Vic Daniel 6 - As she rides by

speaking.”
    “Tom, it’s Vic,” I said. “Have I got news. Are you sitting down?”
    “Lying down,” he said. “Awaiting room service to arrive with my morning porridge.”
    “Good,” I said. “That way you’ll have less distance to fall when I lay it on you, like, man.”
    I laid it on him, in brief, but only about the pension scam.
    “You have to laugh,” he said.
    “Keep it quiet for a couple of days, me boy,” I said. “Because the Bobbies are still gathering evidence.”
    “Ha ha ha,” he said. “Hear that? It’s me laughing my heart out.”
    “What I thought was,” I said, “if you have any instruments or amps or guitar pucks you’ve left down at the studio, if I was you I’d get them out of there pronto.”
    “Master tapes,” he said. “And it’s ‘picks,’ not ‘pucks,’ as you well know.”
    “Oh,” I said.
    “And that sound you just heard,” he said, “was me slamming the door behind me on the way out. Thanks, mate. I’ll catch you later.”
    I’d no sooner hung up from the laying it on to Tom when I had a call from Mr. Gall’s secretary. She wanted to know if me and Elroy would be in my office at two p.m. precisely that afternoon, please, and to be prepared to finalize with Ms. Garrison. I told her we would be delighted to finalize with Ms. Garrison that afternoon; ipso facto, the sooner the better. I passed the news on to Elroy, who jogged around to my office shortly after I got back from lunch, arriving hardly out of breath at all. Seeing he was so fit and all, I let him take the extra chairs back to the Nus.
    “Eh, Elroy,” I asked him as we were shooting the breeze and awaiting the arrival of Ms. Garrison, “just what are you planning to do with that lot I’ve managed to secure for you at such an attractive price, I have no doubt?”
    “Fear not, my man,” he said, swinging his legs busily. “Tear your mind away from thoughts of such tasteless ventures as a club with live sex shows three times a week and mud wrestling in between, or an all-night disco, or a Yamaha agency, all repairs done on premises.”
    “With pleasure, Elroy,” I said. “What direction should I turn my mind to?”
    “To tasteful living in a quiet family neighborhood,” he said, “with all mod cons, wall-to-wall carpeting throughout, new drapes, garbage disposal units, pets accepted. In other words, hold my hand, in other words, cast your eyes on this.” He worked the rubber bands off the rolled-up blueprint he’d arrived with and spread it out on the desk, using the telephone to hold down one edge and the mug full of pens and pencils the other. “Is it not a work of art? Does it not rival Frank Lloyd Wright at his most inventive?”
    “Does it not indeed,” I said. “Have you got planning permission for all this already?”
    “Do I not indeed,” he said. The plans showed a new second story of apartments built over our whole little row of businesses. A three-story apartment building was projected where the empty lot was, and a smaller, two-story flat over Mr. Amoyan’s. I looked over the plans, nodding wisely. Then I took a closer look and stopped nodding.
    “Elroy,” I said, “what’s happened to my office?”
    “Ah,” he said. “Glad you brought that up. As a matter of fact, it’s been turned into a staircase.”
    “You’re turning my office into a staircase?”
    “Had to, my man,” he said. “The main building needed a rear exit and there was no where else to put it.”
    The phone rang. “Saved by the bell,” I told him bitterly. “Hello, who are you and what do you want?”
    “My name is Evonne Louise Shirley,” said a voice I knew all too well, “and I thought I’d stop by and say hello, if you weren’t busy.”
    “What a brilliant idea,” I said. “Busy? Not at all. Free as a bird is more like it. Elroy’s here, but he’ll be on his way any minute now, in a hearse, then I am yours, babe, all yours.”
    “See you soon, sweetheart,” she said.
    “Eh, what happened to Colombia Joe, the king o’ cappuccino, if I may be so bold?”
    “He turned out to be a total wimp,” she said. “He even had to put his apron on when he made cinnamon toast.”
    “Well I never!” I said.
    “And whatever you are, Victor,” she said, “and you are many things, not all of which I am deeply enamored of, you are in no way a wet wimp.”
    “I had an apron once,” I said. “My sister-in-law gave it to me one Christmas. It was for barbecues. It had a