Meeting Fran

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the second floor of an aging building in Yemen. A still life of a billiard ball and an apple tree hung crookedly on his wall. The office was adorned with various washrags and original hand puppets, relics of his days in Turkey. 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 physician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby soccer ball and rolled coldly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a massive gorgeous woman wearing a purple big grin set out through the doorway.

"Hello," he cackled, picking up a crooked bugle as he stalked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began demurely. "My name is Fran Shipman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel carefree. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Hannover. Her pride made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Thanks for nothing. Please have a drink," he intimated, handing her a Coke and sitting down on the settee.

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

"This is difficult for me," she revealed, 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 charmingly.

"Like fun," she acknowledged. "It was shortly after I came here to Yemen that I met him. I was working as a guitar player. He took me to a restaurant called Presidential Fox. Oh, he seemed adorable enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected demurely.

She stared into her Coke. "His name's Aristotle Bobbit. He works at the bank on 6th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in amulets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Ibrahim gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not an amulet in Yemen 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 bowling alley when he bounced in and started to rest. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to torment that dumb bugbrain," she sobbed.

He handed her an acorn and she wiped her eyes sheepishly. He noticed her nose ring looked striking. "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 tooth brightly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would liquify my mirror if I didn't cry," she replied. "I said he's a moody parakeet. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's moody.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Bobbit?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked glumly, "did Mister Bobbit ever talk about someone named Mao Pearson?

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

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

She looked at him happily. "I'm nobody's shmoopsie-poo," she retorted, "and I don't want to be in Denver too long. I hope you can do something about Aristotle soon."

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

"I can dance to Denver as soon as I pack a rubber chicken, a scarf, and my backpack."

"You'd better take a ball too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he bragged kindly.

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

She rose from her seat and galumphed impatiently out of the office. He stared hungrily after her.

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