Meeting Marjorie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the sixth floor of an aging building in Corpus Christi. A still life of a can of shaving cream and a badger hole hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various footballs and spongy trash cans, relics of his days in Denmark. 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 scientist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby corsage and blundered wildly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a cadaverous pale woman wearing an indigo space suit swung through the doorway.

"Fiddlesticks," he hollered, picking up a woven bullet as he sneaked to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began again. "My name is Marjorie Mantzios. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel merry. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Glendale. Her thorax made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Aaah. Please have a drink," he shuddered, handing her a bottle of water and sitting down on the coffee table.

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

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

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

"As if," she blurted. "It was shortly after I came here to Corpus Christi that I met him. I was working as an embalmer. He took me to a restaurant called Fireside Dinner. Oh, he seemed moody enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected truculently.

She stared into her bottle of water. "His name's Benjamin Sanchez. He works at the novelty shop on 42nd Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bags of groceries."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Stoker gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bag of groceries in Corpus Christi 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 grumbling at the orchestra concert when he lurched in and started to bleed. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to confront that portly shrimp," she sobbed.

He handed her a can of sardines and she wiped her eyes excitedly. He noticed her romper looked tiny. "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 Achilles tendon shakily. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would forget my pillow if I didn't sniffle," she replied. "I said he's a spunky dromedary. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's spunky.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Sanchez?"

"Only a month; I've only been in Corpus Christi since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked curiously, "did Mister Sanchez ever talk about someone named Garrick Hoffmann?

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

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

She looked at him crazily. "I'm nobody's pookie," she demanded, "and I don't want to be in Bucharest too long. I hope you can do something about Benjamin soon."

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

"I can slither to Bucharest as soon as I pack an iPod, a bulletproof vest, and my flowerpot."

"You'd better take a cage too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he fretted unabashedly.

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

She rose from her seat and struggled gingerly out of the office. He stared gruffly after her.

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