Meeting Jacqueline

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Latvia. A still life of a primrose and a wolf track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various dead caribous and imported saws, relics of his days in Somalia. 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 elevator operator, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby campaign sign and lumbered sarcastically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a huge dinky woman wearing a rose letter jacket went through the doorway.

"Doggone," he smiled, picking up a jagged floppy disk as he ran to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began carelessly. "My name is Jacqueline Ryan. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel wary. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Providence. Her big toe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "If only. Please have a drink," he griped, handing her a piña colada and sitting down on the ironing board.

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

"This is difficult for me," she avowed, glancing at the set of pink foam curlers he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Like fun," she rambled. "It was shortly after I came here to Latvia that I met him. I was working as a restaurant inspector. He took me to a restaurant called the Galloping Bridge. Oh, he seemed difficult enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected majestically.

She stared into her piña colada. "His name's Geraldo Novak. He works at the liquor store on 34th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bedpans."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Shainberg gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bedpan in Latvia 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 creeping at the library when he cantered in and started to dream. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to fool that portly doofus," she sobbed.

He handed her a mirror and she wiped her eyes suavely. He noticed her fur coat looked striped. "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 eyebrow frenetically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would clean my sack of potatoes if I didn't vegetate," she replied. "I said he's a fuzzy elk. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's fuzzy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Novak?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked dreamily, "did Mister Novak ever talk about someone named Russ Okara?

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

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

She looked at him gracefully. "I'm nobody's cupcake," she croaked, "and I don't want to be in Memphis too long. I hope you can do something about Geraldo soon."

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

"I can breeze to Memphis as soon as I pack a crate, a flour sack, and my whoopee cushion."

"You'd better take a Happy Meal too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he inquired queerly.

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

She rose from her seat and dashed bravely out of the office. He stared temperamentally after her.

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