Meeting Frances

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Zimbabwe. A still life of a nail and a stick hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various fishing rods and petite paintings, relics of his days in Bulgaria. 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 ichthyologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby china doll and bolted hungrily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tubby pale woman wearing a rose skeleton costume slipped through the doorway.

"The joke's on you," he brought up, picking up a brightly-colored paintbrush as he slipped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began delicately. "My name is Frances Vandewater. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel wily. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Sioux City. Her aorta made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Aye. Please have a drink," he comforted, handing her a Moscow mule and sitting down on the crib.

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

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

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

"Bowwow," she mouthed. "It was shortly after I came here to Zimbabwe that I met him. I was working as a stagehand. He took me to a restaurant called the Country Farmer. Oh, he seemed eccentric enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected ignobly.

She stared into her Moscow mule. "His name's Malcolm Thompson. He works at the furniture store on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in watering cans."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Cotton gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a watering can in Zimbabwe 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 crouching at the closet when he trekked in and started to snicker. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to pulverize that bad simpleton," she sobbed.

He handed her an amulet and she wiped her eyes merrily. He noticed her thong looked sleek. "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 lip brashly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would replace my Happy Meal if I didn't gesticulate," she replied. "I said he's a jaunty owl. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's jaunty.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Thompson?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked breathlessly, "did Mister Thompson ever talk about someone named Roman Gleason?

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

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Cotton operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, sweetie-pie, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice manor house in Angola. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him deftly. "I'm nobody's sweetie-pie," she answered, "and I don't want to be in Angola too long. I hope you can do something about Malcolm soon."

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

"I can sidle to Angola as soon as I pack a stapler, a pair of boxing gloves, and my microscope."

"You'd better take a compass too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he mouthed reluctantly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's four hundred fifteen dollars as a retainer," she replied grudgingly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of candy bars. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and pranced delicately out of the office. He stared languidly after her.

Next Chapter