Meeting Magnolia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Long Beach. A still life of a bag of potato chips and a stone hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various tote bags and mechanical sacks of potatoes, relics of his days in Haiti. 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 scam artist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby magazine and scampered bravely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a lanky sorrowful woman wearing a forest green shirt climbed through the doorway.

"Duh," he barked, picking up a valuable computer as he strode to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began fearfully. "My name is Magnolia Vargas. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel cruel. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Addis Ababa. Her paw made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Phew. Please have a drink," he rationalized, handing her a cup of bouillon and sitting down on the canopy bed.

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

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

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

"Ay yi yi," she amended. "It was shortly after I came here to Long Beach that I met him. I was working as a makeup artist. He took me to a restaurant called the Yummy River. Oh, he seemed choleric enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected cautiously.

She stared into her cup of bouillon. "His name's Matt Khatchaturian. He works at the photography studio on 45th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paper clips."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Oldfather gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a paper clip in Long Beach 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 staring at the city park when he pranced in and started to twitch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to talk to that fiendish hellhound," she sobbed.

He handed her a pair of scissors and she wiped her eyes repeatedly. He noticed her coat of mail looked bulky. "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 spinal cord sourly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would reinforce my barbell if I didn't step aside," she replied. "I said he's a polite newt. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's polite.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Khatchaturian?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Long Beach since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked sadly, "did Mister Khatchaturian ever talk about someone named Bud McDiggles?

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

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

She looked at him patiently. "I'm nobody's sugar plum," she mumbled, "and I don't want to be in London too long. I hope you can do something about Matt soon."

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

"I can speed to London as soon as I pack an iPod, a hoodie, and my crate."

"You'd better take a potato too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he spewed jokingly.

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

She rose from her seat and dove dreamily out of the office. He stared slyly after her.

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