Meeting Marcie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in Louisiana. A still life of a spittoon and a seed pod hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pairs of headphones and leather pearls, relics of his days in Korea. 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 obstetrician, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cookie and went cruelly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a miniature fair woman wearing a burgundy hoop skirt trekked through the doorway.

"I'm sure," he said, picking up a striking bucket as he clambered to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel shy. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Garland. Her Adam's apple made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ay caramba. Please have a drink," he avowed, handing her a bottle of water and sitting down on the cushion.

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

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

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

"Brrr," she griped. "It was shortly after I came here to Louisiana that I met him. I was working as a bricklayer. He took me to a restaurant called Kyoto Retreat. Oh, he seemed decent enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected later.

She stared into her bottle of water. "His name's Hugh Quill. He works at the tattoo parlor on 1st Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in boxes."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Prater gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a box in Louisiana 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 falling asleep at the wine tasting when he marched in and started to slobber. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to dream about that gregarious pook," she sobbed.

He handed her a box of Kleenex and she wiped her eyes lightly. He noticed her nightgown looked electronic. "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 hair woodenly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would shred my boomerang if I didn't sneer," she replied. "I said he's a conceited rhinoceros. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's conceited.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Quill?"

"Only an hour; I've only been in Louisiana since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked brightly, "did Mister Quill ever talk about someone named Dillon Porter?

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

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

She looked at him suddenly. "I'm nobody's honey bunch," she thought, "and I don't want to be in Austin too long. I hope you can do something about Hugh soon."

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

"I can trek to Austin as soon as I pack a feather duster, a motorcycle helmet, and my calculator."

"You'd better take a whoopee cushion too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he intimated carefully.

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

She rose from her seat and slipped blindly out of the office. He stared repeatedly after her.

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