Taco Noir by Steven Gomez Page B

It stood proudly near the great park, side-by-side with some of the finest homes in the city. Maurice had done well for himself after making Mrs. Bancroft’s acquaintance on the continent. He had wealth, stature, and a place in the very society that Mrs. Bancroft was working her way towards.
                It occurred to me that high society played a little lax with its character requirements as well.
                Maurice entered the house, turned on a few lights, and made his way to the kitchen. As the rattle of the pots and pans grew, the smell of chicken and garlic wafted through the air. I pressed my face to the window, watching Maurice lay a bowl for himself and ladling it heavy with stewed chicken, onions, mushrooms, and wine. He sat the dish down on a small table in the kitchen, uncorked a bottle of Burgundy, and poured himself a healthy snootful. From there I watched him as he walked into the parlor and over to one of the many enormous bookshelves lining the walls of the room.. Each shelf overflowed with phonograph records. He studied the shelves as if he were going to be tested on them and, after some time, a smile pushed through his many chins as he pulled a record from the shelf.
                Carrying the record as if it was his first born, he walked to the nearby oak chest and opened the lid, revealing a very elegant and very expensive phonograph. He carefully placed the record on the player, lowered the needle, and was rewarded with the powerful blast of an Italian tenor filling the house. He closed his eyes and smiled as he soaked in the music. It filled every part of him, almost lifting the pudgy little toad off the floor. He hovered for a few more moments in rapture before remembering his dinner.
    Walking back through the small hallway that connected the parlor to the kitchen, Maurice paused at a framed playbill from a European opera hall. He quickly looked from his left to his right as I dove into the bushes, catching a mouthful of Hydrangea for my troubles. From the peeping tom position, I watched Maurice pull on the corner of the framed picture, revealing a wall safe on the other side. This complicated matters.
    His considerable bulk blocked my view of his sausage-like fingers working the dial. When the door opened, he tossed in his wallet, his watch, and a few stray papers. From what little I could see in the safe, it looked as if most of its contents were paperwork. And most of the paperwork looked like stationery.
    I began to doubt that Mrs. B was his only pigeon.
    I watched Maurice return to his bowl of stew in the kitchen, and the muscles in my jaw tightened. The presence of the safe was an issue. I couldn’t just waltz in and slap the little weasel around for the letters. I could wait for Maurice to leave, but since Mrs. B was on his hook he might just decide to move the letters.
    The time to strike was now, but I was coming up snake-eyes. I was tired, out of ideas, and my stomach was protesting the copious amounts of coffee I drank all day. To make matters worse, the scent of Maurice’s chicken stew was intoxicating and my already rebelling gut gave a rumble in protest. I was about to call it an evening and find some grub when inspiration struck. It was after five o’clock and, down the street a newsboy was getting ready to start hawking the evening edition.
     
                I rang Maurice’s bell, using the time it took the portly man to waddle from his kitchen to the front door to straighten my tie and smooth my hair. I had dusted the dirt I collected from Maurice’s shrubbery off my suit and managed to look presentable, but I knew that if you held my suit up next to Maurice’s, mine was destined for the rubbish bin.
                Maurice threw open the door and sized me up immediately. Since I obviously held little wealth, influence, or power, he kept his reserve of pleasantness closed, lest he run low on it at some critical