A man in his late fifties, with a kind face, laughter lines on the eyes, high forehead, but deep bags under his eyes, heavy jowled.

I asked,

“A drinker?”

Tight smile, then,

“None of us is without our frailties.”

“Want to share some of yours, Gabe, help us… bond?”

He shut down. The meeting was over. He handed me a tiny white card, three phone numbers, said,

“You report only to me, and need I stress that speed is of the essence?”

I nearly gave the Nazi salute but it would have been too obvious.

I flicked his card on the table, said,

“You’re forgetting the important bit.”

Finally, with a look of surprise, he indicated the fat envelope, said,

“I think you’ll find the fee more than generous and a speedy resolution will result in a very handsome bonus.”

I said,

“You don’t listen too good, do you Gabe? So, I’ll say it slow, you might be able to hear it then. I haven’t said I’ll take the job.”

His lips literally peeled back to reveal those marvelous teeth.

He said,

“Mr. Taylor, you are a Catholic, lapsed, perhaps, but still part of our flock. You have helped the Church in the past, albeit reluctantly, I understand, but surely you want to see the Church restored to its former glory?”

Back to its bullying days, its arrogance, its total disregard of the people. I had an overwhelming desire to wallop him, a powerful right hand to his tanned face, wipe out one or two of those perfect teeth.

I said,

“I’ll take the case. One, because I think you’re lying through your teeth. Two, it’s a blast to be actually receiving money from the Church. But know this, Gabe, I don’t report and I’m not, no way, part of your flock, lapsed or otherwise.”

It was impossible to gauge how he took it. He stood, said,