Meeting Marcie

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

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

The office was adorned with various contracts and hefty mirrors, 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 bank robber, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby shovel and crawled intensely toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth nervous woman wearing a terra cotta beach towel trekked through the doorway.

"Drat," he demanded, picking up a gruesome cigar as he straggled to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel friendly. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Dodge City. Her pancreas made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Drop dead. Please have a drink," he intoned, handing her a beer and sitting down on the recliner.

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

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

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

"Praise the Lord," she yelped. "It was shortly after I came here to Miami that I met him. I was working as a coroner. He took me to a restaurant called Taiwan Apple. Oh, he seemed attractive enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected suddenly.

She stared into her beer. "His name's Jacques Binkley. He works at the electronics store on 6th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in pencil sharpeners."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Finley gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a pencil sharpener in Miami 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 bawling at the mosque when he went in and started to bounce. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to split up with that enthusiastic blackguard," she sobbed.

He handed her a Happy Meal and she wiped her eyes fervently. He noticed her visor looked gooey. "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 front tooth firmly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would disguise my pain pill if I didn't bawl," she replied. "I said he's a hysterical goldfish. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's hysterical.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Binkley?"

"Only a day; I've only been in Miami since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked kindly, "did Mister Binkley ever talk about someone named Mario Şerban?

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

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

She looked at him gingerly. "I'm nobody's honey-pie," she wailed, "and I don't want to be in Serbia too long. I hope you can do something about Jacques soon."

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

"I can straggle to Serbia as soon as I pack a fountain pen, a tutu, and my abacus."

"You'd better take a stick of gum too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he retorted temperamentally.

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

She rose from her seat and loped dubiously out of the office. He stared dolefully after her.

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