Meeting Joyce

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in England. A still life of a magnifying glass and a stone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various Kindles and funny pairs of headphones, relics of his days in Pakistan. 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 radio announcer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby backpack and sped charmingly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a cadaverous blushing woman wearing a burgundy scarf proceeded through the doorway.

"Darn," he implored, picking up a burned radio as he galloped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began bravely. "My name is Joyce Plummer. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel daring. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Mumbai. Her finger made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Lord be praised. Please have a drink," he brought up, handing her a shot of whiskey and sitting down on the dresser.

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

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

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

"Spiff," she belched. "It was shortly after I came here to England that I met him. I was working as a neurologist. He took me to a restaurant called Kim's Garden. Oh, he seemed enthusiastic enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected speedily.

She stared into her shot of whiskey. "His name's Will Silva. He works at the novelty shop on 48th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in tickets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Adler gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a ticket in England 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 calculating at the church when he trotted in and started to snore. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to stump that muddled beast," she sobbed.

He handed her a clipboard and she wiped her eyes kindly. He noticed her ribbon looked aromatic. "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 properly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would remember my bowling ball if I didn't clear out," she replied. "I said he's a pert bullfrog. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's pert.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Silva?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in England since then."

"I see." He felt for his Colt 45 in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

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

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

"Tell me," he asked pityingly, "did Mister Silva ever talk about someone named Adrian Craft?

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

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

She looked at him softly. "I'm nobody's poopsy-woopsy," she sneered, "and I don't want to be in Luxembourg too long. I hope you can do something about Will soon."

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

"I can straggle to Luxembourg as soon as I pack a stopwatch, a toupee, and my Eton jacket."

"You'd better take a toilet seat too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he stated suddenly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's twenty-five dollars as a retainer," she replied hopefully. I also have an extremely valuable collection of brochures. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and tiptoed boldly out of the office. He stared surreptitiously after her.

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