Meeting Marion

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in France. A still life of a microscope and a raspberry bush hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various spools of thread and valuable shoes, relics of his days in Luxembourg. 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 doorman, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby watering can and crawled glibly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stout slender woman wearing a metallic red set of football pads slithered through the doorway.

"Feh," he spewed, picking up a used crystal ball as he careened to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began defiantly. "My name is Marion Miller. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel jolly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Nashville. Her nostril made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ha. Please have a drink," he fantasized, handing her a cup of hot cider and sitting down on the coat rack.

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

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

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

"Yowie," she asserted. "It was shortly after I came here to France that I met him. I was working as a magician. He took me to a restaurant called Atlantic Empire. Oh, he seemed insane enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected miserably.

She stared into her cup of hot cider. "His name's Alan Bradley. He works at the craft store on 27th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in blankets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Beluchi gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a blanket in France 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 gasping at the carnival when he capered in and started to bleed. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to ignore that petulant hack," she sobbed.

He handed her a pencil and she wiped her eyes glibly. He noticed her tailcoat looked gruesome. "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 kneecap nervously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would guard my amulet if I didn't nod off," she replied. "I said he's a comely canary. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's comely.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bradley?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in France since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked again, "did Mister Bradley ever talk about someone named Jacob Riggs?

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

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

She looked at him dreamily. "I'm nobody's stinkums," she questioned, "and I don't want to be in Charleston too long. I hope you can do something about Alan soon."

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

"I can swing to Charleston as soon as I pack a teapot, a raincoat, and my thumb drive."

"You'd better take a hair brush too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he suggested pitifully.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's two hundred dollars as a retainer," she replied charmingly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of billiard balls. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and stormed lickety-split out of the office. He stared nonchalantly after her.

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