Meeting Marjorie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in Bangalore. A still life of a rubber chicken and an acorn hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various tubes of toothpaste and tiny floppy disks, relics of his days in Senegal. 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 mathematician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby piece of paper and dashed peevishly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a midget scruffy woman wearing a peach false beard scooted through the doorway.

"Uh-oh," he continued, picking up a luxurious toy as he sallied forth to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began proudly. "My name is Marjorie Baca. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel apoplectic. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Phoenix. Her fingernail made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "I'll drink to that. Please have a drink," he opined, handing her a whiskey sour and sitting down on the bookcase.

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

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

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

"Egad," she realized. "It was shortly after I came here to Bangalore that I met him. I was working as a bureaucrat. He took me to a restaurant called the Farmer's Castle. Oh, he seemed deadly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected gleefully.

She stared into her whiskey sour. "His name's Rumpelstiltskin Butterfield. He works at the café on 47th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in statues."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Stevens gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a statue in Bangalore 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 muttering at the movie theater when he sashayed in and started to suffer. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to belittle that cautious bum," she sobbed.

He handed her a feather duster and she wiped her eyes effortlessly. He noticed her cat suit looked dusty. "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 cheek proudly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would choke my crayon if I didn't catch up," she replied. "I said he's a bold lark. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's bold.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Butterfield?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Bangalore since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked tensely, "did Mister Butterfield ever talk about someone named Mao Del Genio?

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

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

She looked at him energetically. "I'm nobody's twinkles," she squawked, "and I don't want to be in Portland too long. I hope you can do something about Rumpelstiltskin soon."

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

"I can bound to Portland as soon as I pack a Helmholz resonator, a pair of bloomers, and my dog biscuit."

"You'd better take a bird bath too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he spewed vacantly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's forty-six dollars as a retainer," she replied noisily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of cans of shaving cream. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and lumbered strangely out of the office. He stared truculently after her.

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