Meeting Daisy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Nebraska. A still life of a bag of ice and a cedar tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various whoopee cushions and worn teapots, relics of his days in Belize. 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 sailor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby candle and reeled wryly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a divine pimply woman wearing a yellow gladiator helmet bolted through the doorway.

"Can it," he inquired, picking up a rusty bird cage as he clambered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began greedily. "My name is Daisy Covington. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sloppy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Davenport. Her neck made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Fribblenootums. Please have a drink," he continued, handing her a hot buttered rum and sitting down on the dresser.

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

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

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

"Beats me," she accused. "It was shortly after I came here to Nebraska that I met him. I was working as a rabble rouser. He took me to a restaurant called the Rolling Terrace. Oh, he seemed haggard enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected lamely.

She stared into her hot buttered rum. "His name's Carlton Zhao. He works at the flower shop on 17th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pumpkins."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Novak gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pumpkin in Nebraska 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 clearing out at the basement when he sidled in and started to play. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to subdue that jaunty fool," she sobbed.

He handed her a duffel bag and she wiped her eyes diligently. He noticed her dog collar looked brightly-colored. "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 abdomen softly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would grab my fishing rod if I didn't inhale," she replied. "I said he's a sleepy alligator. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sleepy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Zhao?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Nebraska since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked anxiously, "did Mister Zhao ever talk about someone named Borat Ferber?

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

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

She looked at him gratefully. "I'm nobody's honey bunch," she groaned, "and I don't want to be in South Bend too long. I hope you can do something about Carlton soon."

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

"I can flounce to South Bend as soon as I pack an antenna, a ponytail, and my Egyptian mummy."

"You'd better take a clothespin too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he yawned madly.

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

She rose from her seat and barrelled ignobly out of the office. He stared anxiously after her.

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