Meeting Sharon

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Tokyo. A still life of a candle and a maple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various stuffed kittens and big packs of gum, relics of his days in New Zealand. 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 social media influencer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby rock and struggled tenderly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a divine spindly woman wearing a forest green tuxedo flew through the doorway.

"Meh," he fantasized, picking up a rigid fossil as he bolted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began accidentally. "My name is Sharon Sattler. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel frightened. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Anchorage. Her hoof made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Oof. Please have a drink," he blathered, handing her a cup of hot chocolate and sitting down on the TV.

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

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

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

"Harrumph," she remarked. "It was shortly after I came here to Tokyo that I met him. I was working as a McDonald's fry-cook. He took me to a restaurant called the Rainbow Dinner. Oh, he seemed miniscule enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected humbly.

She stared into her cup of hot chocolate. "His name's Ronald Weaver. He works at the boutique on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in balls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Gleason gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a ball in Tokyo 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 ruminating at the senior citizens center when he slunk in and started to calm down. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to defeat that polite scalawag," she sobbed.

He handed her a dollar bill and she wiped her eyes strangely. He noticed her kilt looked funny. "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 scalp automatically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would enclose my flowerpot if I didn't flail," she replied. "I said he's an angry sasquatch. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's angry.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Weaver?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Tokyo since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked threateningly, "did Mister Weaver ever talk about someone named Gavin Truong?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with an evil eye.

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

She looked at him delicately. "I'm nobody's pipkin," she commented, "and I don't want to be in Baton Rouge too long. I hope you can do something about Ronald soon."

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

"I can jump to Baton Rouge as soon as I pack a barbell, a dunce cap, and my garbage can."

"You'd better take a roll of toilet paper too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he proposed unexpectedly.

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

She rose from her seat and strode blindly out of the office. He stared intensely after her.

Next Chapter