Meeting Marcie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Budapest. A still life of an avocado and a fern hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various paper clips and cotton mousetraps, relics of his days in Lower Slobbovia. 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 fruit picker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bag and struggled warmly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a tubby bald woman wearing a jade blouse marched through the doorway.

"Totally rad," he sobbed, picking up a cheap abacus as he waltzed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gratefully. "My name is Marcie Maxwell. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel self-assured. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Greeley. Her eye made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Son of a Baptist preacher. Please have a drink," he raved, handing her a gimlet and sitting down on the pillow.

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

"This is difficult for me," she fretted, glancing at the pair of cowboy boots he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Ho hum," she cajoled. "It was shortly after I came here to Budapest that I met him. I was working as a secretary. He took me to a restaurant called the Yellow Fox. Oh, he seemed rugged enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected doubtfully.

She stared into her gimlet. "His name's Mario Moore. He works at the art museum on 13th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in backpacks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Mantzios gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a backpack in Budapest 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 watching at the city park when he capered in and started to calculate. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to trick that creepy traitor," she sobbed.

He handed her a teapot and she wiped her eyes later. He noticed her G-string looked stuffed. "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 bladder blindly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would hack my rope if I didn't wander," she replied. "I said he's a conceited cobra. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's conceited.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Moore?"

"Only a lifetime; I've only been in Budapest 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 Mario Moore is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

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

"Tell me," he asked grandly, "did Mister Moore ever talk about someone named Lawrence Prescott?

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

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

She looked at him confidently. "I'm nobody's tootsy-wootsy," she professed, "and I don't want to be in a ghetto too long. I hope you can do something about Mario soon."

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

"I can storm to a ghetto as soon as I pack a beach ball, a bonnet, and my lemon."

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

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

She rose from her seat and staggered warmly out of the office. He stared quickly after her.

Next Chapter