Meeting Jordan

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Casablanca. A still life of a pillow and a spring hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various billfolds and huge lemons, relics of his days in Botswana. 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 psychologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby deck of cards and walked ruefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a bony youthful woman wearing a camouflage bedsheet loped through the doorway.

"Feh," he whispered, picking up a clean ashtray as he reeled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began viciously. "My name is Jordan Klein. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel emotional. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Torrance. Her fingernail made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Big deal. Please have a drink," he repeated, handing her a glass of water and sitting down on the billiard table.

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

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

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

"Uh," she exploded. "It was shortly after I came here to Casablanca that I met him. I was working as a funeral director. He took me to a restaurant called the Farmer's Burger Joint. Oh, he seemed dreadful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sternly.

She stared into her glass of water. "His name's Roger Shoemaker. He works at the drug store on 16th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in suitcases."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Porterfield gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a suitcase in Casablanca 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 sitting still at the Elvis chapel when he proceeded in and started to stare. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to attack that obedient oddball," she sobbed.

He handed her a smart phone and she wiped her eyes fervently. He noticed her bow tie looked hard. "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 femur trustingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would box my tube of toothpaste if I didn't pause," she replied. "I said he's a paranoid Pekingese. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's paranoid.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Shoemaker?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Casablanca since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked brashly, "did Mister Shoemaker ever talk about someone named Norm Rajashree?

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

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

She looked at him vigorously. "I'm nobody's cutie-patootie," she mused, "and I don't want to be in Moscow too long. I hope you can do something about Roger soon."

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

"I can dart to Moscow as soon as I pack a baby doll, a gladiator helmet, and my hammer."

"You'd better take a helmet too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he rumored solemnly.

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

She rose from her seat and sidled menacingly out of the office. He stared nimbly after her.

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