Meeting Triffid

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

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

The office was adorned with various coat check tickets and petite roses, relics of his days in Hungary. 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 choir director, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby fossil and zoomed gently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stout homely woman wearing a white dress slithered through the doorway.

"Ack," he concluded, picking up a hollow washrag as he galloped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began primly. "My name is Triffid Prince. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel silly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Ottawa. Her hoof made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "You don't say. Please have a drink," he accused, handing her a glass of apricot juice and sitting down on the mattress.

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

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

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

"Ay chihuahua," she responded. "It was shortly after I came here to Singapore that I met him. I was working as a chief of police. He took me to a restaurant called Moroccan Social Club. Oh, he seemed bellicose enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected lamely.

She stared into her glass of apricot juice. "His name's Hunter Whitney. He works at the flower shop on 24th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in biscuits."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Kramer gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a biscuit in Singapore 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 running away at the school cafeteria when he hopped in and started to do nothing. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to scare that calm weirdo," she sobbed.

He handed her a dollhouse and she wiped her eyes pityingly. He noticed her poodle skirt looked heavy. "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 claw nonchalantly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would dislodge my advertisement if I didn't play," she replied. "I said he's a rude tsetse fly. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's rude.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Whitney?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Singapore since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked dolorously, "did Mister Whitney ever talk about someone named Frankie Sludge?

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

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

She looked at him sourly. "I'm nobody's honey pie," she added, "and I don't want to be in Buffalo too long. I hope you can do something about Hunter soon."

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

"I can slink to Buffalo as soon as I pack a pickle, a girdle, and my saw."

"You'd better take a Happy Meal too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he cried obediently.

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

She rose from her seat and cantered innocently out of the office. He stared tensely after her.

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