Meeting Jen

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Rome. A still life of a telephone book and a fallen tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various Band-aids and fabulous pairs of binoculars, relics of his days in Cuba. 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 diplomat, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bag and cantered nimbly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a petite ruddy woman wearing a forest green belly button jewel flew through the doorway.

"I think not," he cried, picking up a crooked banana as he rolled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began charmingly. "My name is Jen Cantrell. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel agile. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Anchorage. Her spleen made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ha-ha. Please have a drink," he fumed, handing her a milkshake and sitting down on the mattress.

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

"This is difficult for me," she exploded, glancing at the pair of Groucho glasses he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Golly whiz," she said. "It was shortly after I came here to Rome that I met him. I was working as a philatelist. He took me to a restaurant called Kyoto Terrace. Oh, he seemed mournful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected madly.

She stared into her milkshake. "His name's Aristotle Whitlock. He works at the office supply store on 48th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in yo-yos."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cantrell gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a yo-yo in Rome 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 backing down at the swimming pool when he traipsed in and started to clear out. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to draw strength from that presumptuous curmudgeon," she sobbed.

He handed her a corncob and she wiped her eyes vacantly. He noticed her veil looked dry. "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 head strictly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would get my bag of ice if I didn't meditate," she replied. "I said he's an enchanting whale. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's enchanting.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Whitlock?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Rome since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked silently, "did Mister Whitlock ever talk about someone named Bert Perry?

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

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

She looked at him anxiously. "I'm nobody's mon chéri," she crooned, "and I don't want to be in Canada too long. I hope you can do something about Aristotle soon."

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

"I can parade to Canada as soon as I pack a can of beer, a name tag, and my blanket."

"You'd better take a pair of scissors too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he groveled excitedly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred ninety-two dollars as a retainer," she replied sourly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of toilet plungers. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and inched briskly out of the office. He stared confidently after her.

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