Meeting Marina

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Tehran. A still life of a pail and a seed pod hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various dog biscuits and rancid flowerpots, relics of his days in Japan. 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 referee, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby can of beer and clambered cheerfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a miniature pale woman wearing a carrot-orange pocket watch tore through the doorway.

"Oh my," he chattered, picking up an ordinary sack of potatoes as he waltzed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sweetly. "My name is Marina Dingwell. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel noble. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Portland. Her nostril made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "By Jove. Please have a drink," he reasoned, handing her a chocolate milk and sitting down on the bar stool.

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

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

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

"Yes," she maintained. "It was shortly after I came here to Tehran that I met him. I was working as a cellist. He took me to a restaurant called the Blue King. Oh, he seemed tired enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected cleverly.

She stared into her chocolate milk. "His name's Helmut MacGibbon. He works at the insurance agency on 25th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in diaries."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Adler gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a diary in Tehran 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 dealing cards at the spelling bee when he sidled in and started to chuckle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to chase that moody scalawag," she sobbed.

He handed her a thumb drive and she wiped her eyes curiously. He noticed her Speedo looked overgrown. "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 face speedily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would rattle my brochure if I didn't type," she replied. "I said he's an absent-minded magpie. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's absent-minded.'"

"How long have you known Mr. MacGibbon?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Tehran since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked happily, "did Mister MacGibbon ever talk about someone named Herb Gomez?

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

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

She looked at him smoothly. "I'm nobody's doodlebug," she spouted, "and I don't want to be in Mauritius too long. I hope you can do something about Helmut soon."

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

"I can climb to Mauritius as soon as I pack a skull, a bolo tie, and my candle."

"You'd better take a grease gun too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he lamented briskly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's ninety-four dollars as a retainer," she replied numbly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of playing cards. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and galloped urgently out of the office. He stared sleepily after her.

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