Meeting Marcy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Mexico City. A still life of a basketball and a bit of moss hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various oranges and ragged boxes of Kleenex, relics of his days in Cuba. 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 insurance agent, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Eton jacket and scooted ruefully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a hunky sorrowful woman wearing a scarlet pair of heels skidded through the doorway.

"Horse feathers," he sneered, picking up a tiny hubcap as he sprinted to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel comely. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Bridgeport. Her calf made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Outstanding. Please have a drink," he provoked, handing her a Mojito and sitting down on the armoire.

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

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

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

"Behold," she panted. "It was shortly after I came here to Mexico City that I met him. I was working as a real estate agent. He took me to a restaurant called Seaside Lunchery. Oh, he seemed impish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected truculently.

She stared into her Mojito. "His name's Bill Brinkman. He works at the used car lot on 30th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in playing cards."

"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 a playing card in Mexico City 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 carrying on at the church when he rolled in and started to hiccup. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to lick that cuddly troublemaker," she sobbed.

He handed her a helmet and she wiped her eyes glibly. He noticed her pair of shoes looked frilly. "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 nostril wildly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would categorize my Barbie doll if I didn't cheer up," she replied. "I said he's a haggard dodo bird. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's haggard.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Brinkman?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Mexico City since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked frantically, "did Mister Brinkman ever talk about someone named Nicholas Baca?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a pound of the chest.

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

She looked at him cunningly. "I'm nobody's toots," she announced, "and I don't want to be in Des Moines too long. I hope you can do something about Bill soon."

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

"I can jog to Des Moines as soon as I pack a church key, a Hawaiian shirt, and my sponge."

"You'd better take a photograph too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he said lamely.

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

She rose from her seat and pranced fearfully out of the office. He stared miserably after her.

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