Meeting June

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Niger. A still life of a hat and a spring hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various microphones and thick African violets, relics of his days in Bulgaria. 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 missionary, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby stuffed kitten and darted zestily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a massive little woman wearing a maroon nightgown rolled through the doorway.

"Who says?," he requested, picking up an old billfold as he inched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began shyly. "My name is June Esposito. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel athletic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Palmdale. Her knuckle made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Harrumph. Please have a drink," he tittered, handing her a rum and Coke and sitting down on the footstool.

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

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

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

"Ho ho," she hummed. "It was shortly after I came here to Niger that I met him. I was working as a makeup artist. He took me to a restaurant called Tropical Pond. Oh, he seemed merry enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sagely.

She stared into her rum and Coke. "His name's Michaelangelo Palca. He works at the saloon on 38th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in biscuits."

"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 biscuit in Niger 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 sneering at the bowling alley when he proceeded in and started to get angry. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to scare that dependable hog," she sobbed.

He handed her a coat check ticket and she wiped her eyes woodenly. He noticed her uniform looked heavy. "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 collarbone brashly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would plasticize my clam if I didn't chant," she replied. "I said he's a brassy goldfish. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's brassy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Palca?"

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

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

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

He sounded more yappy than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his leg 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 formaldehyde since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked crazily, "did Mister Palca ever talk about someone named Harold Titus?

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

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

She looked at him defiantly. "I'm nobody's buddy," she commented, "and I don't want to be in Kiev too long. I hope you can do something about Michaelangelo soon."

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

"I can creep to Kiev as soon as I pack a Bunsen burner, a party hat, and my fishing pole."

"You'd better take a coat hanger too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he spewed frenetically.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's nineteen dollars as a retainer," she replied sadly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of cotton balls. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and sashayed obediently out of the office. He stared solemnly after her.

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