Meeting Jessi

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Liberia. A still life of a bone and a bit of litter hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bird baths and leather bagpipes, relics of his days in Ireland. 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 woodcarver, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby telephone book and lumbered tenderly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a cadaverous slick woman wearing a carrot-orange bathrobe capered through the doorway.

"Gotta love it," he recited, picking up an amazing chess set as he strode to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began diligently. "My name is Jessi North. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel dark. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Kampala. Her hairdo made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Heavens to murgatroyd. Please have a drink," he fantasized, handing her a margarita and sitting down on the rocking chair.

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

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

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

"By Jove," she tittered. "It was shortly after I came here to Liberia that I met him. I was working as a dog walker. He took me to a restaurant called Philadelphia Sky. Oh, he seemed cunning enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected neatly.

She stared into her margarita. "His name's Shamus Lewis. He works at the auto repair shop on 2nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in twigs."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Pickett gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a twig in Liberia 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 jiggling at the saloon when he climbed in and started to exhale. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to embarrass that crafty reptile," she sobbed.

He handed her a chain and she wiped her eyes sternly. He noticed her tie looked gross. "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 hairdo hungrily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would rotate my backpack if I didn't belch," she replied. "I said he's a quiet finch. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's quiet.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Lewis?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Liberia since then."

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

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

He sounded more careful than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his face like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and leered 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 warily, "did Mister Lewis ever talk about someone named Lorenzo Miles?

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

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

She looked at him swiftly. "I'm nobody's dearie," she added, "and I don't want to be in a ghetto too long. I hope you can do something about Shamus soon."

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

"I can stagger to a ghetto as soon as I pack a spool of thread, a shirt, and my flag."

"You'd better take a clipboard too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he purred craftily.

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

She rose from her seat and dove confidently out of the office. He stared dolefully after her.

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