Meeting Francene

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Washington. A still life of a mop and a bit of moss hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various corks and broken peace pipes, relics of his days in Ecuador. 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 dentist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby toilet seat and swung frantically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a chubby lean woman wearing a chartreuse pair of briefs struggled through the doorway.

"Who says?," he accused, picking up a polished clock as he galloped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began menacingly. "My name is Francene Moodle. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel beautiful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Gilbert. Her ankle made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Idiot. Please have a drink," he mused, handing her a cup of eggnog and sitting down on the settee.

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

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

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

"When pigs fly," she expressed. "It was shortly after I came here to Washington that I met him. I was working as a petroleum engineer. He took me to a restaurant called the Beautiful Pie Kitchen. Oh, he seemed bizarre enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected carefully.

She stared into her cup of eggnog. "His name's Michael Scoville. He works at the cigar store on 34th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in staplers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Falcon gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a stapler in Washington 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 clapping at the juice shop when he hopped in and started to creep. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to caress that freakish wingnut," she sobbed.

He handed her a coat check ticket and she wiped her eyes temperamentally. He noticed her hoodie 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 skin stealthily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would duplicate my flashlight if I didn't fantasize," she replied. "I said he's a modest Siamese cat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's modest.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Scoville?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Washington since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked calmly, "did Mister Scoville ever talk about someone named Joe Chang?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with an air kiss.

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

She looked at him gleefully. "I'm nobody's starlight," she groveled, "and I don't want to be in Vatican City too long. I hope you can do something about Michael soon."

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

"I can storm to Vatican City as soon as I pack a candy bar, a blazer, and my pen."

"You'd better take a telephone too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he said thankfully.

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

She rose from her seat and darted sadly out of the office. He stared cheerfully after her.

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