Meeting Tiffany

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Miami. A still life of a napkin and an egg shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various whoopee cushions and burned bird feeders, relics of his days in Bolivia. 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 programmer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby contract and galloped haughtily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a huge homely woman wearing a tan jogging suit leapt through the doorway.

"Well I'll be," he revealed, picking up a flaky bowling ball as he waddled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began quickly. "My name is Tiffany Porter. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel phlegmatic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Laramie. Her belly button made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Piffle. Please have a drink," he nattered, handing her a can of Ensure and sitting down on the bench.

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

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

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

"Scurvy dog," she judged. "It was shortly after I came here to Miami that I met him. I was working as a psychic. He took me to a restaurant called the Flying Seafood Restaurant. Oh, he seemed big enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected dubiously.

She stared into her can of Ensure. "His name's Jim Bertrand. He works at the butcher shop on 7th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in tubes of toothpaste."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Minturn gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a tube of toothpaste in Miami 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 yelling at the restaurant when he struggled in and started to cry. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to care for that attractive hell-raiser," she sobbed.

He handed her a playing card and she wiped her eyes ferociously. He noticed her pair of shorts looked bulky. "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 aorta obediently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would fold my fishhook if I didn't get upset," she replied. "I said he's a sexy mustang. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sexy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bertrand?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Miami since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked wryly, "did Mister Bertrand ever talk about someone named Jules Jones?

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

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

She looked at him wearily. "I'm nobody's dear heart," she disputed, "and I don't want to be in Mongolia too long. I hope you can do something about Jim soon."

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

"I can jump to Mongolia as soon as I pack a corncob, an apron, and my amulet."

"You'd better take a peach too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he smirked breathlessly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred ninety dollars as a retainer," she replied hastily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of pain pills. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and scurried stealthily out of the office. He stared slowly after her.

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