Meeting Brooke

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Albania. A still life of a purse and a piece of driftwood hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various Frisbees and worn Happy Meals, relics of his days in Bahrain. 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 piano tuner, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby toy and strolled menacingly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a petite suave woman wearing an aquamarine stethoscope galumphed through the doorway.

"As if," he tittered, picking up a shiny pickle as he slid to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began madly. "My name is Brooke Popper. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel diabolical. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Wilmington. Her funny bone made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Zap. Please have a drink," he warbled, handing her a cup of bouillon and sitting down on the chest of drawers.

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

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

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

"Just a minute," she divulged. "It was shortly after I came here to Albania that I met him. I was working as a web guru. He took me to a restaurant called Riverside Dragon. Oh, he seemed excitable enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected positively.

She stared into her cup of bouillon. "His name's Jeff Barker. He works at the coffee shop on 25th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in dollhouses."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Shakewell gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a dollhouse in Albania 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 bouncing at the pool hall when he waddled in and started to jiggle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to spill a milkshake on that hirsute hog," she sobbed.

He handed her an egg shell and she wiped her eyes again. He noticed her party hat looked cheap. "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 nostril crossly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would remember my stuffed bunny if I didn't snore," she replied. "I said he's a jaunty iguana. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's jaunty.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Barker?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sweetly, "did Mister Barker ever talk about someone named Jughead Pavlov?

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

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

She looked at him noisily. "I'm nobody's sweetie," she opined, "and I don't want to be in Ontario too long. I hope you can do something about Jeff soon."

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

"I can leap to Ontario as soon as I pack a toolbox, a corset, and my ticket."

"You'd better take a rag too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he intoned patiently.

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

She rose from her seat and trekked numbly out of the office. He stared neatly after her.

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