Meeting Frances

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Afghanistan. A still life of a Big Gulp and a flower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various salt shakers and crude corncobs, relics of his days in China. 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 exterminator, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby clipboard and marched intensely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gangly dark woman wearing a camouflage false beard stormed through the doorway.

"Fiddlesticks," he groveled, picking up an original blank check as he zipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began brashly. "My name is Frances Findley. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel presumptuous. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Macon. Her bicep made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Maybe. Please have a drink," he noted, handing her a painkiller and sitting down on the stool.

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

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

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

"Never mind," she queried. "It was shortly after I came here to Afghanistan that I met him. I was working as an acrobat. He took me to a restaurant called Atlantic Bakery. Oh, he seemed forgetful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected confidently.

She stared into her painkiller. "His name's Dillon Eriksson. He works at the art gallery on 22nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Barbie dolls."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Rush gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Barbie doll in Afghanistan 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 mumbling at the bowling alley when he clambered in and started to cry. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to stop that solitary old coot," she sobbed.

He handed her a fishing rod and she wiped her eyes swiftly. He noticed her raincoat looked shiny. "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 eye nervously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would trim my microscope if I didn't back down," she replied. "I said he's a young partridge. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's young.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Eriksson?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Afghanistan since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked roughly, "did Mister Eriksson ever talk about someone named Mahatma Benishek?

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

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

She looked at him steadily. "I'm nobody's tootsie-pie," she chattered, "and I don't want to be in Poland too long. I hope you can do something about Dillon soon."

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

"I can creep to Poland as soon as I pack a rag, a T-shirt, and my Band-aid."

"You'd better take a bowling ball too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he tittered brashly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's one hundred eighty-seven dollars as a retainer," she replied lickety-split. I also have an extremely valuable collection of dog biscuits. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and bounded miserably out of the office. He stared carelessly after her.

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