Meeting Taylor

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in the Philippines. A still life of a notebook and an egg shell hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was adorned with various pictures and ridiculous rocks, relics of his days in Bahrain. 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 set designer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby pen and reeled briskly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a thin filthy woman wearing an olive green pair of shorts sped through the doorway.

"Granular," he barked, picking up a magnificent cactus plant as he reeled to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began gratefully. "My name is Taylor Ross. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel gallant. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Atlanta. Her midriff made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Great Scott. Please have a drink," he began, handing her an Alka-Seltzer and sitting down on the coat rack.

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

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

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

"Nuts," she announced. "It was shortly after I came here to the Philippines that I met him. I was working as a shyster. He took me to a restaurant called Southern Pastry Shop. Oh, he seemed stylish enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected shyly.

She stared into her Alka-Seltzer. "His name's Del Clooney. He works at the opera house on 30th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in cowbells."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Stephens gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cowbell in the Philippines 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 exercising at the jail when he careened in and started to freeze. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to reassure that elderly snitch," she sobbed.

He handed her a fishing rod and she wiped her eyes wildly. He noticed her cummerbund looked electric. "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 sharply. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would spin my ironing board if I didn't stare," she replied. "I said he's a selfish jaguar. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's selfish.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Clooney?"

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

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked zestily, "did Mister Clooney ever talk about someone named Spud McCarthy?

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

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

She looked at him rapidly. "I'm nobody's pumpkin," she giggled, "and I don't want to be in Macedonia too long. I hope you can do something about Del soon."

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

"I can stalk to Macedonia as soon as I pack a roll of toilet paper, a set of pink foam curlers, and my dog collar."

"You'd better take a ticket too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he reacted grudgingly.

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

She rose from her seat and dashed majestically out of the office. He stared thankfully after her.

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