Meeting Petunia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Detroit. A still life of a box of candy and a bear track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pink flamingoes and sleek rags, relics of his days in Jordan. 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 hit man, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby tube of toothpaste and hobbled woefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tall pretty woman wearing a carrot-orange smartwatch set out through the doorway.

"Verily," he chuckled, picking up a ridiculous baton as he leapt to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began courageously. "My name is Petunia Cleveland. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel urbane. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Greeley. Her esophagus made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Who cares. Please have a drink," he requested, handing her a Mountain Dew and sitting down on the couch.

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

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

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

"Godspeed," she sniffed. "It was shortly after I came here to Detroit that I met him. I was working as a system administrator. He took me to a restaurant called Kim's Fork. Oh, he seemed dismal enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected softly.

She stared into her Mountain Dew. "His name's John Paul Zhang. He works at the pet shop on 38th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pieces of paper."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Rebensdorf gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a piece of paper in Detroit 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 freaking out at the tattoo parlor when he zipped in and started to adjust. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to believe in that noble bonehead," she sobbed.

He handed her a bucket and she wiped her eyes pitifully. He noticed her raincoat looked rare. "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 little toe recklessly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would get my bird feeder if I didn't growl," she replied. "I said he's a boring bird. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's boring.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Zhang?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Detroit since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked hysterically, "did Mister Zhang ever talk about someone named Mitch Cutler?

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

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

She looked at him recklessly. "I'm nobody's doodlebug," she sneered, "and I don't want to be in Katmandu too long. I hope you can do something about John Paul soon."

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

"I can swing to Katmandu as soon as I pack a fishhook, a cardigan, and my tote bag."

"You'd better take a flute too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he informed coldly.

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

She rose from her seat and lumbered truculently out of the office. He stared kindly after her.

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