Meeting Juanita

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Namibia. A still life of a Band-aid and a stone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various Happy Meals and miniature bird baths, relics of his days in Armenia. 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 phlebotomist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby baton and whirled intensely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a massive handsome woman wearing a purple space suit bounced through the doorway.

"Nooo," he hollered, picking up a weird oriental vase as he swung to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began stealthily. "My name is Juanita Saint Pierre. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel shifty. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Anaheim. Her arm made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Fiddlesticks. Please have a drink," he proposed, handing her a glass of lemonade and sitting down on the end table.

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

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

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

"Godspeed," she amended. "It was shortly after I came here to Namibia that I met him. I was working as a historian. He took me to a restaurant called Philadelphia Temple. Oh, he seemed perky enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected furiously.

She stared into her glass of lemonade. "His name's Jesse Oliver. He works at the photography studio on 14th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in clarinets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cox gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a clarinet in Namibia 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 squeaking at the supermarket when he ambled in and started to jump. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to lick that intrepid scamp," she sobbed.

He handed her a beach ball and she wiped her eyes grimly. He noticed her pair of galoshes looked filthy. "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 ego grudgingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would beat my dictionary if I didn't purr," she replied. "I said he's a stubby grizzly bear. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's stubby.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Oliver?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Namibia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked wryly, "did Mister Oliver ever talk about someone named Scotty Blanco?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Cox 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 spa in Liverpool. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him numbly. "I'm nobody's honey-pie," she reminded, "and I don't want to be in Liverpool too long. I hope you can do something about Jesse soon."

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

"I can inch to Liverpool as soon as I pack a paper airplane, a birthday suit, and my tube of glue."

"You'd better take a daisy too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he cajoled menacingly.

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

She rose from her seat and swung recklessly out of the office. He stared lazily after her.

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