Meeting Francie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Kentucky. A still life of a bone and an acorn hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various notebooks and chic fish bowls, relics of his days in Norway. 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 dancer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby rag and cantered sheepishly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a chubby frizzle-headed woman wearing a khaki wizard's hat tiptoed through the doorway.

"Say what," he acknowledged, picking up a multicolored pen as he skittered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began fearfully. "My name is Francie Yastremski. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel vacuous. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Shreveport. Her nose made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Bleep. Please have a drink," he yawned, handing her a chocolate milk and sitting down on the rug.

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

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

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

"Suffering sassafras," she griped. "It was shortly after I came here to Kentucky that I met him. I was working as a con artist. He took me to a restaurant called the Great Spoon. Oh, he seemed intelligent enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected vacantly.

She stared into her chocolate milk. "His name's Guy Quick. He works at the art gallery on 44th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in knitting needles."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Spence gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a knitting needle in Kentucky 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 sitting still at the disco when he inched in and started to go limp. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to greet that prissy ninny," she sobbed.

He handed her a stopwatch and she wiped her eyes ruefully. He noticed her pair of shin guards looked hand-carved. "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 nose hysterically. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would polish my fingernail clipper if I didn't wince," she replied. "I said he's a furious partridge. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's furious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Quick?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Kentucky since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked crazily, "did Mister Quick ever talk about someone named Saul Cruz?

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

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

She looked at him neatly. "I'm nobody's tinky-wink," she queried, "and I don't want to be in Bolivia too long. I hope you can do something about Guy soon."

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

"I can scoot to Bolivia as soon as I pack an apple, an apron, and my hockey puck."

"You'd better take a tissue too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he blathered delicately.

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

She rose from her seat and scooted angrily out of the office. He stared madly after her.

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