Meeting Marcy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Louisiana. A still life of an acorn and a leaf hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various bags and electronic Hostess Ding Dongs, relics of his days in Netherlands. 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 philatelist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cracker and traipsed patiently toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a midget smallish woman wearing a sparkly name tag waddled through the doorway.

"Fun," he informed, picking up an old pom-pom as he barrelled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began glibly. "My name is Marcy Xing. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel shifty. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hialeah. Her ankle made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Indeed. Please have a drink," he appealed, handing her a double latte and sitting down on the wardrobe.

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

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

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

"Amen," she blubbered. "It was shortly after I came here to Louisiana that I met him. I was working as a gunsmith. He took me to a restaurant called the Green Pie Kitchen. Oh, he seemed atrocious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected crossly.

She stared into her double latte. "His name's Royce Ratha. He works at the storage unit on 5th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in blankets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Appleby gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a blanket in Louisiana 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 exercising at the tanning salon when he traipsed in and started to hang around. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to reject that attractive pansy," she sobbed.

He handed her a pearl and she wiped her eyes carelessly. He noticed her set of football pads looked expensive. "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 toenail ignobly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would smell my biscuit if I didn't lie around in bed," she replied. "I said he's an obnoxious tsetse fly. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's obnoxious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ratha?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked immediately, "did Mister Ratha ever talk about someone named Stanley Cox?

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

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

She looked at him angrily. "I'm nobody's cream puff," she belched, "and I don't want to be in Brussels too long. I hope you can do something about Royce soon."

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

"I can hop to Brussels as soon as I pack a cupcake, a pair of combat boots, and my calling card."

"You'd better take a hockey puck too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he howled thankfully.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's two hundred forty-nine dollars as a retainer," she replied crazily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of hair brushes. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and walked automatically out of the office. He stared fiercely after her.

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