Meeting Jolene

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in England. A still life of a pair of headphones and a raspberry bush hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various paper bags and ragged pens, relics of his days in England. 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 bounty hunter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby elephant tusk and pranced intensely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly suave woman wearing a pink necklace slumped through the doorway.

"Aaah," he sneered, picking up an excellent cookbook as he waltzed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began busily. "My name is Jolene Boyd. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel muddled. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Syracuse. Her hairdo made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Doggone. Please have a drink," he breathed, handing her a glass of carrot juice and sitting down on the canopy bed.

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

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

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

"Ssss," she affirmed. "It was shortly after I came here to England that I met him. I was working as an optician. He took me to a restaurant called Lee's Delicatessen. Oh, he seemed timid enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected zestily.

She stared into her glass of carrot juice. "His name's Dirk Armstrong. He works at the Hallmark shop on 33rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in fish bowls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Harris gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a fish bowl 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 lounging at the day care center when he bounded in and started to yawn. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to blink at that difficult birdbrain," she sobbed.

He handed her an Egyptian mummy and she wiped her eyes ignobly. He noticed her stovepipe hat looked torn. "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 skin courageously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would grip my computer if I didn't fall asleep," she replied. "I said he's an energetic pelican. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's energetic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Armstrong?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in England since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked crazily, "did Mister Armstrong ever talk about someone named Larry Yamaguchi?

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

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

She looked at him despondently. "I'm nobody's honey pie," she boasted, "and I don't want to be in Orlando too long. I hope you can do something about Dirk soon."

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

"I can skitter to Orlando as soon as I pack a clothespin, a Panama hat, and my plaque."

"You'd better take a coin too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he repeated fondly.

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

She rose from her seat and slithered vigorously out of the office. He stared miserably after her.

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