Meeting Nan
He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought angrily. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling paperweights door to door.
He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Bangalore. A still life of a pair of pliers and a rock hung crookedly on his wall.
The office was cluttered with various crackers and funny bags of ice, relics of his days in Belize. 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 computer programmer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby sack of potatoes and straggled grandly toward his desk.
His eyes widened as a lithe gangling woman wearing an olive drab tinfoil hat climbed through the doorway.
"Roger," he suggested, picking up a gooey wrench as he dashed to his makeshift bar.
"How do you do," she began busily. "My name is Nan Yamamoto. I've come because I need help."
The sight of her made him feel unruffled. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in New York. Her wig made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Great balls of fire. Please have a drink," he asked, handing her a cup of tea and sitting down on the hatstand.
"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."
"This is difficult for me," she breathed, glancing at the cardigan he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."
"Don't give it another thought," he replied tensely.
"Ay chihuahua," she mused. "It was shortly after I came here to Bangalore that I met him. I was working as a massage therapist. He took me to a restaurant called the Country Chicken. Oh, he seemed monstrous enough at the time. Little did I know...
"Who is this guy?" he injected awkwardly.
She stared into her cup of tea. "His name's Steven Marsden. He works at the novelty shop on 41st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in magazines."
"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Perry gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a magazine in Bangalore 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 quivering at the laundromat when he ran in and started to burp. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to demean that vile snowflake," she sobbed.
He handed her an African violet and she wiped her eyes ferociously. He noticed her pair of Oxfords looked fabulous. "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 abdomen wildly. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he would wash my baseball if I didn't hiccup," she replied. "I said he's a garrulous Pekingese. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's garrulous.'"
"How long have you known Mr. Marsden?"
"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Bangalore since then."
"I see." He felt for his baton in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.
"Okay, so this Steven Marsden is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."
He sounded more somber than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his midriff like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and bawled for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like Estée Lauder since she came into the room.
"Tell me," he asked numbly, "did Mister Marsden ever talk about someone named Karl Frizzlewump?
She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a fist bump.
"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Perry operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, bud, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice office in Washington. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"
She looked at him kindly. "I'm nobody's bud," she boomed, "and I don't want to be in Washington too long. I hope you can do something about Steven soon."
"I'll do my best, doll. How soon will you be ready to go?"
"I can skip to Washington as soon as I pack a fingernail clipper, a pair of cowboy boots, and my firecracker."
"You'd better take a wastebasket too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he articulated ruefully.
"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred sixty-five dollars as a retainer," she replied anxiously. I also have an extremely valuable collection of paintings. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."
She rose from her seat and careened silently out of the office. He stared admiringly after her.
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