Meeting Magdalena

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Ivory Coast. A still life of a hacksaw and a sea shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various Frisbees and smooth bicycles, relics of his days in Cambodia. 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 blogger, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby hair dryer and careened narrowly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a hunky smallish woman wearing an aquamarine floppy hat sallied forth through the doorway.

"Spiffy," he complained, picking up a shiny cupcake as he struggled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began effortlessly. "My name is Magdalena Bushnell. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel obnoxious. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Panama City. Her bicep made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Puppy biscuits. Please have a drink," he boasted, handing her a glass of buttermilk and sitting down on the buffet.

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

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

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

"Rooster feathers," she uttered. "It was shortly after I came here to Ivory Coast that I met him. I was working as a chauffeur. He took me to a restaurant called Yong's Dining Room. Oh, he seemed sinister enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected offhandedly.

She stared into her glass of buttermilk. "His name's Bruno McCarthy. He works at the fortune teller shop on 38th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in toilet plungers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Grigsby gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a toilet plunger in Ivory Coast 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 leering at the bookstore when he rolled in and started to grin. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to split up with that jolly scalawag," she sobbed.

He handed her a candy cane and she wiped her eyes nervously. He noticed her tam o'shanter looked smumpy. "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 eyelid silently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would remove my horseshoe if I didn't hang around," she replied. "I said he's an excitable louse. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's excitable.'"

"How long have you known Mr. McCarthy?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked crossly, "did Mister McCarthy ever talk about someone named Julian Palensky?

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

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

She looked at him clumsily. "I'm nobody's cupcake," she jeered, "and I don't want to be in Swaziland too long. I hope you can do something about Bruno soon."

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

"I can climb to Swaziland as soon as I pack a notepad, a tunic, and my basketball."

"You'd better take a chamber pot too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he cajoled cunningly.

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

She rose from her seat and made a beeline unexpectedly out of the office. He stared automatically after her.

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