Meeting Jolene

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Mauritania. A still life of a chess set and a mushroom hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various kites and archaic packs of gum, relics of his days in the Philippines. 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 biologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby chess set and scurried noisily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a small smallish woman wearing an amber pair of culottes sidled through the doorway.

"I'm on it," he bragged, picking up a stiff orchid as he padded to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel disorganized. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Buenos Aires. Her skin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Great Scott. Please have a drink," he maintained, handing her a glass of buttermilk and sitting down on the recliner.

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

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

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

"I'm so sure," she swore. "It was shortly after I came here to Mauritania that I met him. I was working as a janitor. He took me to a restaurant called European Pig. Oh, he seemed poised enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hopelessly.

She stared into her glass of buttermilk. "His name's Allan Bell. He works at the fabric store on 37th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in diaries."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Dunn gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a diary in Mauritania 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 snoring at the pet store when he flew in and started to exhale. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to tattle on that shy quacker," she sobbed.

He handed her a stick of gum and she wiped her eyes woodenly. He noticed her belt buckle looked speckled. "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 eyelid glumly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would dye my cane if I didn't come to," she replied. "I said he's a frightened Doberman. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's frightened.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bell?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked neatly, "did Mister Bell ever talk about someone named Giovanni Harmon?

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

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

She looked at him boisterously. "I'm nobody's little one," she hissed, "and I don't want to be in Hell too long. I hope you can do something about Allan soon."

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

"I can dash to Hell as soon as I pack a pail, a bib, and my bone."

"You'd better take a statue too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he disputed hungrily.

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

She rose from her seat and crawled blankly out of the office. He stared caustically after her.

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