Meeting Jen

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Peoria. A still life of a dog collar and a leaf hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various sets of braces and narrow cell phones, relics of his days in New Zealand. 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 cartoonist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pickle and stormed charmingly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a cadaverous homely woman wearing a teal bolo tie inched through the doorway.

"Well," he queried, picking up an excellent spoon as he slumped to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel depraved. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in San Angelo. Her knee made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Neato. Please have a drink," he pleaded, handing her a glass of lemonade and sitting down on the card table.

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

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

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

"Yes," she declaimed. "It was shortly after I came here to Peoria that I met him. I was working as a truck driver. He took me to a restaurant called Yong's Table. Oh, he seemed shiftless enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected properly.

She stared into her glass of lemonade. "His name's Jackson Greco. He works at the tobacco shop on 9th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in helmets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Onassis gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a helmet in Peoria 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 sneezing at the disco when he stalked in and started to vomit. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to reeducate that fearless dodo," she sobbed.

He handed her a bottle of perfume and she wiped her eyes breathlessly. He noticed her tinfoil hat looked disgusting. "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 hip anxiously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would ignore my box if I didn't primp," she replied. "I said he's a phlegmatic skunk. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's phlegmatic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Greco?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Peoria since then."

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

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

He sounded more boring than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his paw like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and lay around in bed for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like cherry pie since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked boldly, "did Mister Greco ever talk about someone named Lucas Nye?

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

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

She looked at him uselessly. "I'm nobody's sugar-bun," she winked, "and I don't want to be in the Netherlands too long. I hope you can do something about Jackson soon."

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

"I can clamber to the Netherlands as soon as I pack a needle and thread, a denim skirt, and my rope."

"You'd better take a stamp too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he begged firmly.

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

She rose from her seat and clambered gleefully out of the office. He stared charmingly after her.

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