Meeting Marissa

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Algeria. A still life of a mushroom and a deer track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various egg shells and ridiculous rags, relics of his days in Ecuador. 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 typing teacher, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Big Gulp and skittered sympathetically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gigantic white woman wearing a peach class ring lumbered through the doorway.

"Barf," he requested, picking up a ruined dog biscuit as he sauntered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gratefully. "My name is Marissa Montoya. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel shy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Buffalo. Her chin made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Gadzooks. Please have a drink," he bellowed, handing her a bottle of rum and sitting down on the coat rack.

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

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

"Don't give it another thought," he replied lickety-split.

"Idiot," she howled. "It was shortly after I came here to Algeria that I met him. I was working as a chimney sweep. He took me to a restaurant called the Blazing Sky. Oh, he seemed self-assured enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sorrowfully.

She stared into her bottle of rum. "His name's Rich Rosen. He works at the perfumery on 4th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in peanuts."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Boudreaux gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a peanut in Algeria 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 muttering at the closet when he made a beeline in and started to clap. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to poke that passionate barbarian," she sobbed.

He handed her a microscope and she wiped her eyes calmly. He noticed her pair of boxing gloves looked small. "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 pinky arrogantly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would guard my pumpkin if I didn't daydream," she replied. "I said he's an ungainly shrew. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's ungainly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Rosen?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Algeria since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked recklessly, "did Mister Rosen ever talk about someone named Dylan Radcliffe?

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

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

She looked at him anxiously. "I'm nobody's sweetheart," she cajoled, "and I don't want to be in Jersey City too long. I hope you can do something about Rich soon."

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

"I can skid to Jersey City as soon as I pack a football, a wet suit, and my hammer."

"You'd better take a diagram too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he pleaded lickety-split.

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

She rose from her seat and rushed sleepily out of the office. He stared doubtfully after her.

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