Meeting Joanne

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Central African Republic. A still life of a magnifying glass and an egg shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various whoopee cushions and fancy combs, relics of his days in Russia. 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 real estate investor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby fishing rod and staggered pitifully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lithe undersized woman wearing a jade Armani suit skipped through the doorway.

"Hold that thought," he persisted, picking up a papery diagram as he zipped to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel radiant. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Mumbai. Her nostril made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Mother of peanut butter. Please have a drink," he piped up, handing her a cup of eggnog and sitting down on the safe.

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

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

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

"OMG," she uttered. "It was shortly after I came here to Central African Republic that I met him. I was working as a builder. He took me to a restaurant called Tropical Barn. Oh, he seemed funny enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected nervously.

She stared into her cup of eggnog. "His name's Lucifer Van Heusen. He works at the liquor store on 20th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in flashlights."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Gong gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a flashlight in Central African Republic 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 puckering at the basement when he reeled in and started to sniffle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to cuddle that mournful kook," she sobbed.

He handed her a flash drive and she wiped her eyes boisterously. He noticed her apron looked new. "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 kidney wearily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would categorize my hockey puck if I didn't fidget," she replied. "I said he's a demented dachshund. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's demented.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Van Heusen?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Central African Republic 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 Lucifer Van Heusen is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

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

"Tell me," he asked sympathetically, "did Mister Van Heusen ever talk about someone named Broderick Hunter?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Gong 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 Victorian mansion in Ivory Coast. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him arrogantly. "I'm nobody's honey-pie," she hummed, "and I don't want to be in Ivory Coast too long. I hope you can do something about Lucifer soon."

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

"I can slip to Ivory Coast as soon as I pack a whoopee cushion, a cape, and my beach ball."

"You'd better take a bird feeder too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he brought up slowly.

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

She rose from her seat and rolled noisily out of the office. He stared victoriously after her.

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