The Undertaker by William Brown Page B

hair was thick and dark, which made me wonder if he had a little bottle of Grecian Formula 16 hidden somewhere inside that big desk. A big-time lawyer with a big-time ego trying to cheat the clock? Who would have guessed? Not that he didn't look comfortable, hiding away here in his inner sanctum. He'd rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt to his elbows. He'd pulled his tie down and his vest was unbuttoned. However, from his expression, the managing partner did not look as if he was managing to have a good day, and that was before I barged in.
    I set the two white bags on the coffee table and plopped down on Tinkerton's expensive brown-leather couch. His eyes followed me across the room as he listened, talked, and wrote on the legal pad. Good job, I thought, wondering whether he got it from the Troll or she got it from him. With some luck though, he could triple-bill and in a place like this, that was all that mattered. I'm not sure how much of his brain had focused on me yet. Probably not much. I stuck my nose inside the bag and pulled out two sandwiches and one of the bottles of Doctor Brown's. That was when Tinkerton finally noticed me. His eyes were battleship gray and as cold as a rainy November day as they looked me up and down. He frowned. Why would a mere sandwich delivery boy barge into
my
office, uninvited, and plop his ass down on
my
expensive Spanish leather couch, he was probably asking? Sufficiently aroused, he dropped his feet to the floor, looked at his solid-gold Rolex watch, and put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone.
    “Can I help you?” he snapped in an exasperated West Texas twang that sounded like it blew straight in from a hot, dusty oil field.
    “That's a real nice watch you've got there, Ralph,” I pointed. “They gave my grandfather a silver one when he retired from the Santa Fe, but it was nothing like that big goober you got. Guess he should have tried the Justice Department, 'cause it's amazing the loot you can score these days in public service. Now, which do you want? The corned beef or pastrami?”
    “Pastrami? What? Who in the Holy Hell are you?” he demanded to know as the office door rattled back and forth, as someone on the outside tried frantically to open it.
    I heard a key rattling in the lock. The door suddenly flew open and his angry and somewhat disheveled Troll stumbled into the office. I looked at her and smiled pleasantly. After all, I was nothing if not a good sport and a gracious winner, but the Troll had not come alone. Behind her, she had brought reinforcements: two young associates who rear-ended her and almost knocked her down. They peered cautiously over her shoulder, still not certain that “bouncer” was part of their job descriptions.
    “Mr. Tinkerton, I don't know what to say,” the flustered Troll stammered. “I called Security…”
    “Hi, Ralph. My name's Talbott, Peter Emerson Talbott,” I told him. “Does that name ring a bell?”
    Tinkerton started to speak and then he paused. He stared across the desk at me and I swore I could see the wheels going round and round behind those cold, November-gray eyes of his. “That won't be necessary, Edna,” he finally told the Troll with a forced smile. “I have it covered.”
    “But Mr. Tinkerton,” she sputtered. “He… he ...”
    “It's all right, Edna. But thank you for your concern.”
    Despite his reassurances, her eyes never left me.
    “Edna,” I said to her. “You look like the wild-and-crazy pastrami type. Here, fresh from the Bouncing Bagel across the street, so you enjoy, girl.” I reached out and placed a thick, wax-paper wrapped sandwich in her hands. Her mouth dropped open as she looked over at Tinkerton for help, then at me, then back at Tinkerton as she slowly backed out of the room, not knowing what to do with the sandwich.
    The door closed behind her and Tinkerton and I were alone again. I opened one of the corned beef sandwiches and held the other one out to him, but he