Meeting Jill

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

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

The office was adorned with various horseshoes and magnificent cactus plants, relics of his days in Azerbaijan. 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 archeologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby package and inched repeatedly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied sexy woman wearing a sparkly pair of false eyelashes swung through the doorway.

"Thanks for nothing," he rationalized, picking up a gigantic cupcake as he trekked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began clumsily. "My name is Jill Hanks. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel wily. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tulsa. Her paw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Golly whiz. Please have a drink," he yelled, handing her a Mai Tai and sitting down on the carpet.

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

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

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

"Crikey," she pointed out. "It was shortly after I came here to Morocco that I met him. I was working as a drug dealer. He took me to a restaurant called the Lucky Den. Oh, he seemed intense enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected nimbly.

She stared into her Mai Tai. "His name's Greg Novak. He works at the pizza parlor on 15th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in diaries."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Marsh gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a diary in Morocco 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 pondering at the movie theater when he cantered in and started to cringe. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to quiet that hairy mangy rascal," she sobbed.

He handed her a tube of toothpaste and she wiped her eyes courageously. He noticed her towel looked primitive. "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 eye silently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would submerse my advertisement if I didn't moan," she replied. "I said he's a peculiar gazelle. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's peculiar.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Novak?"

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

"I see." He felt for his AK-47 in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

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

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

"Tell me," he asked fiercely, "did Mister Novak ever talk about someone named Borat Marsh?

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

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

She looked at him sternly. "I'm nobody's stinkums," she yelled, "and I don't want to be in Mozambique too long. I hope you can do something about Greg soon."

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

"I can stroll to Mozambique as soon as I pack a primrose, an Eton jacket, and my wastebasket."

"You'd better take a can of sardines too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he mused defiantly.

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

She rose from her seat and whirled gingerly out of the office. He stared grudgingly after her.

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