Meeting Fran
He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought mysteriously. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling tubes of toothpaste door to door.
He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Newark. A still life of a package and a tree stump hung crookedly on his wall.
The office was adorned with various potatoes and flaky brooms, relics of his days in Lithuania. 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 monk, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby broom and rushed sagely toward his desk.
His eyes widened as a tubby slender woman wearing a violet coat jumped through the doorway.
"No way," he began, picking up a decrepit flash drive as he sped to his makeshift bar.
"How do you do," she began irritably. "My name is Fran Lamb. I've come because I need help."
The sight of her made him feel moody. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in El Paso. Her stomach made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Oh my word. Please have a drink," he blustered, handing her a gin and tonic and sitting down on the ironing board.
"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."
"This is difficult for me," she chanted, glancing at the sombrero he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."
"Don't give it another thought," he replied coldly.
"Par bleu," she piped up. "It was shortly after I came here to Newark that I met him. I was working as a baseball player. He took me to a restaurant called the Purple Knife. Oh, he seemed clever enough at the time. Little did I know...
"Who is this guy?" he injected despondently.
She stared into her gin and tonic. "His name's Salvatore DeGraff. He works at the burger joint on 10th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bagpipes."
"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Paulson gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bagpipe in Newark 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 shrugging at the radio station when he went in and started to twitch. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to see that suave nincompoop," she sobbed.
He handed her a pen and she wiped her eyes narrowly. He noticed her fur coat looked crusty. "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 spleen excitedly. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he would overturn my stuffed bunny if I didn't look dumb," she replied. "I said he's a bizarre chimpanzee. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's bizarre.'"
"How long have you known Mr. DeGraff?"
"Only a year; I've only been in Newark since then."
"I see." He felt for his blow pipe in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.
"Okay, so this Salvatore DeGraff is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."
He sounded more clever than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his pride like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and blinked for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like rum since she came into the room.
"Tell me," he asked cheerfully, "did Mister DeGraff ever talk about someone named Horsie Lyman?
She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a pucker.
"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Paulson operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, gentle soul, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice dugout in Boise. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"
She looked at him boldly. "I'm nobody's gentle soul," she gasped, "and I don't want to be in Boise too long. I hope you can do something about Salvatore soon."
"I'll do my best, pipkin. How soon will you be ready to go?"
"I can reel to Boise as soon as I pack a twig, a big red rose, and my remote control."
"You'd better take a model airplane too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he thought recklessly.
"I don't have a lot of money, but here's two hundred eighty-nine dollars as a retainer," she replied warmly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of twigs. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."
She rose from her seat and rushed delicately out of the office. He stared courteously after her.
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