Meeting Mary

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the eighth floor of an aging building in a ghetto. A still life of a pipe and a spider web hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various ice cream cones and prickly lemons, relics of his days in South Africa. 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 typist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby bottle of painkillers and traipsed suddenly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a stocky alert woman wearing a teal black belt straggled through the doorway.

"Gads," he accused, picking up a bulky wastebasket as he bolted to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began steadily. "My name is Mary MacGibbon. 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 Miami. Her hand made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Grody to the max. Please have a drink," he divulged, handing her a sarsaparilla and sitting down on the beanbag chair.

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

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

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

"Okay," she invited. "It was shortly after I came here to a ghetto that I met him. I was working as an ice cream vendor. He took me to a restaurant called Taiwan Bar & Grill. Oh, he seemed ungainly enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected cheerfully.

She stared into her sarsaparilla. "His name's Austin Woodruff. He works at the nail salon on 49th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in calculators."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Rinfield gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a calculator in a ghetto 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 stepping aside at the bowling alley when he inched in and started to look puzzled. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to punch that cunning scurvy dog," she sobbed.

He handed her a pink flamingo and she wiped her eyes repeatedly. He noticed her sarong looked ordinary. "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 rib quietly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would lynch my bag of groceries if I didn't flush," she replied. "I said he's a colorless pigeon. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's colorless.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Woodruff?"

"Only a century; I've only been in a ghetto since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked fervently, "did Mister Woodruff ever talk about someone named Roger Yamamoto?

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

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

She looked at him woodenly. "I'm nobody's main squeeze," she persisted, "and I don't want to be in Cambodia too long. I hope you can do something about Austin soon."

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

"I can prance to Cambodia as soon as I pack a grease gun, a maxi skirt, and my pizza."

"You'd better take a coat check ticket too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he rumored carelessly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's two hundred three dollars as a retainer," she replied tensely. I also have an extremely valuable collection of ice cream cones. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and galloped clumsily out of the office. He stared boisterously after her.

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