Meeting Marvella

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Romania. A still life of a fork and a bit of moss hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various baby dolls and delicate cans of beans, relics of his days in Uruguay. 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 shoe repairer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby fishhook and waltzed greedily toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stumpy cute woman wearing a burgundy belt tumbled through the doorway.

"Poppycock," he muttered, picking up an expensive towel as he barrelled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began irritably. "My name is Marvella MacDonald. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel bad. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Montreal. Her toe made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Yow. Please have a drink," he concluded, handing her a Mai Tai and sitting down on the bench.

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

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

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

"Eeshk," she blurted. "It was shortly after I came here to Romania that I met him. I was working as a gambler. He took me to a restaurant called Kyoto Bison. Oh, he seemed modest enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected hungrily.

She stared into her Mai Tai. "His name's Nestor Ferguson. He works at the drug store on 25th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in hair brushes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Dupont gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a hair brush in Romania 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 cheering up at the restaurant when he tore in and started to glower. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to overlook that wily dipstick," she sobbed.

He handed her a dictionary and she wiped her eyes impatiently. He noticed her G-string looked nice. "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 neck resignedly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would enshrine my bat if I didn't chew," she replied. "I said he's a tired ferret. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's tired.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Ferguson?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked crossly, "did Mister Ferguson ever talk about someone named Willard LaSalle?

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

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

She looked at him urgently. "I'm nobody's home boy," she declared, "and I don't want to be in Niger too long. I hope you can do something about Nestor soon."

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

"I can slink to Niger as soon as I pack a bird cage, a pair of earrings, and my purse."

"You'd better take a Bible too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he mused ignobly.

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

She rose from her seat and swaggered diligently out of the office. He stared nonchalantly after her.

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