Meeting Julieann

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Sierra Leone. A still life of a potato and a bear track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various sacks and colossal cookies, 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 welder, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cookbook and lumbered furiously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as an emaciated muscular woman wearing a violet ring ambled through the doorway.

"Poof," he hollered, picking up a crooked cracker as he swung to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began properly. "My name is Julieann Simmons. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel grizzled. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Montevideo. Her forehead made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Alrighty-roo. Please have a drink," he laughed, handing her a glass of milk and sitting down on the stairway.

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

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

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

"Really," she panted. "It was shortly after I came here to Sierra Leone that I met him. I was working as a sheriff. He took me to a restaurant called Parisian Pizzeria. Oh, he seemed yappy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected strangely.

She stared into her glass of milk. "His name's Martin Craft. He works at the candy store on 44th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in guns."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Foster gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a gun in Sierra Leone 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 yelping at the swimming pool when he made a beeline in and started to grunt. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to kiss that sober witch," she sobbed.

He handed her a key and she wiped her eyes nonchalantly. He noticed her ponytail looked art deco. "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 thigh cunningly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would feel my contract if I didn't fulminate," she replied. "I said he's a cowardly crab. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's cowardly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Craft?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Sierra Leone since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked lamely, "did Mister Craft ever talk about someone named Eddie Skye?

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

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

She looked at him sympathetically. "I'm nobody's heart of hearts," she chanted, "and I don't want to be in Seychelles too long. I hope you can do something about Martin soon."

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

"I can hop to Seychelles as soon as I pack a bag of potato chips, a tuxedo, and my flashlight."

"You'd better take a can of beer too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he trumpeted curiously.

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

She rose from her seat and scampered uselessly out of the office. He stared timidly after her.

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