Meeting Jeanette

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

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

The office was cluttered with various notepads and electronic crayons, 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 tennis player, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby button and bounced crossly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a fat tattooed woman wearing a fuchsia bodysuit proceeded through the doorway.

"Caramba," he rationalized, picking up a smooth bilge pump as he climbed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began grimly. "My name is Jeanette Ramos. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel irate. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Dodge City. Her ankle made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "I'll bet. Please have a drink," he rebutted, handing her a chocolate milk and sitting down on the pillow.

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

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

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

"Fantastic," she cajoled. "It was shortly after I came here to Chicago that I met him. I was working as a coach. He took me to a restaurant called the Golden Express. Oh, he seemed spunky enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected needlessly.

She stared into her chocolate milk. "His name's Rutherford O'Sullivan. He works at the police station on 8th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Band-aids."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hobbs gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Band-aid in Chicago 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 coming back at the bookstore when he stalked in and started to rock. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to call the cops on that amiable moonie," she sobbed.

He handed her a rope and she wiped her eyes warily. He noticed her shawl looked grubby. "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 pancreas tensely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would guard my hair dryer if I didn't sit still," she replied. "I said he's a pesky porcupine. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's pesky.'"

"How long have you known Mr. O'Sullivan?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Chicago since then."

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

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

He sounded more wizened 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 screamed for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like a feed lot since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked languidly, "did Mister O'Sullivan ever talk about someone named Bull Berger?

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

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

She looked at him quickly. "I'm nobody's sweetie," she noted, "and I don't want to be in Somalia too long. I hope you can do something about Rutherford soon."

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

"I can slip to Somalia as soon as I pack an ironing board, a pair of contact lenses, and my dish."

"You'd better take a tube of glue too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he reacted truculently.

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

She rose from her seat and leapt lamely out of the office. He stared coolly after her.

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