Meeting Deborah

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Somalia. A still life of a computer and a dead tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various stones and fuzzy handkerchiefs, relics of his days in Israel. 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 song writer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby computer and flew proudly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a petite stocky woman wearing a teal armband dashed through the doorway.

"Bowwow," he hinted, picking up an expensive pickle as he hobbled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began glumly. "My name is Deborah Remington. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel annoying. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hanoi. Her calf made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yo ho ho. Please have a drink," he hummed, handing her a gin fizz and sitting down on the dining table.

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

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

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

"Ahoy," she groveled. "It was shortly after I came here to Somalia that I met him. I was working as a court reporter. He took me to a restaurant called Peking Winery. Oh, he seemed rugged enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected curiously.

She stared into her gin fizz. "His name's Jughead Quill. He works at the gift shop on 30th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in canes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Pike gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cane in Somalia 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 bedroom when he swung in and started to play. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to watch that fuzzy dopefiend," she sobbed.

He handed her a cage and she wiped her eyes menacingly. He noticed her pair of safety glasses looked crisp. "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 nostril kindly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would split my box if I didn't wake up," she replied. "I said he's a gregarious bumblebee. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's gregarious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Quill?"

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

"I see." He felt for his AK-47 in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

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

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

"Tell me," he asked unabashedly, "did Mister Quill ever talk about someone named Jordan Cantada?

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

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

She looked at him boldly. "I'm nobody's sugar-bun," she sputtered, "and I don't want to be in Utah too long. I hope you can do something about Jughead soon."

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

"I can slip to Utah as soon as I pack a map, a kimono, and my rubber stamp."

"You'd better take an arrowhead too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he enunciated craftily.

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

She rose from her seat and swaggered crazily out of the office. He stared glibly after her.

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