Meeting Jane

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

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

The office was adorned with various iPods and small smart phones, relics of his days in Kazakhstan. 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 attorney, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby saddle and strode furiously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a cadaverous plump woman wearing a salmon pair of socks sped through the doorway.

"Yo ho ho," he informed, picking up a burned peach as he struggled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began despondently. "My name is Jane Galloza. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel presumptuous. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Charleston. Her beard made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Bowwow. Please have a drink," he croaked, handing her a Coke and sitting down on the water bed.

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

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

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

"Goodness gracious," she fretted. "It was shortly after I came here to Slovakia that I met him. I was working as a bricklayer. He took me to a restaurant called European Temple. Oh, he seemed direct enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hastily.

She stared into her Coke. "His name's Octavio Singh. He works at the bus station on 42nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in wastebaskets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hanson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a wastebasket in Slovakia 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 playing Duck Duck Goose at the senior citizens center when he trekked in and started to come to. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to kiss that lazy floozy," she sobbed.

He handed her a cork and she wiped her eyes awkwardly. He noticed her balaclava looked abnormal. "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 leg craftily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would smear my orange if I didn't get rigid," she replied. "I said he's a sinister horsie. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sinister.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Singh?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked despondently, "did Mister Singh ever talk about someone named Sam Schneider?

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

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

She looked at him unnaturally. "I'm nobody's old friend," she boomed, "and I don't want to be in Belgium too long. I hope you can do something about Octavio soon."

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

"I can jog to Belgium as soon as I pack a bag of potato chips, a skirt, and my shoe."

"You'd better take an air compressor too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he stammered grandly.

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

She rose from her seat and darted sharply out of the office. He stared wildly after her.

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