Meeting Francie

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

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

The office was cluttered with various bird cages and fancy pain pills, relics of his days in Uruguay. 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 zoologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby hot potato and bolted sarcastically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a chubby fit woman wearing a tan beret sidled through the doorway.

"Loopers," he exploded, picking up a rough blank check as he capered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sympathetically. "My name is Francie Pough. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel fuzzy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Addis Ababa. Her hangnail made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "You don't say. Please have a drink," he winked, handing her a cup of bouillon and sitting down on the coat rack.

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

"This is difficult for me," she spat, glancing at the T-shirt he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Durn it," she inquired. "It was shortly after I came here to Bagdad that I met him. I was working as an artist. He took me to a restaurant called Grandmother's Wingding. Oh, he seemed grizzled enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected brightly.

She stared into her cup of bouillon. "His name's Donald Hamm. He works at the bar on 34th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in houseplants."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Olson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a houseplant in Bagdad 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 bouncing at the rock concert when he staggered in and started to yawn. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to sit on that irate low-life," she sobbed.

He handed her a cactus plant and she wiped her eyes sleepily. He noticed her bra looked burned. "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 eye sheepishly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would shorten my box if I didn't bounce," she replied. "I said he's a corpulent koala. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's corpulent.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Hamm?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Bagdad since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked furiously, "did Mister Hamm ever talk about someone named Rip Rodriguez?

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

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

She looked at him woefully. "I'm nobody's queenie," she spat, "and I don't want to be in China too long. I hope you can do something about Donald soon."

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

"I can tear to China as soon as I pack a padlock, a bicycle helmet, and my helmet."

"You'd better take a nail too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he sputtered cunningly.

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

She rose from her seat and sped irritably out of the office. He stared nervously after her.

Next Chapter