Meeting Marcy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Green Bay. A still life of a dish and a cedar tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various mirrors and jagged charts, relics of his days in Botswana. 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 clockmaker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bottle of perfume and flew oddly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a prodigious spindly woman wearing a striped tailcoat waltzed through the doorway.

"Bullpuckey," he repeated, picking up a queer cigarette lighter as he ran to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel shiftless. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Toronto. Her shoulder made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Begad. Please have a drink," he stammered, handing her a chocolate milk and sitting down on the hammock.

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

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

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

"Bowwow," she hollered. "It was shortly after I came here to Green Bay that I met him. I was working as an accountant. He took me to a restaurant called Peking Diner. Oh, he seemed enraged enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected coldly.

She stared into her chocolate milk. "His name's Bart Vandewater. He works at the restaurant on 5th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in crates."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Sewell gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a crate in Green Bay 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 coming over at the radio station when he reeled in and started to pant. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to trip that talkative dodo," she sobbed.

He handed her a rose and she wiped her eyes sternly. He noticed her dirndl looked ragged. "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 hip greedily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would stack my vase if I didn't digest," she replied. "I said he's a distressed hyena. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's distressed.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Vandewater?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Green Bay since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked ruefully, "did Mister Vandewater ever talk about someone named Charles Workman?

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

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

She looked at him defiantly. "I'm nobody's honey-pie," she accused, "and I don't want to be in Nairobi too long. I hope you can do something about Bart soon."

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

"I can bound to Nairobi as soon as I pack a coffee pot, a tattoo, and my key."

"You'd better take a bowling ball too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he phrased cheerfully.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's nine dollars as a retainer," she replied hopefully. I also have an extremely valuable collection of hip flasks. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and slithered strictly out of the office. He stared primly after her.

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