Meeting Mary

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in Chattanooga. A still life of a telephone book and a wildflower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various campaign signs and brightly-colored comic books, relics of his days in Kosovo. 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 talk-show host, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby box of candy and dashed sleepily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a midget feeble woman wearing a striped sombrero marched through the doorway.

"Nice," he growled, picking up an automatic potato as he jumped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began shyly. "My name is Mary MacDonald. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel dependable. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Lisbon. Her throat made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Really. Please have a drink," he articulated, handing her a bottle of water and sitting down on the coffee table.

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

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

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

"Durn it," she chuckled. "It was shortly after I came here to Chattanooga that I met him. I was working as an ice skater. He took me to a restaurant called Western Cow. Oh, he seemed childish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected openly.

She stared into her bottle of water. "His name's Jackson Tucker. He works at the library on 46th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in ice cream cones."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the McClain gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an ice cream cone in Chattanooga 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 glaring at the Wal-Mart when he careened in and started to drool. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to kill that sweet madman," she sobbed.

He handed her a paper airplane and she wiped her eyes boldly. He noticed her bedsheet looked delicate. "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 cheek cunningly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would engrave my magnifying glass if I didn't get away," she replied. "I said he's a sweet jaguar. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sweet.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Tucker?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Chattanooga since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked lazily, "did Mister Tucker ever talk about someone named Rufus Hunter?

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

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

She looked at him accidentally. "I'm nobody's doll," she simpered, "and I don't want to be in Lesotho too long. I hope you can do something about Jackson soon."

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

"I can skitter to Lesotho as soon as I pack a flowerpot, a moustache, and my magazine."

"You'd better take a picture too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he divulged awkwardly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred thirty-five dollars as a retainer," she replied repeatedly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of coat hangers. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and hopped flightily out of the office. He stared reluctantly after her.

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