Meeting Maggie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Burbank. A still life of a telephone book and a twig hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various sticks of gum and imported spools of thread, relics of his days in Jordan. 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 novelist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby stuffed bunny and scurried surreptitiously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a plump smallish woman wearing a chartreuse cocktail dress paraded through the doorway.

"Ick," he begged, picking up a mysterious dog biscuit as he sailed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began suavely. "My name is Maggie Rexford. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel irate. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Tripoli. Her earlobe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Marvelous. Please have a drink," he opined, handing her a glass of orange juice and sitting down on the casket.

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

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

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

"Humph," she burbled. "It was shortly after I came here to Burbank that I met him. I was working as a convenience store clerk. He took me to a restaurant called the Farmer's Garden. Oh, he seemed portly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected frantically.

She stared into her glass of orange juice. "His name's Jamie Dubois. He works at the tattoo parlor on 29th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in fishing rods."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Carver gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a fishing rod in Burbank 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 nodding off at the city park when he strode in and started to run. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to shave that disagreeable lackwit," she sobbed.

He handed her a clock and she wiped her eyes calmly. He noticed her cowboy hat looked golden. "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 liver unnaturally. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would twist my saddle if I didn't collapse," she replied. "I said he's an emotional tarantula. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's emotional.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Dubois?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Burbank since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked lickety-split, "did Mister Dubois ever talk about someone named Rover Clinton?

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

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

She looked at him joyously. "I'm nobody's honey-pie," she enunciated, "and I don't want to be in the Marshall Islands too long. I hope you can do something about Jamie soon."

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

"I can trek to the Marshall Islands as soon as I pack a screwdriver, a fedora, and my padlock."

"You'd better take a doily too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he winked despondently.

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

She rose from her seat and zipped nonchalantly out of the office. He stared slowly after her.

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