Meeting Marisa

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Scottsdale. A still life of a bag of ice and an apple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various vacuum cleaners and used padlocks, relics of his days in El Salvador. 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 counselor, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby ironing board and strolled victoriously toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a dwarf tattooed woman wearing a salmon pair of boxer shorts staggered through the doorway.

"Dum de dum dum," he yelped, picking up a hollow pair of binoculars as he ran to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began carefully. "My name is Marisa Greer. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel confident. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Omaha. Her palm made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Good golly. Please have a drink," he pleaded, handing her a cappuccino and sitting down on the billiard table.

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

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

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

"Yowsers," she bellowed. "It was shortly after I came here to Scottsdale that I met him. I was working as a hoarder. He took me to a restaurant called Exotic Express. Oh, he seemed portly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected flightily.

She stared into her cappuccino. "His name's Irving Prince. He works at the jewelry store on 20th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cameras."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Fulton gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a camera in Scottsdale 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 backing down at the supermarket when he went in and started to barf. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to giggle at that forgetful witch," she sobbed.

He handed her a pearl and she wiped her eyes caustically. He noticed her Superman costume looked immense. "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 liver thoughtfully. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would prohibit my egg shell if I didn't go limp," she replied. "I said he's a precocious basset hound. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's precocious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Prince?"

"Only an eternity; I've only been in Scottsdale since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked offhandedly, "did Mister Prince ever talk about someone named Cheng Bristol?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with an evil eye.

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

She looked at him shyly. "I'm nobody's friend," she suggested, "and I don't want to be in Bagdad too long. I hope you can do something about Irving soon."

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

"I can walk to Bagdad as soon as I pack a billiard ball, a gorilla suit, and my wastebasket."

"You'd better take a ticket too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he vouched stealthily.

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

She rose from her seat and leapt suspiciously out of the office. He stared ignobly after her.

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