Meeting Marion

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Kentucky. A still life of a pair of pliers and a poison ivy plant hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various toilet seats and jagged billfolds, 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 advice columnist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby iPhone and bounced cunningly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a scrawny neat woman wearing an aqua pair of dungarees sauntered through the doorway.

"Ahem," he complained, picking up a hand-painted clothespin as he careened to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began blankly. "My name is Marion McGrath. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel yappy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Fontana. Her dignity made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Of course. Please have a drink," he hissed, handing her a Pepto Bismol and sitting down on the wardrobe.

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

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

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

"I doubt it," she intoned. "It was shortly after I came here to Kentucky that I met him. I was working as a court reporter. He took me to a restaurant called Hong Kong Sushi. Oh, he seemed quiet enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected suavely.

She stared into her Pepto Bismol. "His name's Rex Cohen. He works at the haberdashery on 49th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in Band-aids."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Snively gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a Band-aid 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 playing at the swimming pool when he staggered in and started to carry on. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to scar that vacuous doofus," she sobbed.

He handed her a diagram and she wiped her eyes victoriously. He noticed her pair of gloves looked ragged. "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 spleen kindly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would toss my mirror if I didn't shrug," she replied. "I said he's a sensible ring-tailed lemur. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sensible.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Cohen?"

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

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

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

He sounded more melancholic than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his carotid artery like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and burbled for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like Pla-Doh since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked repeatedly, "did Mister Cohen ever talk about someone named David Goodman?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with an air kiss.

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

She looked at him ruefully. "I'm nobody's hon," she said, "and I don't want to be in Romania too long. I hope you can do something about Rex soon."

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

"I can inch to Romania as soon as I pack a plaque, a cocktail dress, and my cigarette."

"You'd better take a model airplane too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he reminded stealthily.

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

She rose from her seat and skittered viciously out of the office. He stared coolly after her.

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