Meeting Maggie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Santa Fe. A still life of a ping-pong paddle and a badger hole hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various firecrackers and art deco crackers, relics of his days in Lebanon. 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 archeologist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby campaign sign and set out merrily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gigantic beautiful woman wearing an orange set of pink foam curlers jumped through the doorway.

"Ppppbbbft," he peeped, picking up a papery toilet seat as he trekked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began glibly. "My name is Maggie Seaman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel statuesque. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Santa Fe. Her nostril made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Buzzards. Please have a drink," he blubbered, handing her a Moscow mule and sitting down on the water bed.

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

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

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

"Hey," she stuttered. "It was shortly after I came here to Santa Fe that I met him. I was working as a firefighter. He took me to a restaurant called Bill's Stone. Oh, he seemed sanguine enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected unexpectedly.

She stared into her Moscow mule. "His name's Kirby Kissling. He works at the convenience store on 9th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in rolls of duct tape."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Barber gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a roll of duct tape in Santa Fe 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 crying at the taco shop when he capered in and started to tremble. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to frustrate that jolly drunken royster," she sobbed.

He handed her a coupon and she wiped her eyes victoriously. He noticed her Stetson hat looked burned. "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 sorrowfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would grip my trash can if I didn't dither," she replied. "I said he's a cunning boar. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's cunning.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Kissling?"

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

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

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

He sounded more cowardly 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 thought for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like whiskey since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked boldly, "did Mister Kissling ever talk about someone named Britt Seymour?

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

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

She looked at him again. "I'm nobody's sweetie," she quoted, "and I don't want to be in New York too long. I hope you can do something about Kirby soon."

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

"I can dance to New York as soon as I pack a bottle of painkillers, a black armband, and my clock."

"You'd better take a baton too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he grieved nervously.

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

She rose from her seat and breezed perkily out of the office. He stared gracefully after her.

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