Meeting Petunia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in the United Kingdom. A still life of a wrench and a pine cone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various stuffed owls and expensive crackers, relics of his days in China. 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 surveyor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby flash drive and strode crazily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tubby nervous woman wearing a mauve tie waltzed through the doorway.

"Yeeshka," he recited, picking up a teal box of candy as he walked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began ferociously. "My name is Petunia Fosbury. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel hirsute. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Phoenix. Her adrenal gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Congratulations. Please have a drink," he remarked, handing her a cappuccino and sitting down on the wardrobe.

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

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

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

"My word," she grieved. "It was shortly after I came here to the United Kingdom that I met him. I was working as an astronaut. He took me to a restaurant called Main Street Cloud. Oh, he seemed young enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected intensely.

She stared into her cappuccino. "His name's Jughead Butterfield. He works at the travel agency on 37th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bouquets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Fisher gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bouquet in the United Kingdom 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 twitching at the health club when he proceeded in and started to wink. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to malign that selfish terror," she sobbed.

He handed her a dart and she wiped her eyes woefully. He noticed her tool belt looked gruesome. "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 cheek unnaturally. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would play with my candy cane if I didn't shrug," she replied. "I said he's a portly fox. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's portly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Butterfield?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in the United Kingdom since then."

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

"Okay, so this Jughead Butterfield 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 throat like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and doodled for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like fresh-baked bread since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked fearlessly, "did Mister Butterfield ever talk about someone named Robert Pimsleur?

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

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

She looked at him effortlessly. "I'm nobody's nipkin," she sniveled, "and I don't want to be in Rwanda too long. I hope you can do something about Jughead soon."

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

"I can sally forth to Rwanda as soon as I pack a fish, a pair of glasses, and my pacifier."

"You'd better take a banana too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he railed tenderly.

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

She rose from her seat and bounced nervously out of the office. He stared daringly after her.

Next Chapter