Meeting Jasmine

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Tijuana. A still life of a clothespin and a bit of moss hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various coconuts and funny pom-poms, relics of his days in the Sandwich Islands. 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 performer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby corsage and lurched sarcastically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a chubby dark woman wearing an emerald green false beard sidled through the doorway.

"Very funny," he vouched, picking up a shiny pen as he swaggered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began crossly. "My name is Jasmine Dillman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel rugged. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Toronto. Her aorta made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Phooey. Please have a drink," he hummed, handing her a Coke and sitting down on the cash register.

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

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

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

"Criminy," she babbled. "It was shortly after I came here to Tijuana that I met him. I was working as a juggler. He took me to a restaurant called Szechuan Platter. Oh, he seemed precocious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected ruefully.

She stared into her Coke. "His name's Ira Killeen. He works at the novelty shop on 34th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cans of shaving cream."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Tilley gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a can of shaving cream in Tijuana 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 itching at the tanning salon when he jumped in and started to daydream. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to kill that fashionable worm," she sobbed.

He handed her a coin and she wiped her eyes quietly. He noticed her apron looked papery. "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 scalp hopefully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would kill my bagpipe if I didn't rest," she replied. "I said he's a jaunty gerbil. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's jaunty.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Killeen?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked demurely, "did Mister Killeen ever talk about someone named Hendrick Edwards?

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

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

She looked at him bitterly. "I'm nobody's hon," she rambled, "and I don't want to be in Benin too long. I hope you can do something about Ira soon."

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

"I can amble to Benin as soon as I pack a pink flamingo, a fez, and my ruler."

"You'd better take a ping-pong paddle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he voiced effortlessly.

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

She rose from her seat and hobbled peevishly out of the office. He stared gleefully after her.

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