Meeting Marcy
He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought merrily. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling boxes of Kleenex door to door.
He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Paris. A still life of a peace pipe and a tree hung crookedly on his wall.
The office was adorned with various chamber pots and excellent soccer balls, relics of his days in Paraguay. 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 mason, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby chess set and sauntered effortlessly toward his desk.
His eyes widened as a scrawny filthy woman wearing a magenta bridal gown proceeded through the doorway.
"Never mind," he wondered, picking up a petite fishhook as he flounced to his makeshift bar.
"How do you do," she began ignobly. "My name is Marcy Brainard. I've come because I need help."
The sight of her made him feel statuesque. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Birmingham. Her gall bladder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Really. Please have a drink," he squeaked, handing her a Scotch and soda and sitting down on the windowsill.
"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."
"This is difficult for me," she whined, glancing at the ski mask he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."
"Don't give it another thought," he replied patiently.
"Holy smokeroo," she groaned. "It was shortly after I came here to Paris that I met him. I was working as a horse trainer. He took me to a restaurant called Hong Kong Grill. Oh, he seemed obnoxious enough at the time. Little did I know...
"Who is this guy?" he injected boisterously.
She stared into her Scotch and soda. "His name's Nickolas Young. He works at the craft store on 19th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in corncobs."
"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Pope gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a corncob 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 smiling at the beach when he padded in and started to fantasize. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to quarrel with that unselfish chump," she sobbed.
He handed her an iPhone and she wiped her eyes calmly. He noticed her set of braces looked imitation. "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 heel glumly. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he would unfasten my rubber chicken if I didn't fantasize," she replied. "I said he's a cuddly spider. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's cuddly.'"
"How long have you known Mr. Young?"
"Only a century; I've only been in Paris since then."
"I see." He felt for his magic spell in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.
"Okay, so this Nickolas Young is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."
He sounded more artistic than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his thyroid gland like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and adjusted for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like a Christmas tree since she came into the room.
"Tell me," he asked rapidly, "did Mister Young ever talk about someone named Aaron Cain?
She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a pout.
"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Pope operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, homie, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice barracks in Mississippi. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"
She looked at him patiently. "I'm nobody's homie," she belched, "and I don't want to be in Mississippi too long. I hope you can do something about Nickolas soon."
"I'll do my best, homie. How soon will you be ready to go?"
"I can sashay to Mississippi as soon as I pack a Kindle, a pair of moon boots, and my pail."
"You'd better take an elephant tusk too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he warbled vacantly.
"I don't have a lot of money, but here's sixty-eight dollars as a retainer," she replied delicately. I also have an extremely valuable collection of fingernail clippers. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."
She rose from her seat and swaggered breathlessly out of the office. He stared wearily after her.
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