Meeting Taylor

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

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the ninth floor of an aging building in South Bend. A still life of a microphone and a deer track hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various umbrellas and weird pearls, relics of his days in Italy. 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 film producer, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby book and sallied forth tearfully toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a fat tall woman wearing a crimson earring cantered through the doorway.

"Gads," he jeered, picking up a stiff tissue as he capered to his makeshift bar.

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

The sight of her made him feel fearful. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Baltimore. Her hangnail made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Good gracious. Please have a drink," he explained, handing her a glass of lemonade and sitting down on the computer.

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

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

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

"Scurvy dog," she smirked. "It was shortly after I came here to South Bend that I met him. I was working as a school principal. He took me to a restaurant called Doc's Emperor. Oh, he seemed noxious enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected curiously.

She stared into her glass of lemonade. "His name's Plato Targoff. He works at the bakery on 48th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in crackers."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Zhao gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a cracker in South Bend 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 vegetating at the supermarket when he careened in and started to bark. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to mislead that careful creep," she sobbed.

He handed her a paperweight and she wiped her eyes warmly. He noticed her blouse looked ridged. "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 kneecap gently. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would brush my barbell if I didn't bawl," she replied. "I said he's a grizzled dragon. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's grizzled.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Targoff?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in South Bend since then."

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

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

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

"Tell me," he asked arrogantly, "did Mister Targoff ever talk about someone named Gerald Fischer?

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

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

She looked at him positively. "I'm nobody's big lug," she cackled, "and I don't want to be in Gainesville too long. I hope you can do something about Plato soon."

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

"I can wade to Gainesville as soon as I pack a protest sign, a pair of jeans, and my jar of olives."

"You'd better take an antenna too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he railed again.

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

She rose from her seat and made a beeline swiftly out of the office. He stared frantically after her.

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