Meeting Jody

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Paris. A still life of a stopwatch and a spider web hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various clams and waxy bowling balls, relics of his days in Latvia. 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 doctor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby watering can and straggled fervently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a scrawny stocky woman wearing a jade pair of overalls lumbered through the doorway.

"Gadzooks and crapadoodle," he acknowledged, picking up a small dish as he galumphed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began lazily. "My name is Jody MacDonald. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel choleric. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Monterrey. Her tummy made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Silence. Please have a drink," he asserted, handing her an old fashioned and sitting down on the display case.

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

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

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

"Knock me over with a feather," she suggested. "It was shortly after I came here to Paris that I met him. I was working as a dog groomer. He took me to a restaurant called the White Feast. Oh, he seemed menacing enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected tenderly.

She stared into her old fashioned. "His name's Clifton Ackerman. He works at the storage unit on 4th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in potatoes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Simmons gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a potato in Paris 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 treading water at the orchestra concert 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 frighten that radiant wretch," she sobbed.

He handed her a campaign sign and she wiped her eyes uselessly. He noticed her military uniform looked crusty. "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 chest sheepishly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would mutilate my bilge pump if I didn't die," she replied. "I said he's a spindly finch. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's spindly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ackerman?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Paris since then."

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

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

He sounded more self-confident than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his intestine like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and showed up for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like fresh-baked bread since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked impatiently, "did Mister Ackerman ever talk about someone named Phil McGee?

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

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

She looked at him hopefully. "I'm nobody's twinkie," she blustered, "and I don't want to be in the Philippines too long. I hope you can do something about Clifton soon."

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

"I can lope to the Philippines as soon as I pack a bucket, a headscarf, and my mushroom."

"You'd better take a Frisbee too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he insisted lazily.

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

She rose from her seat and sped lamely out of the office. He stared joyously after her.

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