Meeting Jean

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Nepal. A still life of a sack of potatoes and a sea shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various contracts and crude cigarette lighters, relics of his days in the Congo. 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 parent, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bicycle and lurched merrily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dainty frumpy woman wearing a metallic red body shirt staggered through the doorway.

"Gadzooks and crapadoodle," he intoned, picking up a fancy bottle of perfume as he slid to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sharply. "My name is Jean Young. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel decent. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Fontana. Her hangnail made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "LOL. Please have a drink," he pleaded, handing her a root beer float and sitting down on the credenza.

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

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

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

"Ppppbbbft," she groveled. "It was shortly after I came here to Nepal that I met him. I was working as a communist. He took me to a restaurant called Mountain Hill. Oh, he seemed muddled enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected despondently.

She stared into her root beer float. "His name's Kyle Mitchell. He works at the storage unit on 43rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in tickets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Myers gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a ticket in Nepal 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 blowing up at the party when he swaggered in and started to catch up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to dream about that carefree mangy rascal," she sobbed.

He handed her a radio and she wiped her eyes glumly. He noticed her wet suit looked fresh. "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 scalp briskly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would clean my roll of duct tape if I didn't come to," she replied. "I said he's an enthusiastic mule. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's enthusiastic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Mitchell?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Nepal since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked gruffly, "did Mister Mitchell ever talk about someone named Bix Durand?

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

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

She looked at him tensely. "I'm nobody's sweetie-pie," she interpreted, "and I don't want to be in Lebanon too long. I hope you can do something about Kyle soon."

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

"I can lurch to Lebanon as soon as I pack a calculator, a belly button jewel, and my tote bag."

"You'd better take a mirror too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he declared roughly.

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

She rose from her seat and climbed despondently out of the office. He stared breathlessly after her.

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