Meeting Jacqueline

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Kenya. A still life of a bag of popcorn and a pine cone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various hubcaps and metallic red paper airplanes, relics of his days in South Sudan. 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 rodeo cowboy, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bowling ball and flew fondly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a huge elderly woman wearing a sparkly winter coat inched through the doorway.

"Isht," he whined, picking up a fabulous pepper grinder as he rushed to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel resolute. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Fort Wayne. Her pituitary gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Alack. Please have a drink," he responded, handing her a glass of KoolAid and sitting down on the counter.

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

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

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

"How about that," she phrased. "It was shortly after I came here to Kenya that I met him. I was working as a pharmacist. He took me to a restaurant called Philadelphia Table. Oh, he seemed moody enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hopefully.

She stared into her glass of KoolAid. "His name's Francisco Flowers. He works at the tattoo parlor on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in ingots of plutonium."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Weaver gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an ingot of plutonium in Kenya 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 spitting at the bagel shop when he tiptoed in and started to sneeze. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to see that obnoxious prattling gabbler," she sobbed.

He handed her a clarinet and she wiped her eyes coldly. He noticed her pith helmet looked archaic. "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 mouth again. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would package my hacksaw if I didn't chant," she replied. "I said he's a princely phantom. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's princely.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Flowers?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked greedily, "did Mister Flowers ever talk about someone named Upton Knight?

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

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

She looked at him lamely. "I'm nobody's pumpkin," she boomed, "and I don't want to be in Karachi too long. I hope you can do something about Francisco soon."

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

"I can canter to Karachi as soon as I pack a shoe, a letter jacket, and my pink flamingo."

"You'd better take a stuffed bunny too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he complained trustingly.

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

She rose from her seat and sashayed later out of the office. He stared zestily after her.

Next Chapter