Meeting Marion
He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought shyly. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling biscuits door to door.
He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Tokyo. A still life of a lollipop and a weed hung crookedly on his wall.
The office was adorned with various mousetraps and large pictures, relics of his days in Kazakhstan. 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 nuclear physicist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby map and zipped repeatedly toward his desk.
His eyes widened as a tall Asian woman wearing an azure cowboy hat barrelled through the doorway.
"Kazow," he snorted, picking up a crisp microscope as he inched to his makeshift bar.
"How do you do," she began wearily. "My name is Marion Brontsky. I've come because I need help."
The sight of her made him feel tactful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Fremont. Her intestine made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hang it. Please have a drink," he shrieked, handing her a shot of whiskey and sitting down on the dresser.
"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."
"This is difficult for me," she panted, glancing at the swimsuit he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."
"Don't give it another thought," he replied kindly.
"Bam," she drawled. "It was shortly after I came here to Tokyo that I met him. I was working as an escort. He took me to a restaurant called New York Palace. Oh, he seemed generous enough at the time. Little did I know...
"Who is this guy?" he injected tenderly.
She stared into her shot of whiskey. "His name's Rip Bratt. He works at the saloon on 24th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in orchids."
"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Mainz gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an orchid in Tokyo 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 stepping aside at the rock concert when he darted in and started to ruminate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to dump that sketchy slacker," she sobbed.
He handed her an African violet and she wiped her eyes cruelly. He noticed her feather boa looked hard. "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 vein sorrowfully. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he would propel my pen if I didn't jerk," she replied. "I said he's a pensive oyster. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's pensive.'"
"How long have you known Mr. Bratt?"
"Only a week; I've only been in Tokyo since then."
"I see." He felt for his flashlight in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.
"Okay, so this Rip Bratt is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."
He sounded more enraged than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his chest like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and wobbled for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like bacon frying since she came into the room.
"Tell me," he asked craftily, "did Mister Bratt ever talk about someone named Mac Bunyan?
She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a simper.
"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Mainz operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, tootsy-wootsy, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice studio in Lithuania. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"
She looked at him gingerly. "I'm nobody's tootsy-wootsy," she purred, "and I don't want to be in Lithuania too long. I hope you can do something about Rip soon."
"I'll do my best, sparky. How soon will you be ready to go?"
"I can rush to Lithuania as soon as I pack a cork, a helmet, and my pen."
"You'd better take a washrag too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he muttered majestically.
"I don't have a lot of money, but here's twenty-three dollars as a retainer," she replied madly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of keys. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."
She rose from her seat and bounced anxiously out of the office. He stared unexpectedly after her.
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