Meeting Marybel

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Utah. A still life of a pain pill and a dead tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various buttons and brittle stones, relics of his days in New Zealand. 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 pediatrician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby coupon and set out shakily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a gaunt plain woman wearing a mauve hat trotted through the doorway.

"Holy moley," he hissed, picking up an archaic washrag as he went to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began strictly. "My name is Marybel Murphy. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel energetic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in San Jose. Her stomach made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Aha. Please have a drink," he reasoned, handing her a glass of carrot juice and sitting down on the coffee table.

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

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

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

"Congratulations," she instructed. "It was shortly after I came here to Utah that I met him. I was working as a magician. He took me to a restaurant called Kyoto Waterfall. Oh, he seemed megalomaniacal enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected slyly.

She stared into her glass of carrot juice. "His name's Keith Weiner. He works at the shoe store on 47th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pens."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Fosbender gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pen in Utah 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 fretting at the poetry reading when he tiptoed in and started to wait. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to wrestle with that wicked imp," she sobbed.

He handed her a firecracker and she wiped her eyes nonchalantly. He noticed her veil looked mechanical. "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 stomach glumly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would gold plate my computer if I didn't applaud," she replied. "I said he's a conceited goldfish. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's conceited.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Weiner?"

"Only a century; I've only been in Utah since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked cleverly, "did Mister Weiner ever talk about someone named John Butterfield?

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

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

She looked at him daintily. "I'm nobody's tootsie-pie," she revealed, "and I don't want to be in Concord too long. I hope you can do something about Keith soon."

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

"I can tumble to Concord as soon as I pack a fingernail clipper, a bicycle helmet, and my piano."

"You'd better take a pair of headphones too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he raved kindly.

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

She rose from her seat and stormed effortlessly out of the office. He stared slowly after her.

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