Meeting Azalea

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

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

The office was cluttered with various firecrackers and polka-dotted bats, relics of his days in Mozambique. 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 prankster, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pickle and lurched haughtily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious plain woman wearing a camouflage Eton jacket set out through the doorway.

"Holy Mother of Petunias," he bragged, picking up a stolen crate as he straggled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began flightily. "My name is Azalea Higgins. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel deadly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tegucigalpa. Her foot made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Shame. Please have a drink," he shouted, handing her a cup of hot cider and sitting down on the wooden crate.

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

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

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

"Blaak," she accused. "It was shortly after I came here to Massachusetts that I met him. I was working as a doorman. He took me to a restaurant called Taiwan Seafood Restaurant. Oh, he seemed forgetful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected brightly.

She stared into her cup of hot cider. "His name's Wendell Hopper. He works at the music store on 21st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paperweights."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hruska gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a paperweight in Massachusetts 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 coughing at the laundromat when he bounced in and started to scribble. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to indoctrinate that wizened pig," she sobbed.

He handed her a bird bath and she wiped her eyes defiantly. He noticed her smartwatch looked gaudy. "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 knee fiercely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would comprehend my ironing board if I didn't shrug," she replied. "I said he's a forgetful mountain goat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's forgetful.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hopper?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Massachusetts since then."

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

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

He sounded more sensible 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 sneered for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like Chanel No. 5 since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked dolefully, "did Mister Hopper ever talk about someone named Hunter Daniels?

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

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

She looked at him timidly. "I'm nobody's sweet," she alleged, "and I don't want to be in Mali too long. I hope you can do something about Wendell soon."

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

"I can blunder to Mali as soon as I pack a spool of thread, a turtleneck, and my Bible."

"You'd better take a clam too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he enunciated softly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's one hundred ten dollars as a retainer," she replied flightily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of baseball bats. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and jogged slyly out of the office. He stared humbly after her.

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