On the case with agent Double-O-Zero

Taylor. Mike Taylor. And I’ll have that martini shaken, not stirred.

It was something out a spy movie, my drive through Grand Rapids last Wednesday. I had a couple hours to kill before an appointment there, so I was tooling around town, visiting places from my past — the house I grew up in, my old parish, an apartment complex I’d lived in when the kids were little.

It was while leaving the latter that I was suddenly sucked into the spy movie. I was turning right out of the complex; the blonde in the red compact next to me was turning left. As she passed, I noticed a package sitting on the trunk; it slid a few inches to the right, then back to the left as her car pulled out of its turn.

For a moment, I considered ignoring the situation, which fell squarely, I reasoned, into the SEP (Somebody Else’s Problem) category. Then my Catholic guilt kicked in and I fell in behind the red car.

Mike Taylor to the rescue. Think nothing of it, ma’am!

Following close behind, I honked my horn a couple times in a manner meant to convey the following message: “Hey! Lady! You’ve got a package sliding around on your trunk and if there’s anything breakable in there, I think you can kiss it goodbye the first time you hit a bump.”

Apparently my message was misinterpreted; the driver glanced angrily into her rearview mirror and gestured half a peace sign in my general direction.

Okay, I thought. Just a misunderstanding. I’ll explain it to her at the traffic light, just ahead.

She rolled to a stop at the Plainfield Avenue intersection. I eased up behind her, put my car in park and opened the door. I saw her see me in her side mirror; I smiled and waved in a manner meant to convey the following message: “Hey lady. I’m just trying to help here. Not a serial killer or road-raged lunatic or anything. Just relax and let me get you that package off your trunk there.”

But again my message was misunderstood (I have this problem a lot with women, for some reason). Her eyes went wide and she shot through the red light, narrowly missing a minivan sporting Yosemite Sam mud flaps. The van’s driver honked, but by this time the lady was too busy trying to escape the crazed maniac (me) to bother with bird flipping.

Sighing, I climbed back behind the wheel, waited for the light to change, then — determined to do this good deed if it took all day — continued to trail the red compact.

After all, that box sliding around on her truck might contain life-saving medicine for her sick toddler, or the ashes of her recently deceased husband, or priceless family heirlooms, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, but still vulnerable to a high speed fall from a red compact car.

Or maybe, I thought, the box is packed with hundred dollar bills, money from a drug payoff. In which case I would face the unenviable task — should the box fall off and I recover it — of deciding whether to turn it in to the police or keep it for myself. Catholic guilt is all well and good, but it would be nice to be able to pay my electric bill on time for a change.

No, no, I would turn it in. Oh, no, I wouldn’t! Yes, I would. I could almost see the little angel on my left shoulder, the little devil on my right.  They never get along.

Or maybe the box didn’t contain drug money at all, but the drugs themselves. Half a million dollar’s worth of uncut Bolivian cocaine (if you’re a druggie and this reference makes no sense, you’ll have to forgive me; I don’t use drugs myself and am therefore unfamiliar with the nomenclature). 

If drugs, I suppose I would feel compelled to turn them over to the cops. But if I did, would they think I was somehow complicit? If they tracked down the drug dealer, would I be subpoenaed to testify at his trial? And if so, would some mob boss put a “hit” out on me? 

Just what the hell was I getting into here?

I was right behind the red compact, but let my speed drop until half-a-block separated us. I switched on my blinker, intending to give up the chase at the next intersection.

That’s when the box fell off the trunk.

The red compact zipped off. I stopped and retrieved the package; it was sealed with packing tape. It wasn’t heavy enough to be filled with hundred dollar bills. Or Bolivian cocaine. Priceless heirlooms, maybe, but since I don’t know a “fence,” or even the owner of a disreputable pawn shop, I would not be tempted to steal them.

There were no markings on the package, no address, phone number … nothing. By the time I climbed back behind the wheel, the red compact was long gone. I continued along Plainfield Avenue for a few blocks, hoping to spot the car, but had no luck.

In the mall parking lot, I debated for a few seconds over whether to open the box. There might be something inside, I reasoned, that would point me to its legitimate owner. (Of course, the possibility of hundred dollar bills had not entirely left my mind at this point, either.)

I cut the tape and carefully peeled back the top of the box.

Hamster food. Four bags of hamster food. I had spent the last 20 minutes trying to save a lady — a lady who flipped me off, by the way — from losing her hamster food.

Time for that martini. Shaken, stirred, I don’t care.

Mike Taylor’s book, “Looking at the Pint Half Full” is available at Robbins Book List in Greenville and in Kindle format from Amazon.com.