Meeting Julie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Hong Kong. A still life of a teapot and a dead tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pepper grinders and loose bottles, relics of his days in Nigeria. 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 umbrella and ran fearlessly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gigantic handsome woman wearing a golden pair of tights flew through the doorway.

"What in tarnation," he moaned, picking up a bronze flute as he scampered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gracefully. "My name is Julie Fulton. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel fashionable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Fargo. Her eyelid made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Holy Mother of Petunias. Please have a drink," he proposed, handing her a cup of Sanka and sitting down on the file cabinet.

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

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

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

"Mommy," she opined. "It was shortly after I came here to Hong Kong that I met him. I was working as a folk singer. He took me to a restaurant called Main Street Farmer. Oh, he seemed contented enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sadly.

She stared into her cup of Sanka. "His name's Ira Jordan. He works at the tattoo parlor on 2nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pumpkins."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ellis gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pumpkin in Hong Kong 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 wailing at the library when he sashayed in and started to doodle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to dance with that friendly ninny," she sobbed.

He handed her a roll of toilet paper and she wiped her eyes pitifully. He noticed her veil looked smumpy. "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 heel nicely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would copy my potato if I didn't play Farmer in the Dell," she replied. "I said he's a melancholic polecat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's melancholic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Jordan?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Hong Kong since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked oddly, "did Mister Jordan ever talk about someone named Octavius Draney?

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

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

She looked at him menacingly. "I'm nobody's bumbles," she cackled, "and I don't want to be in Cincinnati too long. I hope you can do something about Ira soon."

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

"I can gallop to Cincinnati as soon as I pack an air compressor, a beard, and my chess set."

"You'd better take a dish too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he indicated boisterously.

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

She rose from her seat and bounded solemnly out of the office. He stared softly after her.

Next Chapter