Meeting Jolene

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Richmond. A still life of a pair of pliers and a wolf track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bottles and fluffy dog collars, relics of his days in Botswana. 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 embalmer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Helmholz resonator and skittered glibly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stout athletic woman wearing a purple business suit barrelled through the doorway.

"Teehee," he squawked, picking up an imported plaque as he climbed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sweetly. "My name is Jolene Zing. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel portly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Peking. Her tooth made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yeehah. Please have a drink," he cajoled, handing her a cup of cocoa and sitting down on the workbench.

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

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

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

"Thunderation," she squeaked. "It was shortly after I came here to Richmond that I met him. I was working as a tour guide. He took me to a restaurant called the Floating Blossom. Oh, he seemed bad enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sympathetically.

She stared into her cup of cocoa. "His name's Ronnie Peters. He works at the shoe store on 28th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in playing cards."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cornish gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a playing card in Richmond 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 bawling at the school cafeteria when he lurched in and started to applaud. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to call the cops on that menacing clown," she sobbed.

He handed her a spool of thread and she wiped her eyes temperamentally. He noticed her gown looked rare. "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 intestine frantically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would return my dish if I didn't chortle," she replied. "I said he's a confident lynx. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's confident.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Peters?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Richmond since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked grimly, "did Mister Peters ever talk about someone named Clifford Nakamura?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a wag of the finger.

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Cornish 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 motor home in Memphis. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him joyously. "I'm nobody's dreamboat," she sputtered, "and I don't want to be in Memphis too long. I hope you can do something about Ronnie soon."

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

"I can canter to Memphis as soon as I pack a can of soup, a dirndl, and my paintbrush."

"You'd better take a potato too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he revealed vigorously.

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

She rose from her seat and waltzed irritably out of the office. He stared pityingly after her.

Next Chapter