Magno Girl sat in a Manhattan diner and gazed through a window at the city outside—the snarling herd of yolk-yellow taxi cabs, sausage-filled stockbrokers, and cigarette-thin fashion floozies in their hundred dollar heels.

She said, "Ron, who is this woman we're meeting? Is she involved in an evil plot against society? Or will this be just another mediocre adventure involving the theft of low-cost athletic apparel?"

I swigged some coffee and admired the way my Harley Davidson motorcycle sat in the street like a swaggering chrome stud. I said, "Look, honey, every little crime counts for something. Thanks to you those tube socks are now stuffed into the proper pairs of feet. Anyway, here comes Jane."

Jane was a sweet girl. She was a candy cane in a push-up bra, with lavender lips and eyes the color of ecstatic avocados. She smiled and said, "Ron, thanks for meeting me." She looked at Mags. "You must be Magno Girl. Are you really magnetic?"

Mags tossed back her hurricane of hair, all black except for some savage bloody streaks, and said, "I'm not magnetic. My real name is Magnolia."

Jane said, "Oh, I wish my parents had given me a more interesting name."

Mags said, "Well, I wish my parents hadn't sent me to all those psychiatrists. So, can I help you, Jane? I understand you have a problem?"

Jane said, "Yes—I want to lose weight. My husband thinks I'm fat."

A pained look pillaged its way across Magno Girl's face. She said, "Ron, what did you tell this girl? I'm a crime fighter, not a fitness trainer."

Jane said, "Oh, yeah—I know. I know you're a crime fighter. But you're in such good shape and I just figured maybe you could squeeze me in, you know, when the crimes are a little slow."

Mags frowned. She said, "So, in between my ongoing battles against those who would make our society sock-less, I could shout out sets of sit-ups?"

"Yes, if it's not too much trouble."

Magno Girl rolled her eyes. She said, "Jane, you're not fat. The average American sofa-sloth is five times your size."

Jane said, "Yes, but I was thinner when I got married. I'm not lighting up my bikini the way I used to and my husband doesn't like it."

"Really, and what does he say?"

"Nothing—he's too sweet to tell me."

"Then how do you know what he's thinking?"

"I have the Thelonious Monk machine. It reveals my husband's thoughts to me."

I put down my cup of coffee as Mag's eyes squinted with skepticism. Then Mags said, "Thelonious Monk? A dead jazz musician known for his anti-corporate approach to chords is somehow involved with a mind-reading device?"

"It's really a music box that has Mr. Monk's picture on it. It's been modified to answer questions about my husband's thoughts."

Mags was about to respond when she noticed a commotion up front. The incident involved a greasy little guy who looked like a child pornographer or maybe a pharmaceutical rep—he was arguing with the girl behind the cash register. He sneered and said, "I gave you a twenty."

She said, "No, you gave me a five."

He said, "You're trying to rob me. I want to talk to the manager."

A guy came running over. He wore a slush-colored shirt and had hair as high as bread mold. He said, "What's going on?"

The girl said, "He gave me a five and he's saying it was a twenty."

"Did you put the bill in the cash register before you handed him his change?"

She sighed. "Yeah, but I know what he gave me."

The kiddie-porn guy looked smug, and I felt my fist itching to smash his nose into neutrinos. Meanwhile, Magno Girl walked toward the register. Captain Crew Cut was about to begin apologizing to Statutory Rape Man when Magno Girl said, "Maybe I can help."

She looked at the customer, and her eyes began to glow a searing shade of red. The guy started to stammer—and then he was shaking like a two-dollar stripper. He said, "OKAY, I GAVE HER A FIVE. I SAW THAT SHE PUT IT IN THE REGISTER BEFORE SHE GAVE ME MY CHANGE. I KNOW IT WAS WRONG. I'M SO ASHAMED!"

Mags said, "That's okay." Then she socked him in the jaw—BAM! He went down like a bag of ben wah balls.

Mags turned to Jane and said, "Jane, let me see this Thelonious Monk machine. Maybe I can help you after all."

"Oh, good. I want to be thin."

Then the girl behind the register said, "Hey, what did you just do?"

Mags said, "I punched a man who seemed to deserve it."

I said, "It's the Gaze of the Guilt." This was Magno Girl's unique super-power.

The girl said, "Oh, you're a super hero?"

I said, "Of course she's a super hero—she's Magno Girl. Tell everyone you know that Magno Girl was here, and she saved you at least fifteen dollars."

Mags said, "Hm, that's a very catchy slogan." Then she walked out the door and leaped into the slippery morning sky. I made arrangements with Jane to meet tomorrow at Mag's business, the Bleeding Heart Academy of Martial Arts. Then I hopped on my Harley and headed home. As I rode I considered the state of my life, along with the amount of beer I would later consume.

I'd had a fast childhood. I'd grown like an oil slick on a virgin ocean, and by age six I'd already played with most of the toys labeled "unsafe" by wimpy consumer organizations. My dad had been a deranged baker who'd constructed tactical weapons from bread dough, while my mom had been a master of kung fu flower arrangement. Before long I'd learned a variety of martial arts, and could disable a man with a bunch of buttercups before pummeling him with pumpernickel.

I'd met Mags while working my way through culinary ninja school, where I'd discovered the similarities between slicing a carrot and a carotid artery. I was currently teaching a few classes at her school while attempting to manage her to fame and fortune. Corporate sponsorship was the way to go, but she wasn't cooperating. She was too busy beating the hell out of her unhappy childhood. The next morning I went over to Mag's school. Mags was in her office, and as soon as I arrived Jane also appeared. In her hand was a music box.

Mags said, "Hi, Jane. So, is that the Thelonious Monk Machine?"

"Yes."

She placed it on the desk and punched a pickle-colored button. A few obtuse sounding piano chords crashed out of it before a robotic voice said, "Please submit your question."

I said, "Is that Thelonious in there?"

Jane said, "No—I already asked that question."

"Oh."

Jane said, "Mr. Monk is dead. The box is looking into my husband's mind."

Mags said, "What do you usually ask this thing?"

Jane said, "Well, I ask it to tell me what Mike is thinking. Once it told me that he really wanted to get me a much nicer birthday present, but he just didn't have the money, and he felt terrible about it. So of course I was very happy with that pair of oven mitts. Another time I was wondering who that woman was who I saw him with at the diner. The machine told me that she was just a friend, and that he loved me a lot, and he was working late so he could eventually buy me a gold necklace, or maybe a new ironing board. I feel a little guilty in a way, but I know this is a great thing and it makes our marriage stronger."

Mags said, "Let me see how it works."

Jane once again pressed the button on the device and said, "Hello, machine. Here's my question: Does Mike still think I'm fat?"

A few beeps burped out of the contraption. Then the garbled voice said, "Mike loves you very much, but he thinks you should stop gaining weight. He's not attracted to women with extra weight, though he loves that eggplant of yours and wishes you'd make more."

Jane said, "You see? Isn't this wonderful?"

I said, "Yeah—eggplant is very high in fiber."

Mags said, "Do you always hear the same voice?"

"Yes, though sometimes I get voicemail."

"Your husband's consciousness has a voicemail system?"

"Yes. I leave a message and then later I'll turn the machine on and there will be a response."

I could tell Mags was suspicious, while I was merely hungry for a good tuna sub.

Mags said, "All right, where did you buy this thing?"

"In a little store over on Saint Mark's Place called the Crooked Noodle. The man's name is Zig. Now can you make me thin?"

"Jane, don't eat any donuts and I'll call you in a couple of days."

"Okay, thank you, Magnolia." Jane went on her way.

I said, "So, what now? Is there any way I can get a tuna sub out of this situation?"

Mags started to say something but the phone rang. She picked it up, and I could hear the crusty crackle of her mother's voice on the other end.

Momma Mags said, "You never call me. You never visit me. When I'm dead, you'll never come to my grave."

"Uh, hello, Mom."

"I could grow old waiting for you to call. There are cobwebs all over my phone. By the time it rings I'll be in the box."

"Mom, you shouldn't talk that way. I'll try to call you, um, before they close the lid."

"Ha, why should you care about me? You're out there all day, beating people up. I'm stuck in here where I can hardly go from the TV to the toilet."

"You love to make me feel guilty."

"You should feel guilty."

"Why should I feel guilty? I was a nice girl. I never hurt anyone."

"You smashed the piano. You wrecked the car. You put your father in an early grave."

"I didn't want piano lessons. The car was old. Daddy's liver was like a bag full of bourbon."

"A girl should help her mother, no matter how rotten she was."

"I have to go, mom."

"Good, go have your fun. I'll pick out my casket."

Mags slammed down the phone. I wasn't worried—I'd seen all this before. I said, "Are you all right, Mags?"

"Yes."

"So, what about Jane? What about the tuna?"

Magno Girl hesitated, then said, "We're going to go visit that little shop. Maybe they sell tuna, and maybe they don't."

"Okay."I knew that life was basically a crapshoot.

I rode over to the Crooked Noodle on my bike. It was a sleazy little establishment packed with stuff. It looked like the inside of a fat guy's stomach after Thanksgiving dinner. I walked through the fermented front door and tried not to trip over any partially digested cranberry sauce. Mags arrived a few minutes later and we started looking around.

There was an unshaven guy behind the counter. His face was craggy like a crud-covered cactus. He said, "Can I help you?"

Mags said, "Yes, I was referred here by a friend. Are you Zig?"

"Yeah. Who sent ya?"

"Jane. She purchased a music box decorated with a picture of Thelonious Monk."

"Oh, right—I don't remember her. Is there something else you're lookin' for?"

"Only the truth."

"That's a hard thing to find. Why don't you check out the jewelry instead?"

Mags eyes lit up like a pair of electric cherries as she unleashed the Gaze of the Guilt. Zig staggered back a step, caught in the killer grip of her roving retinas.

"OKAY," Zig said, embarrassed and ashamed, "A DIAMOND IS JUST A SHINY LITTLE STONE DUG OUT OF THE DIRT BY AN ORPHANED KID IN SOUTH AFRICA! DEEP DOWN INSIDE, I KNOW THAT LOVE CANNOT BE MEASURED BY THE SIZE OF A STONE! AUGH!"

Mags said, "I'm not interested in the world's idiotic obsession with polished little pebbles—tell me about the Thelonious Monk machine."

Zig staggered back a step, then said, "All right, I sold her that machine...it was made by her husband. I knew it was wrong."

"How does it work?"

Zig was shaking with shame. He said, "Look, Jane's husband, Mike, is a friend of mine. But she didn't know me. I told him that she comes in here all the time, and he asked me to sell her that machine. There's a phone inside, and a voice scrambler, and some kind of answering machine. When she calls, she's really calling Mike. He gets her to think all kinds of stuff."

Mags said, "Very sneaky." She released Zig from the Gaze of the Guilt, and her eyes returned to their normal shade of nutritious green.

She looked at me and said, "Let's go."

We started toward the door, but then from the corner of my cornea I saw Zig reach down under the counter and grab a harpoon-sized bassoon, complete with gleaming silver accessories. He screamed, "HA!" Then he charged toward Magno Girl with his nostrils flaring, and his instrument of destruction held high.

I quickly tried to remember the basic defenses I'd learned against weapons of the woodwind family. I recalled one that involved a banana peel—but damned if I hadn't left my bananas in the other jacket. I looked around fast, and snatched a statue of Buddha that was sitting on top of a chrome birdbath. Then I leaped into Zig's path. Zig's eyes were wide like a couple of eggs fried in Angel Dust. He screamed "HA!" again and thrust with his bassoon. I side-stepped his assault, and scowled with face number 31, the grimace of the garlic, which I'd learned at The School of 39 Faces. I saw Zig wince at the power of my hundred-clove pupils—and then I swung my Buddha.

I shouted "HI-YAH!" as I smashed it down on Zig's head—CRUNCH! His jug-sized skull punched through the bottom. Apparently, Buddha was made from papier-mache.

Zig staggered backwards, and crashed into an outdated microwave oven that didn't even have a "reheat" feature. Then he reached up and tore off Buddha's stomach, exposing his face while leaving the rest of his head surrounded by the wise old sage. Zig suddenly seemed rather serene.

Zig said, "So, you hit me with the Enlightened One. That's gotta be a sin or something."

Mags fist slammed into his face—POW! He went down.

We left him on the floor to ponder his place in hell.

The next day was sunny, and the gourmet grit of New York City sparkled with a special mixture of fashion and filth as Jane walked into Magno Girl's office.

Jane said, "I bought some exercise clothing. I got a wonderful deal on the perfect outfit—forty percent off! So, are you going to teach me some martial arts?"

Mags said, "Jane, I looked into the Thelonious Monk machine. It's a fake. Zig confessed—your husband is the voice on the line. Mike wanted you to have the machine so he could manipulate you."

Jane looked stunned. She said, "What?"

Mags said, "You're not fat, your husband is a bastard, and I can teach you some jiu-jitsu."

Jane didn't move. She stood still as a frozen Eskimo while her eyes turned into a pair of melting snowballs. Then she said, "I can't believe it! I'm such a fool. I'm going home and packing my bags—no, I'll pack his bags. No—I'LL MAKE HIM PACK HIS OWN BAGS!" Then she sat down in a chair and started to cry.

She cried for a while. Then she cried some more. I hadn't seen so much water since I'd driven that beer truck into the East River. Mags gave her some green tea and tried to console her while I considered the fact that this case would never get us any kind of corporate sponsorship. Finally, Jane reached into her purse and removed the Thelonious Monk machine. She placed it on the desk and pressed the button. A pretzel-pitched chord tumbled out and the garbled voice said, "I'm not available now. Please leave a message."

Jane sniffled a bit and said, "Mike, it's me. I know all about how this machine works. Don't try and fool me anymore because the game is up. I just want you to know that I'm the one who cooked your eggplant and scrubbed your socks and cared about you when you had to work late all those nights. And I'm the one who trusted you and believed in you and would have done anything for you." She paused and wiped her eyes, then sobbed a few times, then wailed, "I loved you more than I ever loved anyone—AND YOU TORE MY HEART OUT! So long."

Jane turned off the machine. She sniffled again and said, "Magnolia, I know I shouldn't ask you for any more help, but do you think you could hit Mike with your magic gaze and make him feel guilty for what he's done? I want him to know how he hurt me."

"Don't worry about it, Jane. If he's got any conscience, he knows."

THE END