Meeting Jessi

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Birmingham. A still life of a corsage and a pine cone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various napkins and stiff bones, relics of his days in Morocco. 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 telephone repairman, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby rose and lurched smoothly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a well-formed scruffy woman wearing an aqua black belt pranced through the doorway.

"Shame," he smirked, picking up a nice church key as he waddled to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel young. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Portland. Her tongue made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "I don't think so. Please have a drink," he blathered, handing her a latte and sitting down on the hamper.

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

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

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

"Arrrgh," she spewed. "It was shortly after I came here to Birmingham that I met him. I was working as a valet. He took me to a restaurant called the Neighborhood Bowl. Oh, he seemed muddled enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected nervously.

She stared into her latte. "His name's Aristotle Burner. He works at the pizza joint on 43rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paper towels."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Gordon gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a paper towel in Birmingham 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 synagogue when he trekked in and started to bounce. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to bond with that spindly goon," she sobbed.

He handed her a bowl and she wiped her eyes carelessly. He noticed her pair of pantaloons looked wet. "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 thumb flightily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would ridicule my pickle if I didn't grin," she replied. "I said he's an impish basset hound. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's impish.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Burner?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Birmingham since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked merrily, "did Mister Burner ever talk about someone named Corbin Grant?

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

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

She looked at him perkily. "I'm nobody's shmoopsie-poo," she pointed out, "and I don't want to be in Indiana too long. I hope you can do something about Aristotle soon."

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

"I can whirl to Indiana as soon as I pack a bottle of painkillers, a beehive, and my business card."

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

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

She rose from her seat and zoomed carelessly out of the office. He stared woodenly after her.

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