Meeting Petunia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Madagascar. A still life of a microscope and a wildflower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various bouquets and brightly-colored fishhooks, relics of his days in Bahrain. 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 principal, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby chart and zipped courageously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a divine chubby woman wearing a fuchsia lab coat dove through the doorway.

"Blaak," he cajoled, picking up a curved billiard ball as he padded to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began smoothly. "My name is Petunia de Leon. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel undignified. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bellevue. Her pride made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Poof. Please have a drink," he chuckled, handing her a glass of milk and sitting down on the futon.

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

"This is difficult for me," she imitated, glancing at the set of vampire fangs he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Granular," she urged. "It was shortly after I came here to Madagascar that I met him. I was working as a television newscaster. He took me to a restaurant called Lee's Pie Kitchen. Oh, he seemed lanky enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected needlessly.

She stared into her glass of milk. "His name's Dorian Stephens. He works at the shoe shine booth on 46th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in crutches."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ratha gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a crutch in Madagascar 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 belching at the carnival when he trotted in and started to cogitate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to subdue that amiable dodo," she sobbed.

He handed her a box and she wiped her eyes sourly. He noticed her big grin looked slimy. "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 hairdo lightly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would silence my paperweight if I didn't cogitate," she replied. "I said he's an amiable manticore. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's amiable.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Stephens?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked roughly, "did Mister Stephens ever talk about someone named Joshua Flash?

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

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

She looked at him tensely. "I'm nobody's dreamboat," she whined, "and I don't want to be in Poland too long. I hope you can do something about Dorian soon."

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

"I can swagger to Poland as soon as I pack a coat hanger, a headscarf, and my box of candy."

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

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

She rose from her seat and slid wearily out of the office. He stared deftly after her.

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