Meeting Madison

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in New Zealand. A still life of a bugle and a twig hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various hand puppets and worn cotton balls, relics of his days in Cambodia. 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 sign painter, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bilge pump and staggered queerly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a scrawny pretty woman wearing a forest green pair of moon boots strolled through the doorway.

"Incredible," he breathed, picking up a fuzzy roll of duct tape as he galumphed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began wearily. "My name is Madison Fosbury. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel fearful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Poughkeepsie. Her adrenal gland made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Zap. Please have a drink," he wept, handing her a whiskey sour and sitting down on the bed.

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

"This is difficult for me," she announced, glancing at the set of vampire fangs he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Cock-a-doodle-doo," she preached. "It was shortly after I came here to New Zealand that I met him. I was working as a funeral director. He took me to a restaurant called Riverside Platter. Oh, he seemed beautiful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected fiercely.

She stared into her whiskey sour. "His name's Charles Harris. He works at the butcher shop on 43rd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in paper towels."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Booth gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a paper towel in New Zealand 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 snarling at the swimming pool when he careened in and started to pause. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to encourage that serious stumblebum," she sobbed.

He handed her a plaque and she wiped her eyes busily. He noticed her pocket watch looked imported. "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 dignity resignedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would blacken my candy cane if I didn't dither," she replied. "I said he's a queer peacock. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's queer.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Harris?"

"Only a minute; I've only been in New Zealand since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked brightly, "did Mister Harris ever talk about someone named Wallace Bernal?

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

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

She looked at him dolorously. "I'm nobody's heart of hearts," she responded, "and I don't want to be in Italy too long. I hope you can do something about Charles soon."

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

"I can scoot to Italy as soon as I pack a roll of toilet paper, a jumpsuit, and my corncob."

"You'd better take a china doll too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he complained daringly.

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

She rose from her seat and trotted urgently out of the office. He stared hungrily after her.

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