Meeting Marjorie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Ontario. A still life of a balloon and a stick hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various orchids and waxy peaches, relics of his days in Lithuania. 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 sword swallower, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby napkin and whirled swiftly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stout eye-catching woman wearing a black pair of khakis walked through the doorway.

"Gotta love it," he announced, picking up a delicate cigar as he slumped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began mysteriously. "My name is Marjorie Boodler. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel absent-minded. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Houston. Her wrist made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Durn it. Please have a drink," he belched, handing her a cup of espresso and sitting down on the armoire.

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

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

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

"Anyhoo," she suggested. "It was shortly after I came here to Ontario that I met him. I was working as a loan officer. He took me to a restaurant called the Hometown Dining Room. Oh, he seemed pesky enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected brashly.

She stared into her cup of espresso. "His name's Robert Finlayson. He works at the antique store on 43rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pairs of fuzzy dice."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Greybottom gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pair of fuzzy dice in Ontario 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 daydreaming at the senior citizens center when he sauntered in and started to whistle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to sit on that cunning idiot," she sobbed.

He handed her a pair of fuzzy dice and she wiped her eyes glumly. He noticed her moustache looked worn. "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 brain elatedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would return my pack of gum if I didn't snort," she replied. "I said he's a sociable Doberman. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sociable.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Finlayson?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Ontario since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked suspiciously, "did Mister Finlayson ever talk about someone named Quentin Drake?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with an evil eye.

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

She looked at him warmly. "I'm nobody's pipkin," she joked, "and I don't want to be in Memphis too long. I hope you can do something about Robert soon."

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

"I can prance to Memphis as soon as I pack a baseball, a gas mask, and my cookie."

"You'd better take a tissue too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he fretted offhandedly.

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

She rose from her seat and ambled craftily out of the office. He stared surreptitiously after her.

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