister Hillman ever talk about someone named Edward Brazil?

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

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

She looked at him accidentally. "I'm nobody's dovey-poo," she acknowledged, "and I don't want to be in Casablanca too long. I hope you can do something about Parson soon."

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

"I can lope to Casablanca as soon as I pack a dog collar, a headband, and my yo-yo."

"You'd better take a cork too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he spewed positively.

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

She rose from her seat and darted lickety-split out of the office. He stared dolefully after her.

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