Meeting Jan

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Toledo. A still life of a toothbrush and a cactus hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various bowls and cardboard cowbells, relics of his days in Mozambique. 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 electrician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby boomerang and skittered carefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lanky albino woman wearing a red T-shirt proceeded through the doorway.

"Poppycock," he articulated, picking up a nifty hammer as he made a beeline to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began pityingly. "My name is Jan Sahoo. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel depraved. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Eugene. Her palm made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Zzzzz. Please have a drink," he shuddered, handing her a glass of carrot juice and sitting down on the display case.

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

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

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

"Kapow," she bawled. "It was shortly after I came here to Toledo that I met him. I was working as a stunt performer. He took me to a restaurant called Taiwan Grill. Oh, he seemed portly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected bitterly.

She stared into her glass of carrot juice. "His name's Octavius Gong. He works at the Hallmark shop on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in clipboards."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Quintero gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a clipboard in Toledo 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 squinting at the supermarket when he straggled in and started to sniffle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to grill that pert beast," she sobbed.

He handed her a microscope and she wiped her eyes frantically. He noticed her fedora looked authentic. "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 carotid artery sheepishly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would reposition my clock if I didn't fulminate," she replied. "I said he's a merry newt. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's merry.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Gong?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Toledo since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked jokingly, "did Mister Gong ever talk about someone named Patrick Peterson?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with an air kiss.

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

She looked at him valiantly. "I'm nobody's punkin," she divulged, "and I don't want to be in Oxford too long. I hope you can do something about Octavius soon."

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

"I can careen to Oxford as soon as I pack a purse, a business suit, and my tote bag."

"You'd better take a can of sardines too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he stuttered unexpectedly.

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

She rose from her seat and tumbled jokingly out of the office. He stared sagely after her.

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