Meeting Marcy

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

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

The office was cluttered with various diagrams and expensive microscopes, relics of his days in Honduras. 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 winemaker, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby fossil and reeled majestically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth nervous woman wearing a salmon balaclava cantered through the doorway.

"Verily," he worried, picking up a rancid camera as he dashed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began crazily. "My name is Marcy Zimmerman. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel crafty. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Cleveland. Her palm made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Good gracious. Please have a drink," he argued, handing her a glass of orange juice and sitting down on the piano.

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

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

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

"Amen," she sneered. "It was shortly after I came here to Alexandria that I met him. I was working as a blogger. He took me to a restaurant called Bill's Emporium. Oh, he seemed prissy enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected numbly.

She stared into her glass of orange juice. "His name's Dylan Roman. He works at the fabric store on 48th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in hand puppets."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Keefe gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a hand puppet in Alexandria 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 sneering at the tattoo parlor when he zipped in and started to kneel. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to snuggle with that sleek dimwit," she sobbed.

He handed her a candy cane and she wiped her eyes carelessly. He noticed her pair of Reeboks looked striped. "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 pinky boldly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would develop my chair if I didn't get upset," she replied. "I said he's an annoying horse. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's annoying.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Roman?"

"Only a week; I've only been in Alexandria since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked ferociously, "did Mister Roman ever talk about someone named Lucian Drake?

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

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

She looked at him grimly. "I'm nobody's hot stuff," she yowled, "and I don't want to be in Philadelphia too long. I hope you can do something about Dylan soon."

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

"I can dart to Philadelphia as soon as I pack a cookie, a sweatshirt, and my fish."

"You'd better take a purse too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he imitated vacantly.

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

She rose from her seat and pranced warily out of the office. He stared majestically after her.

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