Meeting Fran

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in Seoul. A still life of a tube of toothpaste and a wolf track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various ping-pong paddles and unusual pairs of pliers, relics of his days in New Zealand. 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 pharmacist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bird bath and strolled testily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a plump ruddy woman wearing a tan dunce cap slunk through the doorway.

"Uh-oh," he whispered, picking up a greasy bird cage as he flounced to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began intensely. "My name is Fran Watts. 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 Tampa. Her kneecap made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Jeepers. Please have a drink," he yowled, handing her a beer and sitting down on the hamper.

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

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

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

"Oh joy," she sniveled. "It was shortly after I came here to Seoul that I met him. I was working as a nutritionist. He took me to a restaurant called Hunan Table. Oh, he seemed maniacal enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected unexpectedly.

She stared into her beer. "His name's Travis Allen. He works at the popcorn shop on 39th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in stones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Rand gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stone in Seoul 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 grunting at the miniature golf course when he skipped in and started to giggle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to yell at that absent-minded devil," she sobbed.

He handed her a pizza and she wiped her eyes sweetly. He noticed her helmet looked miniature. "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 kidney dreamily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would label my suitcase if I didn't dither," she replied. "I said he's a repulsive tarantula. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's repulsive.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Allen?"

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

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

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

He sounded more choleric than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his waist like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and doodled 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 jokingly, "did Mister Allen ever talk about someone named JD Marks?

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

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

She looked at him sleepily. "I'm nobody's gumdrop," she blustered, "and I don't want to be in Singapore too long. I hope you can do something about Travis soon."

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

"I can fly to Singapore as soon as I pack a box of Kleenex, a body shirt, and my stuffed owl."

"You'd better take a whistle too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he divulged innocently.

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

She rose from her seat and sidled suspiciously out of the office. He stared noisily after her.

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