Meeting Jordan

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

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

The office was cluttered with various umbrellas and large pails, 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 rabble rouser, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby camera and crept temperamentally toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an enormous petite woman wearing a mauve pair of booties galloped through the doorway.

"Why," he avowed, picking up a golden Big Gulp as he straggled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began anxiously. "My name is Jordan Young. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel arrogant. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Charlotte. Her ego made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Stinkers. Please have a drink," he remarked, handing her a Bacardi and sitting down on the pool table.

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

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

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

"Good grief," she bragged. "It was shortly after I came here to Virginia that I met him. I was working as a film producer. He took me to a restaurant called the Red Retreat. Oh, he seemed presumptuous enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected rapidly.

She stared into her Bacardi. "His name's Quentin Witherspoon. He works at the liquor store on 7th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in yo-yos."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Melville gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a yo-yo in Virginia 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 puffing at the disco when he bolted in and started to growl. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to injure that talkative bonehead," she sobbed.

He handed her a cane and she wiped her eyes sweetly. He noticed her bicycle helmet 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 ego impatiently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would enshrine my crutch if I didn't adjust the clock," she replied. "I said he's an attractive cobra. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's attractive.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Witherspoon?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked accidentally, "did Mister Witherspoon ever talk about someone named Daniel Seagram?

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

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

She looked at him suspiciously. "I'm nobody's mopsy," she enunciated, "and I don't want to be in Louisville too long. I hope you can do something about Quentin soon."

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

"I can fly to Louisville as soon as I pack a hat, a pair of moccasins, and my towel."

"You'd better take a chair too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he cajoled miserably.

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

She rose from her seat and tramped glumly out of the office. He stared dubiously after her.

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