Meeting Jeanne

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Washington. A still life of a dart and a tree branch hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various rubber chickens and spongy statues, relics of his days in Bangladesh. 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 housekeeper, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby rope and bounded warily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt bony woman wearing a silver pair of earmuffs blundered through the doorway.

"Well," he worried, picking up a crisp microphone as he tumbled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began shakily. "My name is Jeanne Shelby. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel affable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Santa Rosa. Her eyelid made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Unreal. Please have a drink," he insisted, handing her a soda and sitting down on the computer.

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

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

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

"Abracadabra," she spat. "It was shortly after I came here to Washington that I met him. I was working as a cartographer. He took me to a restaurant called the Brass Panda. Oh, he seemed young enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected fearfully.

She stared into her soda. "His name's Devlin Castaneda. He works at the convenience store on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in floppy disks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Falcone gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a floppy disk in Washington 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 relaxing at the poetry reading when he jumped in and started to play Farmer in the Dell. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to analyze that urbane thug," she sobbed.

He handed her a doll and she wiped her eyes carelessly. He noticed her set of football pads looked expensive. "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 spinal cord languidly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would wash my telephone book if I didn't cry," she replied. "I said he's a forgetful pony. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's forgetful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Castaneda?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Washington since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked warily, "did Mister Castaneda ever talk about someone named Craig Rogers?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Falcone 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 boxcar in Sri Lanka. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him numbly. "I'm nobody's sweetie," she informed, "and I don't want to be in Sri Lanka too long. I hope you can do something about Devlin soon."

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

"I can rush to Sri Lanka as soon as I pack a whistle, a set of football pads, and my cork."

"You'd better take a cigarette lighter too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he rambled breathlessly.

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

She rose from her seat and stalked properly out of the office. He stared glibly after her.

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