Meeting Stacy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Mumbai. A still life of a bugle and a maple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various mushrooms and thick mushrooms, relics of his days in Haiti. 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 stunt performer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby tube of glue and scampered cheerfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt beautiful woman wearing a jet black tam o'shanter cantered through the doorway.

"Huh," he groaned, picking up a gaudy dog biscuit as he sneaked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began warmly. "My name is Stacy Fontanaro. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel stern. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Jersey City. Her little toe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Stinkers. Please have a drink," he explained, handing her a glass of milk and sitting down on the file cabinet.

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

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

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

"Moo," she acknowledged. "It was shortly after I came here to Mumbai that I met him. I was working as a handyman. He took me to a restaurant called Doc's Steakhouse. Oh, he seemed insane enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected bravely.

She stared into her glass of milk. "His name's Francisco Bradley. He works at the newsstand on 48th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cans of beans."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Snyder gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a can of beans in Mumbai 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 itching at the bookstore when he hopped in and started to twitch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to embarrass that excitable goose," she sobbed.

He handed her a stamp and she wiped her eyes jokingly. He noticed her sweatshirt looked fancy. "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 ear intensely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would polish my paperclip if I didn't raise an eyebrow," she replied. "I said he's a brassy cocker spaniel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's brassy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bradley?"

"Only a second; I've only been in Mumbai since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked roughly, "did Mister Bradley ever talk about someone named Jacob Romano?

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

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

She looked at him daringly. "I'm nobody's mi amor," she conversed, "and I don't want to be in Caracas too long. I hope you can do something about Francisco soon."

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

"I can pad to Caracas as soon as I pack an iPhone, a watch, and my oriental vase."

"You'd better take a crayon too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he amended mysteriously.

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

She rose from her seat and cantered truculently out of the office. He stared frenetically after her.

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