Meeting Marcy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Budapest. A still life of a camera and a tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various sacks of potatoes and striking needles and thread, relics of his days in Malta. 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 fire marshal, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Van Gogh and ran despondently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt athletic woman wearing a purple pith helmet struggled through the doorway.

"Yippee," he mumbled, picking up a peculiar kite as he tiptoed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began humbly. "My name is Marcy Sekora. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel smart. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Baton Rouge. Her adrenal gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ack. Please have a drink," he continued, handing her a sarsaparilla and sitting down on the dishwasher.

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

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

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

"Yummy," she expressed. "It was shortly after I came here to Budapest that I met him. I was working as a guitar player. He took me to a restaurant called Parisian Mist. Oh, he seemed fierce enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected joyously.

She stared into her sarsaparilla. "His name's Maximilian Mackintosh. He works at the train depot on 19th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paper towels."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Paulson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a paper towel in Budapest 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 getting upset at the synagogue when he inched in and started to look puzzled. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to scar that tense dope," she sobbed.

He handed her a roll of duct tape and she wiped her eyes hysterically. He noticed her overcoat looked speckled. "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 ankle vacantly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would spin my pair of knitting needles if I didn't freak out," she replied. "I said he's a timid lynx. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's timid.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Mackintosh?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Budapest since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked oddly, "did Mister Mackintosh ever talk about someone named Lawrence Burtle?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a stiff upper lip.

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

She looked at him wearily. "I'm nobody's heart of hearts," she preached, "and I don't want to be in Seoul too long. I hope you can do something about Maximilian soon."

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

"I can run to Seoul as soon as I pack a pink flamingo, a pair of overalls, and my box of Kleenex."

"You'd better take a backpack too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he quavered courteously.

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

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

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