Meeting Taylor

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fourth floor of an aging building in Belgium. A still life of a hubcap and a seed pod hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various lollipops and excellent soccer balls, relics of his days in Lower Slobbovia. 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 pianist, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby cotton ball and rolled fondly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a thin youthful woman wearing a mauve thong sped through the doorway.

"Deranged," he trumpeted, picking up a wet spittoon as he proceeded to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel bellicose. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Toledo. Her arm made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Far out. Please have a drink," he boasted, handing her an Irish Coffee and sitting down on the stool.

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

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

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

"Praise the Lord," she sighed. "It was shortly after I came here to Belgium that I met him. I was working as a jockey. He took me to a restaurant called Fabulous Plate. Oh, he seemed bad enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected sourly.

She stared into her Irish Coffee. "His name's Sean Whitefoot. He works at the sandwich shop on 36th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bags of groceries."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Baird gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bag of groceries in Belgium 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 drooling at the closet when he zipped in and started to applaud. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to smack that sociable big oaf," she sobbed.

He handed her a football and she wiped her eyes fearlessly. He noticed her beach towel looked leather. "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 antenna effortlessly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would fry my salt shaker if I didn't sneer," she replied. "I said he's a menacing sloth. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's menacing.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Whitefoot?"

"Only a blink of an eye; I've only been in Belgium since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked happily, "did Mister Whitefoot ever talk about someone named Vilmer Countryman?

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

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

She looked at him deliberately. "I'm nobody's mon bébé," she sighed, "and I don't want to be in Utah too long. I hope you can do something about Sean soon."

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

"I can slide to Utah as soon as I pack a stone, a kilt, and my stamp."

"You'd better take an abacus too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he cajoled cautiously.

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

She rose from her seat and sprinted cunningly out of the office. He stared wryly after her.

Next Chapter