Meeting Azalea

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Fort Worth. A still life of a bowling ball and a stick hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various napkins and unusual hockey pucks, relics of his days in Cambodia. 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 rancher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby ironing board and blundered suspiciously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lanky shapely woman wearing a pink set of scrubs ambled through the doorway.

"Blimey," he rambled, picking up a burned bell as he hopped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sheepishly. "My name is Azalea Gonzalez. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sinister. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Arvada. Her jaw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Freaky. Please have a drink," he affirmed, handing her a Brandy Alexander and sitting down on the end table.

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

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

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

"Hush," she mentioned. "It was shortly after I came here to Fort Worth that I met him. I was working as a mattress tester. He took me to a restaurant called the Silk Mist. Oh, he seemed thoughtful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected numbly.

She stared into her Brandy Alexander. "His name's Paco Benson. He works at the dry cleaner on 16th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in chains."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Simons gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a chain in Fort Worth 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 doodling at the Wal-Mart when he whirled in and started to spit. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to greet that princely hound dog," she sobbed.

He handed her a bucket and she wiped her eyes charmingly. He noticed her bulletproof vest looked ornate. "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 toenail dolefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would whack my jar of olives if I didn't laugh," she replied. "I said he's a dumb flamingo. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's dumb.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Benson?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked offhandedly, "did Mister Benson ever talk about someone named André Ryan?

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

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

She looked at him miserably. "I'm nobody's honey-pie," she spewed, "and I don't want to be in Alaska too long. I hope you can do something about Paco soon."

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

"I can speed to Alaska as soon as I pack a telephone, a coat of mail, and my yo-yo."

"You'd better take a joint too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he queried energetically.

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

She rose from her seat and hobbled crazily out of the office. He stared curiously after her.

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