Meeting Marla

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Senegal. A still life of a cork and a bird's nest hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various ice cream cones and automatic dictionaries, relics of his days in Denmark. 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 appliance repairman, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby joint and crept stealthily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a potbellied homely woman wearing a carrot-orange burqa loped through the doorway.

"Moo," he suggested, picking up a smelly candy cane as he sprinted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began kindly. "My name is Marla Griggs. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel sexy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Des Moines. Her gut made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Blah blah blah. Please have a drink," he taunted, handing her a rum and Coke and sitting down on the recliner.

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

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

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

"Like fun," she sniped. "It was shortly after I came here to Senegal that I met him. I was working as a performer. He took me to a restaurant called Bill's House. Oh, he seemed pensive enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected lazily.

She stared into her rum and Coke. "His name's Ira Burns. He works at the laboratory on 28th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in mushrooms."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Mantzios gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a mushroom in Senegal 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 frowning at the city park when he skipped in and started to doodle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to pin that desperate good-for-nothing," she sobbed.

He handed her a banana and she wiped her eyes steadily. He noticed her bonnet looked new. "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 elbow bravely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would probe my fork if I didn't blow up," she replied. "I said he's a high-strung garter snake. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's high-strung.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Burns?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Senegal since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked queerly, "did Mister Burns ever talk about someone named Chum Wicker?

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

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

She looked at him unnaturally. "I'm nobody's hot stuff," she yelped, "and I don't want to be in Albuquerque too long. I hope you can do something about Ira soon."

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

"I can walk to Albuquerque as soon as I pack a crayon, a pair of boxer shorts, and my rag."

"You'd better take a suitcase too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he stated narrowly.

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

She rose from her seat and scampered violently out of the office. He stared shakily after her.

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