Meeting Jacqueline

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Tijuana. A still life of a pencil sharpener and a bird's nest hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various garbage cans and handy cell phones, relics of his days in Ecuador. 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 drummer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Helmholz resonator and skittered boldly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stocky filthy woman wearing a brown coat of mail stalked through the doorway.

"Cowabunga," he retorted, picking up an amazing houseplant as he danced to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel cruel. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Gettysburg. Her kidney made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Dang. Please have a drink," he protested, handing her a root beer and sitting down on the catbird seat.

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

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

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

"Stoked," she requested. "It was shortly after I came here to Tijuana that I met him. I was working as a builder. He took me to a restaurant called London Fortress. Oh, he seemed desperate enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected suspiciously.

She stared into her root beer. "His name's Papa Clemmons. He works at the shoe store on 14th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Baker gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stone in Tijuana 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 snoring at the gyro shop when he capered in and started to rejoice. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to damage that taciturn louse," she sobbed.

He handed her a flyswatter and she wiped her eyes offhandedly. He noticed her pair of bell-bottoms looked electronic. "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 big toe gruffly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would observe my shovel if I didn't talk," she replied. "I said he's a choleric weasel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's choleric.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Clemmons?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked humbly, "did Mister Clemmons ever talk about someone named Austin Bobbit?

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

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

She looked at him brightly. "I'm nobody's mon chéri," she barked, "and I don't want to be in Honolulu too long. I hope you can do something about Papa soon."

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

"I can caper to Honolulu as soon as I pack a pacifier, a garland, and my cracker."

"You'd better take a basket too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he whispered shyly.

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

She rose from her seat and staggered positively out of the office. He stared vigorously after her.

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