Meeting Fran

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the tenth floor of an aging building in India. A still life of a paintbrush and a wildflower hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various crackers and dirty stuffed bunnies, relics of his days in Iran. 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 physicist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby Egyptian mummy and hopped gingerly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth neat woman wearing a carrot-orange Eton jacket skipped through the doorway.

"Fine," he asked, picking up a large playing card as he capered to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel powerful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Greeley. Her funny bone made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yoohoo. Please have a drink," he spoke up, handing her a glass of fruit punch and sitting down on the bath mat.

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

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

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

"Hey," she expressed. "It was shortly after I came here to India that I met him. I was working as a soccer coach. He took me to a restaurant called Szechuan Cornucopia. Oh, he seemed sweet enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected daintily.

She stared into her glass of fruit punch. "His name's Nate Holt. He works at the beauty salon on 42nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cans of sardines."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Wyse gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a can of sardines in India 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 vegetating at the bedroom when he tramped in and started to wake up. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to peek at that tired old coot," she sobbed.

He handed her a pair of knitting needles and she wiped her eyes carefully. He noticed her pocket watch looked shiny. "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 hand speedily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would reinforce my tenor recorder if I didn't kneel," she replied. "I said he's a silly bandicoot. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's silly.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Holt?"

"Only a second; I've only been in India since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked lovingly, "did Mister Holt ever talk about someone named Ben Bibbles?

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

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

She looked at him queerly. "I'm nobody's twinkle toes," she hummed, "and I don't want to be in Rochester too long. I hope you can do something about Nate soon."

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

"I can flounce to Rochester as soon as I pack a feather, a military uniform, and my urn."

"You'd better take a paper bag too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he acknowledged doubtfully.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's two hundred eighty-three dollars as a retainer," she replied noisily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of paper bags. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and cantered briskly out of the office. He stared arrogantly after her.

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