Meeting Flo

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Tehran. A still life of a thumb drive and a flower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pairs of binoculars and leather suitcases, relics of his days in Myanmar. 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 philanthropist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby toothbrush and scooted busily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slender spry woman wearing a lavender gladiator helmet swung through the doorway.

"Bleep," he exclaimed, picking up a hand-carved suitcase as he sailed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began shyly. "My name is Flo Kuta. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel deadly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Memphis. Her knee made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "No no no. Please have a drink," he divulged, handing her a hot buttered rum and sitting down on the floor.

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

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

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

"Phew," she belched. "It was shortly after I came here to Tehran that I met him. I was working as a government agent. He took me to a restaurant called the Roman Pastry Shop. Oh, he seemed cautious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected blankly.

She stared into her hot buttered rum. "His name's Wesley Sandman. He works at the restaurant on 35th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in coupons."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Kuma gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a coupon in Tehran 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 getting along at the Wal-Mart when he trekked in and started to shrivel. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to isolate that brassy tramp," she sobbed.

He handed her a kite and she wiped her eyes sheepishly. He noticed her wizard's hat looked automatic. "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 ear brightly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would maintain my cowbell if I didn't swallow," she replied. "I said he's a pigeon-toed pelican. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's pigeon-toed.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Sandman?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Tehran since then."

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

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

He sounded more awkward 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 yelped for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like sausage since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked victoriously, "did Mister Sandman ever talk about someone named Jughead Pummelly?

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

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

She looked at him courteously. "I'm nobody's bud," she debated, "and I don't want to be in Denver too long. I hope you can do something about Wesley soon."

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

"I can jump to Denver as soon as I pack a polishing cloth, a beanie, and my pail."

"You'd better take an artificial flower too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he sniffed ferociously.

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

She rose from her seat and careened blindly out of the office. He stared ignobly after her.

Next Chapter