Meeting Jen

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in the Swiss Alps. A still life of a bullet and a wildflower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various shovels and ridiculous Barbie dolls, relics of his days in Cameroon. 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 surgeon, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby microphone and stormed obediently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious redheaded woman wearing a sea green pair of bell-bottoms skittered through the doorway.

"I doubt it," he screeched, picking up a disgusting fish as he crawled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began lightly. "My name is Jen Hudson. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel agitated. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Lexington. Her hairdo made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Mommy. Please have a drink," he sighed, handing her a glass of carrot juice and sitting down on the wooden crate.

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

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

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

"No no no," she intoned. "It was shortly after I came here to the Swiss Alps that I met him. I was working as a nurse. He took me to a restaurant called the Galloping Express. Oh, he seemed conceited enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected obediently.

She stared into her glass of carrot juice. "His name's Miguel Milano. He works at the pastry shop on 4th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in packs of gum."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Krivosha gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pack of gum in the Swiss Alps 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 solitaire at the disco when he slipped in and started to purr. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to confront that angry lob-dotterel," she sobbed.

He handed her a spittoon and she wiped her eyes blankly. He noticed her pair of jackboots looked imitation. "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 wig energetically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would cut my bat if I didn't nod off," she replied. "I said he's an enchanting prairie dog. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's enchanting.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Milano?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in the Swiss Alps since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked fiercely, "did Mister Milano ever talk about someone named Pete Feldman?

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

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

She looked at him fervently. "I'm nobody's dreamboat," she urged, "and I don't want to be in Algeria too long. I hope you can do something about Miguel soon."

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

"I can amble to Algeria as soon as I pack a lemon, a locket, and my purse."

"You'd better take a coloring book too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he interrupted victoriously.

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

She rose from her seat and sashayed ignobly out of the office. He stared daintily after her.

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