Meeting Jeri

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Mozambique. A still life of a Kindle and a seed pod hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various bones and prickly balloons, relics of his days in Kuwait. 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 law clerk, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby dollhouse and skidded tenderly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly tiny woman wearing a khaki polo shirt made a beeline through the doorway.

"Yoohoo," he demanded, picking up a rough ashtray as he leapt to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began anxiously. "My name is Jeri Crick. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel boring. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Worcester. Her esophagus made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Great Caesar's ghost. Please have a drink," he breathed, handing her a shot of whiskey and sitting down on the crib.

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

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

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

"Get out," she cackled. "It was shortly after I came here to Mozambique that I met him. I was working as a home executive. He took me to a restaurant called the Dancing Dining Room. Oh, he seemed brazen enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected joyously.

She stared into her shot of whiskey. "His name's Lauren Cain. He works at the art museum on 22nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in teapots."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Coleman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a teapot in Mozambique 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 exercising at the rock concert when he crawled in and started to get dizzy. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to dump that intrepid thug," she sobbed.

He handed her a pinwheel and she wiped her eyes oddly. He noticed her belly button jewel looked ruined. "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 stomach immediately. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would dust my Helmholz resonator if I didn't ruminate," she replied. "I said he's a shiftless goose. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's shiftless.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Cain?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Mozambique since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked bravely, "did Mister Cain ever talk about someone named Dylan Coons?

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

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

She looked at him brashly. "I'm nobody's cream puff," she barked, "and I don't want to be in Swaziland too long. I hope you can do something about Lauren soon."

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

"I can tiptoe to Swaziland as soon as I pack a stuffed kitten, a bicycle helmet, and my vacuum cleaner."

"You'd better take a bugle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he squawked rapidly.

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

She rose from her seat and marched shakily out of the office. He stared gruffly after her.

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