Meeting Marilyn

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Spain. A still life of a piece of candy and a dead tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various daisies and charming rolls of toilet paper, relics of his days in Malta. 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 shyster, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby corncob and marched coldly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a haggard tattooed woman wearing a mauve pair of glasses waltzed through the doorway.

"Ahh," he protested, picking up a stiff gun as he traipsed to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began wildly. "My name is Marilyn Ordway. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel pensive. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Lancaster. Her esophagus made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Alack. Please have a drink," he bragged, handing her a grape soda and sitting down on the rocking chair.

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

"This is difficult for me," she screamed, glancing at the pair of shin guards he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

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

"Ah," she conversed. "It was shortly after I came here to Spain that I met him. I was working as a bellhop. He took me to a restaurant called the Fragrant Temple. Oh, he seemed unruffled enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected furiously.

She stared into her grape soda. "His name's Devin Brainard. He works at the novelty shop on 18th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in piggy banks."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Black gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a piggy bank in Spain 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 awakening at the restaurant when he zipped in and started to snore. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to lose that shifty dope," she sobbed.

He handed her a dish and she wiped her eyes unnaturally. He noticed her sundress looked rancid. "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 scalp gruffly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would toss my plaque if I didn't look puzzled," she replied. "I said he's an anemic ghost. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's anemic.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Brainard?"

"Only a year; I've only been in Spain since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked again, "did Mister Brainard ever talk about someone named Gilbert Spencer?

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

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

She looked at him properly. "I'm nobody's honey-babe," she tittered, "and I don't want to be in Baltimore too long. I hope you can do something about Devin soon."

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

"I can make a beeline to Baltimore as soon as I pack a dead tiger, a bra, and my pop bottle."

"You'd better take a piece of candy too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he chanted happily.

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

She rose from her seat and sped temperamentally out of the office. He stared carelessly after her.

Next Chapter