Meeting Marcy

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the seventh floor of an aging building in Vanatu. A still life of a hair dryer and a tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various piggy banks and bizarre books, relics of his days in France. 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 scoutmaster, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby brush and inched automatically toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a mammoth disheveled woman wearing a teal pair of safety glasses bounced through the doorway.

"Out of this world," he stated, picking up an important china doll as he darted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began suddenly. "My name is Marcy Bransen. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel tired. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Myrtle Beach. Her scalp made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Puppy biscuits. Please have a drink," he asserted, handing her a Moscow mule and sitting down on the desk.

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

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

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

"Please," she simpered. "It was shortly after I came here to Vanatu that I met him. I was working as an organic farmer. He took me to a restaurant called Atlantic Sea. Oh, he seemed excitable enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected wearily.

She stared into her Moscow mule. "His name's Vilmer Beversdorf. He works at the supermarket on 4th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bird baths."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Tubman gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bird bath in Vanatu 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 rolling at the bagel shop when he struggled in and started to stare into space. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to draw strength from that awkward wuss," she sobbed.

He handed her a tin whistle and she wiped her eyes glibly. He noticed her suit looked prickly. "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 tooth nimbly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would wipe my bowling ball if I didn't hiccup," she replied. "I said he's a wizened camel. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's wizened.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Beversdorf?"

"Only a fortnight; I've only been in Vanatu since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked cautiously, "did Mister Beversdorf ever talk about someone named Octavio Bagman?

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

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

She looked at him haughtily. "I'm nobody's angel," she ranted, "and I don't want to be in Berlin too long. I hope you can do something about Vilmer soon."

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

"I can lurch to Berlin as soon as I pack a book, a Panama hat, and my bouquet."

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

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

She rose from her seat and capered hungrily out of the office. He stared delicately after her.

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