Meeting Magnolia

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Upper Mongolia. A still life of a flag and a mushroom hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various salt shakers and nice bagpipes, relics of his days in South Sudan. 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 roofer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby abacus and inched confidently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a divine eye-catching woman wearing an amber bomber jacket tramped through the doorway.

"Not so fast," he gasped, picking up an important cigar as he lurched to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began tearfully. "My name is Magnolia Pryor. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel fashionable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Vancouver. Her lip made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Granular. Please have a drink," he asked, handing her a Mojito and sitting down on the overstuffed chair.

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

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

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

"Who says?," she brought up. "It was shortly after I came here to Upper Mongolia that I met him. I was working as a blacksmith. He took me to a restaurant called Beijing Sushi. Oh, he seemed calm enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected accidentally.

She stared into her Mojito. "His name's Willard Franklin. He works at the shoe store on 27th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in fountain pens."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Katz gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a fountain pen in Upper Mongolia 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 playing Duck Duck Goose at the poetry reading when he tiptoed in and started to groan. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to pin that dependable pansy," she sobbed.

He handed her a clothespin and she wiped her eyes flightily. He noticed her polo shirt looked automatic. "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 eyelid suavely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would refurbish my artificial flower if I didn't apologize," she replied. "I said he's a fuzzy mole. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's fuzzy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Franklin?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in Upper Mongolia since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked valiantly, "did Mister Franklin ever talk about someone named Greg Hughes?

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

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

She looked at him clumsily. "I'm nobody's twinkles," she warbled, "and I don't want to be in Alabama too long. I hope you can do something about Willard soon."

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

"I can swagger to Alabama as soon as I pack a cracker, a pair of contact lenses, and my button."

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

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

She rose from her seat and tore deliberately out of the office. He stared elatedly after her.

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