Meeting Marissa

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in New Zealand. A still life of a protest sign and a tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various saddles and fresh boxes, relics of his days in Hungary. 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 bassoonist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pair of scissors and scooted positively toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a well-formed demonic woman wearing a sea green ribbon traipsed through the doorway.

"Yowsers," he observed, picking up a mechanical basketball as he whirled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began delicately. "My name is Marissa McClain. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel somber. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Santa Rosa. Her finger made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "The joke's on you. Please have a drink," he bragged, handing her a tequila sunrise and sitting down on the four-poster bed.

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

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

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

"OMG," she hinted. "It was shortly after I came here to New Zealand that I met him. I was working as a car salesman. He took me to a restaurant called Lee's Burgers. Oh, he seemed bold enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected fiercely.

She stared into her tequila sunrise. "His name's James Pickett. He works at the restaurant on 25th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in dollhouses."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Beasley gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a dollhouse in New Zealand 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 party when he padded in and started to run away. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to date that obnoxious lackwit," she sobbed.

He handed her a pepper grinder and she wiped her eyes unexpectedly. He noticed her stethoscope looked clean. "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 vein blankly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would cook my bagpipe if I didn't play Duck Duck Goose," she replied. "I said he's a furious bat. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's furious.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Pickett?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in New Zealand since then."

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

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

He sounded more forgetful 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 chortled for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like wine since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked pitifully, "did Mister Pickett ever talk about someone named Vince Weaver?

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

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

She looked at him blissfully. "I'm nobody's honey-pie," she sneered, "and I don't want to be in Yakima too long. I hope you can do something about James soon."

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

"I can galumph to Yakima as soon as I pack a cream puff, a gold medal, and my snail."

"You'd better take a business card too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he belched suavely.

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

She rose from her seat and waddled nimbly out of the office. He stared needlessly after her.

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