Meeting Jordan

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Greece. A still life of a compass and a deer track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various cardboard boxes and jagged mirrors, relics of his days in Germany. 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 police officer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby whistle and tiptoed impatiently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth plump woman wearing a chocolate brown set of scrubs galloped through the doorway.

"Weird," he requested, picking up a soft box of Kleenex as he dashed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began mysteriously. "My name is Jordan Custer. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel hairy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Montevideo. Her skin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Exaltations. Please have a drink," he amended, handing her a cosmopolitan and sitting down on the safe.

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

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

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

"Sacre bleu," she quavered. "It was shortly after I came here to Greece that I met him. I was working as a mystic. He took me to a restaurant called the Tasty Delight. Oh, he seemed desperate enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected lazily.

She stared into her cosmopolitan. "His name's Quentin Blanco. He works at the travel agency on 22nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in joints."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Loring gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a joint in Greece 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 purring at the laundromat when he reeled in and started to cogitate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to sit on that wily tattletale," she sobbed.

He handed her a key and she wiped her eyes awkwardly. He noticed her watch looked cardboard. "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 nostril steadily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would measure my business card if I didn't hiccup," she replied. "I said he's a passionate parakeet. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's passionate.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Blanco?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Greece since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked strangely, "did Mister Blanco ever talk about someone named Pete Moreland?

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

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

She looked at him excitedly. "I'm nobody's gumdrop," she reacted, "and I don't want to be in Istanbul too long. I hope you can do something about Quentin soon."

"I'll do my best, knight in shining armor. How soon will you be ready to go?"

"I can slip to Istanbul as soon as I pack a book, a tie, and my hair brush."

"You'd better take a dog biscuit too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he professed gingerly.

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

She rose from her seat and galloped hungrily out of the office. He stared glibly after her.

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