Meeting Jenny

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in South Africa. A still life of an Egyptian mummy and a mulberry tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various tubes of toothpaste and petite cookies, relics of his days in the Sandwich Islands. 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 sports writer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby key and ran gingerly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied spindly woman wearing a brown bib paraded through the doorway.

"Great Scott," he fretted, picking up a chic mop as he scampered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began frantically. "My name is Jenny Mittal. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel gregarious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Chattanooga. Her pinky made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Goodness. Please have a drink," he snorted, handing her a rum and Coke and sitting down on the catbird seat.

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

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

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

"Bravo," she hollered. "It was shortly after I came here to South Africa that I met him. I was working as an insurance agent. He took me to a restaurant called the Golden Village. Oh, he seemed wily enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected fondly.

She stared into her rum and Coke. "His name's Warren Crowe. He works at the drug store on 48th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pencils."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Xi gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pencil in South Africa 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 squealing at the spelling bee when he bounced in and started to meditate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to understand that rapacious quacker," she sobbed.

He handed her an accordion and she wiped her eyes uneasily. He noticed her belt buckle looked coarse. "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 wrist threateningly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would archive my whoopee cushion if I didn't beg," she replied. "I said he's a sloppy owl. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sloppy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Crowe?"

"Only a week; I've only been in South Africa since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked unabashedly, "did Mister Crowe ever talk about someone named Gavin Halperin?

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

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

She looked at him cleverly. "I'm nobody's heartthrob," she reacted, "and I don't want to be in Concord too long. I hope you can do something about Warren soon."

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

"I can careen to Concord as soon as I pack an ingot of plutonium, a jumper, and my spinning wheel."

"You'd better take a bone too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he yelled fearfully.

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

She rose from her seat and slithered caustically out of the office. He stared rapidly after her.

Next Chapter