If you, like me, took botany in college to avoid dissecting cats in Bio 101, you will have already known that "angiosperm" is the generic name for flowering plants. Otherwise, now you do. But I didn't know until I looked it up for this story what a spadix or spathe was. They are, respectively, the little standy-up-thing on a jack-in-the-pulpit and the big hoody thing that encloses it, collectively making the jack look like someone who if he was in a park with your children you would just as soon the cops hustled him on about his way.
Anyway, I loved the words and couldn't resist using them in my story. I in fact considered calling my hard-boiled detective Sam Spadix. But since I didn't know the words before I wrote the story I decided I couldn't expect anybody else to, and anyway when you only have 500 words to work with you don't want to waste any explaining why a jack-in-the-pulpit is called Sam.
Here's the story:
The
Girl With the Silken Sepals
By
Robin Ford Wallace
The Flowerbed was
not my regular habitat but that’s not to say there was anything wrong with
it. It seemed a nice enough joint,
well-drained, just a quiet little place where your working-slob photosynthesizer
could kick back with a cup of something cool after 12 hours in the hot
sun. You know. Vegetate.
There was a rose
tending bar, heavily perfumed, maybe a little past full bloom but not going to
seed just yet, thank you very much.
Zinnias perched on toadstools looking fresh as daisies, big heads bent
toward their drinks like that was all in the world they cared about. But guys would flash a stamen at them across
the room and though they pretended not to see it was safe to bet there’d be
some cross-pollination later on.
Not for me. I was here on business. I sat there in my brown-stripe trifoliate,
spadix tucked discreetly into spathe, trying not to do anything that screamed
UNDERCOVER.
Then I looked up
and saw: Her.
She wilted,
sobbing, over an iced mimosa. She was
lovely, slender and long-stemmed, a rich purple-blue flecked delicately with
gold. I moved from the bar to her table
as naturally as a heliotrope turning toward the sun.
“Cheer up,” I
said. “What are you, a weeping willow?”
“Don’t be
ranunculus.” She gave me a drop-dead
look. “Anyone can see I’m an
iris.”
“I know. You’re practically waving a blue flag.”
That made her
laugh, a low sweet sound from deep in her pedicels. “All right, Jack, I like your styles.” She gave me a smile that made my stamens turgid. “Mind if I call you that? You can tuck your spadix into your spathe
all day long, I can spot a jack-in-the-pulpit from 100 yards. It’s that holy look. What are you, an undercover cop?”
I managed not to
flinch. “OK. Call me Jack. What do I
call you?”
“I’m Angie O’Sperm.”
“I’m Angie O’Sperm.”
“An Irish iris?”
“No,” she said bitterly. “I’m just an all-American garden variety. Wanted to be a flower showgirl but I was a
late bloomer and missed my chance.
Instead I ended up in this lousy joint hustling hostas for the
Nightshade Family.”
“The Nightshades
own this place?” My anthers perked up,
lobes cocked.
“Oh, yes. Their roots run deep here.”
I leaned
forward. “Listen, Angie, I can help you
get away from those stinkweeds.”
“Would you,
Jack? Yes, I believe you would.” She smiled.
“God, look at me. I’d better go
fix my face.”
She disappeared
into the back and I sat there grinning foolishly until a familiar voice said
behind me: “Considering the lilies,
Jack?”
It was my partner,
“Sweet” William Bloom. “Not just any
lily. Bill. Wait till you see her. There she comes now!”
Bang! Bill shot.
Angie dropped like a whacked weed.
“No!” I shouted.
“It was you or
her.” He rolled her over so I could
see: She had a pistil.
“The Nightshades
were on to you,” he said. “Sorry, Jack:
“She was a plant.”
END
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