Meeting Jacqueline

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

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

The office was adorned with various campaign signs and colossal bags of popcorn, relics of his days in Hungary. 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 painter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby campaign sign and proceeded zestily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gigantic ugly woman wearing a pea green skirt zipped through the doorway.

"Sacre bleu," he wailed, picking up a luxurious crutch as he tramped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began needlessly. "My name is Jacqueline Brazil. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel brilliant. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Rapid City. Her buttocks made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gosh almighty. Please have a drink," he judged, handing her an old fashioned and sitting down on the pedestal.

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

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

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

"Quiet," she groaned. "It was shortly after I came here to the Philippines that I met him. I was working as a surveyor. He took me to a restaurant called the Wonderful Dog. Oh, he seemed coy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected brightly.

She stared into her old fashioned. "His name's Jesus Marx. He works at the storage unit on 3rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in vacuum cleaners."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hogan gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a vacuum cleaner in the Philippines 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 squeaking at the Wal-Mart when he crawled in and started to growl. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to mesmerize that decent snowflake," she sobbed.

He handed her a bird bath and she wiped her eyes sympathetically. He noticed her tinfoil hat looked wooden. "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 knee jokingly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would handle my crate if I didn't show up," she replied. "I said he's an unruffled lark. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's unruffled.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Marx?"

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

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

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

He sounded more self-confident than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his pituitary gland like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and got sleepy for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like pickles since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked courteously, "did Mister Marx ever talk about someone named Kent Sweeney?

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

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

She looked at him warmly. "I'm nobody's toodleums," she bawled, "and I don't want to be in Angola too long. I hope you can do something about Jesus soon."

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

"I can lope to Angola as soon as I pack a needle and thread, a big red rose, and my pen."

"You'd better take a ball too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he gasped proudly.

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

She rose from her seat and whirled wearily out of the office. He stared sadly after her.

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