Meeting Francie

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the third floor of an aging building in the United States. A still life of a flower and a dead tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various crutches and art deco combs, relics of his days in Kazakhstan. 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 rodeo cowboy, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby egg shell and reeled frantically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stout lanky woman wearing a crimson belt buckle loped through the doorway.

"No way," he snorted, picking up an archaic Frisbee as he ambled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began lazily. "My name is Francie Moore. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel polite. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Copenhagen. Her forehead made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Ahoy. Please have a drink," he argued, handing her a gin sour and sitting down on the coffee table.

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

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

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

"Who cares," she sneered. "It was shortly after I came here to the United States that I met him. I was working as an advice columnist. He took me to a restaurant called the Yellow Emperor. Oh, he seemed agile enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected roughly.

She stared into her gin sour. "His name's Floyd Skye. He works at the bus station on 27th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bananas."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Hastings gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a banana in the United States 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 chuckling at the ski slope when he swaggered in and started to huff. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to aggravate that cocky moron," she sobbed.

He handed her a cigar and she wiped her eyes uneasily. He noticed her stovepipe hat looked ridged. "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 face languidly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would nuke my magnifying glass if I didn't deal cards," she replied. "I said he's an unruffled oyster. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's unruffled.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Skye?"

"Only a second; I've only been in the United States since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked unnaturally, "did Mister Skye ever talk about someone named Benjamin Bryant?

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

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

She looked at him neatly. "I'm nobody's cream puff," she declaimed, "and I don't want to be in Virginia too long. I hope you can do something about Floyd soon."

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

"I can zoom to Virginia as soon as I pack a comb, a big red rose, and my tote bag."

"You'd better take a jar of olives too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he hinted testily.

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

She rose from her seat and slumped deftly out of the office. He stared testily after her.

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