DEATH AND TAXES
Napoleon Solo's casual elegance made even the gray molded plastic chair look like a throne. He surveyed the crunched lobby of his neighborhood J & K Rock Tax Service. A phalanx of sad gray chairs. Thinning gray carpet , patterned so as to disguise dirt and crumbs; a corner table with luke-warm coffee, glass ashtrays, Styrofoam cups next to a gray waste basket. Gray was the corporate color and it was well suited to this sterile modern style of gray-gleaming file cabinets. Gray cubicle dividers separated the cold sleek desks.
But today there were neon pink and orange crepe streamers across the ceiling and dripping down the walls. The windows were draped with an elongated banner proclaiming Customer Appreciation Day. Large green and purple balloons, like clusters of grapes, were tied to the arm rests of the ugly gray plastic chairs. They did not help to impart cheer.
He was early for his appointment with Jerusha Silver, the competent tax professional who usually lent the office its only dab of color and warmth. Solo had the extra time because he had been summarily dismissed from his superior's office that morning. He understood that dressings-down were occasionally part of the job. But this one seems so—so unjust. Sure, he had pulled out his gun in a crowded café where he happened to be dining. But he thwarted the robbers and held them for the arrival of New York's Finest. And was an enforcement agent ever, really, off-duty? He was sorry to have hurt the cops' feelings. But a little gratitude would be nice, too.
He concentrated on turning his brain toward more pleasant musings: Jerusha Silver. Brunet braids crowned across her head, her dark-framed glasses fiercely protective of her snapping indigo eyes. Her lips…well, he could only imagine their sweet secrets. And that sexy pencil behind her ear…Like so many women of her generation, Jerusha had to play down her looks to be taken seriously in the business world.
Mrytle, the receptionist at J & K, had recommended the new associate to him when all the men were booked up. Silver had garnered him $1256 dollars more than past refunds. That was four years ago, and Solo had passed her business card around to colleagues. Her loyal client list had grown, as had her reputation in the agency. Had she been a man, she would have been managing her own branch by now.
Mrytle's gray puffy hairdo reminded him of an aging dandelion. She keyed in the intercom to announce his presence. "Your three o'clock's here."
Jerusha emerged in a gray pinstripe suit jacket and charcoal gray pencil skirt. She was cradling a armload of gray files. She hefted the work to her other arm, offered a firm handshake to Napoleon.
Solo gestured to the decorative attempt festooning the office. "For me? I'm flattered."
"Always," she smiled. "Nice to see you, Napoleon. I do enjoy a challenge, even if it's only annually."
"Aren't you the one who always insists we not compromise your professional standing in the firm?"
Her lips curled into a sour smile. "And you're the one who chooses to believe that corporate bilge."
Napoleon swung his glance wide past empty desks. "Where's the rest of the Tax Team?" he hissed loudly.
"Out to lunch. I'm not invited."
"Their loss," he comforted. He could read the hurt, and resentment in her body language.
"Still solo, Solo? Wives are an extra exemption, you know," she advised
"And alimony is a deduction."
"You're learning."
Back at her desk, she removed the constricting jacket and revealed a pouffy silk blouse of tangerine and sunshine hues. " You just don't want any woman to know your deep dark financial standing. So, let's get started. Where's the infamous shoebox of secrets?"
"You'll be so proud of me," he preened. I've graduated to a fireproof carryall."
Jerusha gave a glance to the metal box at his side. "Uh-huh." She lifted the latch, peeked inside, and closed the lid again. She shook her head. She raised an eyebrow.
"It's fireproof," Solo repeated convincingly.
"I see." She opened it again, and ruffled through the scraps of paper, notated cocktail napkins, shabby maps, multicolored receipts, multi-language ticket stubs that rained like confetti through her polished fingertips. "Fireproof? Good thing, because this is kindling." Her words scolded; her lips smiled.
"You said I needed more substantial documentation, so I brought you some," he allowed his lower lip to pout innocently. Just following orders, M'am, she read in his mischievous eyes.
"Let's start organizing into piles. Travel costs—clothing reimbursements—weapons allowance—client entertainment…"
"Bribes?"
Jerusha paused, considering. "Either 'foreign investment' or 'incidental expenses.' Let's see what we called it last year…"
When they sorted 'medical billing' there was a ruckus out front. The front door slammed and Myrtle's louder-than -usual monotone reached back towards them. "Please, Sir, have a seat and we can help you. I need your name and social security—Sir, if you'll just—"
"You ruined my life!" Retorted the audibly angry voice. "At least you could've warned me. Thirty dollars! Thirty lousy bucks. You said it was supposed to be $300! Oh, god, I wish I was dead…" A mighty howl was quickly replaced with a snarl. "I want help Now! You owe me! Somebody talk to me Now!"
When glass shattered, Jerusha was startled to her feet.
"Wait!" Solo's hand restrained her. "Quiet. Let me—"
"I can help you—" Jerusha called up the hallway and headed to the front, her voice steady and her carriage quick but unswaying.
"Don't want no damn secretary!" he snapped
"Jerusha Silver. I'm branch manager," she lied smoothly. She held out her hand to shake his. "Come back to my desk and you can tell me your problem."
"Your problem," he growled.
She steered him around toward the hall. "Myrtle, can you fetch us some coffee?" she called back over her shoulder.
"Yes, M'am."
Solo concealed himself behind a cubicle screen, his hand on his weapon. None of Waverly's recent diplomatic lecture about jurisdiction, and cooperation with local law officers, and off-duty behavior resonated in his brain now. There WAS a border between Right and Wrong and this guy had crossed over. He was dangerous. But so was Solo.
"Dammitt!" the client howled in despair. "I had plans for that money. Pay things off, get caught up—hell, maybe a color tv—I work all year –now there's nothing! Nothing! Thirty bucks! Thieves—" in his fury he backhanded Jerusha across the face and she caught herself on a chair back before she could lose her balance. She yanked the chair towards him.
"Please. Sit. DOWN." She punctuated her meaning with a little shove. "Now. Give me your name and I will find your file." She insisted with an authority she did not possess. She misdirected his attention by shuffling papers and hit the record button on her Dictaphone.
Solo was waiting for Jerusha to move out of his line of fire, but the stubborn professional was holding her ground. She had worked too long and too hard to allow some screwball to threaten her career, shove it aside like it was nothing. She would handle this, she thought grimly. If she had to subdue him with her adding machine and wrap him up in typewriter ribbon.
POW! A sudden loud explosion burst from the front of the office. Pow-pow!
All three heads turned sharply in surprise. Then the man and Jerusha fell to their knees, Jerusha scrambling behind the desk. Solo stepped out from behind the screen to confront the man flattened on the linty gray carpet.
"Look. You're a really angry guy with thirty bucks. You hurt anybody, you're gonna be a really angry guy with thirty years. Play nice or those cops out front will be charging back here looking for the guy who interrupted their coffee break!"
The man's anger collapsed and his rigid body sagged. Solo dragged him to his feet with one hand and marched him to the front desk.
"Myrtle?" He glanced around at the empty lobby. "Where's the police?"
"Oh…" she dismissed Solo with a wave. "Probably stuck in traffic. We always get jammed up this time of day. They'll be here by and by. Coffee? Made it fresh…" she tempted.
"No, thanks. And I think your client here has had enough caffeine for one day. But—the gun shots-? Myrtle…" his voice raised sternly. "Are you packing trouble?"
"Certainly not." Myrtle drew herself up as if mortally offended. "I'm just a little old lady—with a hat pin." She demonstrated her expertise with her diminutive weapon, gleefully plunging it into a Customer Appreciation balloon. The sharp Pop made Jerusha shudder again.
Later that evening...
Jerusha accepted Napoleon's long-standing invitation for a quiet after-hours drink She would fill out her Daily Activity Report later. It would be a doozy.
"well, if that's an example of your customer service skills—please don't apply at my branch."
"Think I'll stick to the Hargrove Trade Company." Solo chuckled. "We aren't required to be nice to the clients or the competition."
"But Solo, one question."
"Only one?"
"Your organization—don't you have to be accountable? I mean, don't you have to file reports, case documents, evidence? If your work files are anything like your financial records—"
He held up a palm to stop her. "My dear, I have a dedicated, pragmatic and thoroughly organized partner who attends to such."
"Whew. That restores my faith in law enforcement."
He looked at her over the rim of his martini glass. "I thought this was our non-professional encounter."
"Save the receipt, Solo, " she cooed. "Tonight's deductible."
finis