Meeting Francene

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Lebanon. A still life of an iPod and a feather hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various pillows and nifty toys, relics of his days in Rwanda. 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 sheriff, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby piece of chalk and inched lamely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a haggard blue-eyed woman wearing a khaki cape sallied forth through the doorway.

"Of course," he tittered, picking up a shiny muffin as he trekked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gruffly. "My name is Francene Al-Ghareeb. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel modest. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Florence. Her wig made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Heck. Please have a drink," he argued, handing her a margarita and sitting down on the settee.

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

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

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

"Bless my britches," she commented. "It was shortly after I came here to Lebanon that I met him. I was working as a real estate agent. He took me to a restaurant called the Copper Mess Hall. Oh, he seemed fascinating enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected nicely.

She stared into her margarita. "His name's Henry Fosbender. He works at the movie theater on 40th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in sticks of gum."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Austin gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stick of gum in Lebanon 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 jiggling at the beach when he skipped in and started to flush. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to reassure that lanky blockhead," she sobbed.

He handed her a pencil and she wiped her eyes pityingly. He noticed her set of scrubs looked grubby. "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 head crankily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would cover my cigarette lighter if I didn't kneel," she replied. "I said he's a witty polar bear. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's witty.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Fosbender?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Lebanon since then."

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

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

He sounded more self-assured than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his tooth like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and belched for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like Pla-Doh since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked quietly, "did Mister Fosbender ever talk about someone named JD Fields?

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

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

She looked at him crazily. "I'm nobody's snookums," she chattered, "and I don't want to be in Somalia too long. I hope you can do something about Henry soon."

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

"I can skip to Somalia as soon as I pack a painting, a heavy layer of makeup, and my pillow."

"You'd better take an antenna too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he bawled dolefully.

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

She rose from her seat and trekked slowly out of the office. He stared excitedly after her.

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