Meeting Marjorie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Comoros. A still life of an iPhone and a mulberry tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various watering cans and unusual darts, relics of his days in Senegal. 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 optician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby can of soup and galumphed furiously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a slight graceful woman wearing a terra cotta bulletproof vest clambered through the doorway.

"Is that a fact," he contended, picking up an unusual accordion as he tumbled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gently. "My name is Marjorie Loring. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel relaxed. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Billings. Her eye made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yes. Please have a drink," he reasoned, handing her a Brandy Alexander and sitting down on the file cabinet.

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

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

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

"Ay caramba," she argued. "It was shortly after I came here to Comoros that I met him. I was working as a dog groomer. He took me to a restaurant called Beijing Lunchery. Oh, he seemed brave enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hungrily.

She stared into her Brandy Alexander. "His name's Biff Pickett. He works at the drug store on 6th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bullets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Trott gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bullet in Comoros 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 yelling at the wine tasting when he tumbled in and started to clear out. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to smack that choleric bully," she sobbed.

He handed her a cardboard box and she wiped her eyes nicely. He noticed her tinfoil hat looked hard. "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 wrist strangely. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would face my box if I didn't grumble," she replied. "I said he's a pensive goldfish. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's pensive.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Pickett?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Comoros since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked slyly, "did Mister Pickett ever talk about someone named Nick Mancini?

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

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

She looked at him dolorously. "I'm nobody's friend," she voiced, "and I don't want to be in Lebanon too long. I hope you can do something about Biff soon."

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

"I can march to Lebanon as soon as I pack a billiard ball, a flak jacket, and my diagram."

"You'd better take a calculator too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he orated coolly.

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

She rose from her seat and loped smoothly out of the office. He stared brashly after her.

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