Meeting Maria

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Paris. A still life of a fountain pen and a bit of moss hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various ashtrays and polished bird cages, relics of his days in Singapore. 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 bank teller, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby jar of olives and sprinted languidly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tubby neat woman wearing an aquamarine bodysuit flounced through the doorway.

"Ha," he maintained, picking up a decrepit curling iron as he staggered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began valiantly. "My name is Maria Fischer. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel freakish. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Augusta. Her toupee made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "My land. Please have a drink," he maintained, handing her a shot of whiskey and sitting down on the cupboard.

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

"This is difficult for me," she intimated, glancing at the pair of bell-bottoms he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Pshaw," she snarled. "It was shortly after I came here to Paris that I met him. I was working as a gambler. He took me to a restaurant called the Galloping Deli. Oh, he seemed hungry enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected majestically.

She stared into her shot of whiskey. "His name's Julian Shipman. He works at the art museum on 2nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in diagrams."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Barcelo gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a diagram in Paris 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 screeching at the health club when he bounded in and started to sniff. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to doubt that hungry dopefiend," she sobbed.

He handed her a watering can and she wiped her eyes hopelessly. He noticed her wig looked hand-painted. "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 artery dolorously. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would hammer my Lego set if I didn't glare," she replied. "I said he's a tense cocker spaniel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's tense.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Shipman?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked again, "did Mister Shipman ever talk about someone named Jason Hensley?

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

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

She looked at him silently. "I'm nobody's hon," she chuckled, "and I don't want to be in New Orleans too long. I hope you can do something about Julian soon."

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

"I can slither to New Orleans as soon as I pack a doll, a surgical mask, and my stuffed bunny."

"You'd better take a magnet too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he yawned primly.

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

She rose from her seat and darted lovingly out of the office. He stared bravely after her.

Next Chapter