Surveillance Pelicana Chapter 12: ‘The Fabulous Little Baker Girl, Bingo LeBoeuf and Dill Pickle’

Doggy Girl/Bill Conley




The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:

Chapters 1-10:

Chapters 11-20:

Chapters 21-30:



Joe organizes the team effort for

the first encounter with Mildred Baker who

has a doctor’s appointment near Touro Infirmary

on Prytania Street. Tyger records Baker’s

bizarre activity from a parking garage

across the street. Following this, Tyger

goes to Livingston Parish and interviews

the estranged wife of Bingo LeBoeuf,

Joe’s evil Moriarty of an arch enemy.

Tyger also cases the Loranger home

of the ridiculous Dill Pickle.



“”The Fabulous Little Baker Girl, Bingo LeBoeuf and Dill Pickle”







Listen my children and you shall hear of the first encounter

with Mildred Baker. What a dear. Grab a chair, and abandon fear .

Comrades: You are Walter Cronkite there.

A week has transpired without any cases, which is fine as

Tyger is very worn out from all the — Maynard G. Krebs voice,

woooork! It is not all that easy to go from being blissfully

unemployed, blissful to the degree that the attendant lack of

financial resources can be tolerated, to working constantly.

Tyger could lift and press the heavy workload because he was

well rested and assignments were interesting. However, the respite has

had a refreshing effect. He’s ready, willing, and raring to go.

Dorothy sets up commos. “We are going in on Mildred Baker,

and Joe wants to meet you outside Que Sera on St. Charles Avenue .

You know where that is, don’t you?”

“A horse is a horse of course, of course. ”

“Good. Be there for 10 a.m. Bring the system. ”

The appointed time, as it must, rolls down da broad oak

tree lined avenue, home to must, rolls down da broad oak

some of New Orleans’ wealthiest mannerisms. Joe waits outside

the canopied cafe wearing a “NASA–Space is the Place”

blue cap, and shades. He clutches in his



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right hand a copy of the St. Petersburg Times.

“Hey, how you doing, bro?” inquiring minds wants to know.

“Doing O.K.,” Tyger replies. “Playing the game?.”

“You are going to enjoy this one,” Joe continues. “We have

Mildred Baker scheduled for a doctor’s appointment.

She is supposed to show up at 11:30 a.m. at a Dr. Singer’s

office in the medical center on Prytania Street across from Touro

Infirmary. He’s the go-to guy for lots of these basket cases. Their

attorneys use him to make the fake diagnosis and treatments.

I want you to set up and get some good shots of her coming and going.”

The plan, as usual, is somewhat overblown but ingeniously etertaining.

Lana is over in New Orleans East by Baker’s apartment. Joe will

join her. But first, they must find a convenient pay telephone near Tour.

Joe will call Tyger at the pay phone when Baker leaves for

the doctor’s office. Then, the junior associate should set up in

a good spot catching her arrival at the clinic.

Meantime, Lana will try to photograph the sub leaving the

complex. Joe will follow the taxi in which the little girl Baker is

encased while she travels Uptown. This way they have thrice the

opportunity to catch the elusive Ms. Baker in action. Of course,

The very real possibility exists that Ms. Half-Baked will continue the

lame act throughout. However, the client wants to start taking the first good

shot. there and rumble, stumble, bumble, tumble from there.

Who knows. Luck is the residue of design as Branch Rickey, baseball genius,

said. The fabulous Ms. Baker may slip up and slip out of her blessed wheelchair.



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Then, the tired trap thee act would be over, gotcha. It’s a

mega-million dollar question. Time fot some sub rosa fun.

Off into the ozone floats Joe as Tyger takes up residence

near the chosen pay phone. It is situated on the bottom level

of the parking garage directly across Prytania — pronounced pry and

tanya, as in Patty Hearst, by natives — Street from Touro Infirmary.

Tyger sifts around for a good watching spot. Inspiration strikes.

Why not try the open top level of the garage? He can get a good

long shot of the entire street and any activities like strange

flips or hanging from a railing by former trapeze artist Mildred Baker.

Goody goody gumshoe. This is what surveillance of the pelicana is all about.

Let the good times roll as hopefully will Mildred’s Baker.

Tyger grabs a quick brew over at the Bluebird Cafe and retakes

his position by the pay phone. After about 25 minutes of pacing

to and fro across the concrete floor by the reeking of piss

elevator area; holy shit, batman, ring ring rings the telephone.

Tyger grabs the gecko by the long tail of a cord.

“Hey that you?” Joe Fine’ s voice on the line.

“Yeah chief. Anything happening?”

“Nah. The bitch is still at home. Lana is watching over on

the corner. Just checking to keep in commos. I anticipate she



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should be moving any time. Hold that Tyger.

We should have something soon.”

“Gotcha chief. On my toes.”

“Good. Be talking to you soon.”

“Back at ya.”

About 20 minutes pass. A garage attendant walks by a couple

of times which naturally arouses Tyger’s innate sense of paranoia.

What does that fucker want anyway? What is his fucking

problem? Tyger wishes he would, like the toilet bowl cleaner,


Finally deciding that lack of discretion is the better part

of valor, Tyger catches the attendant’s gaze after a third passby.

“Hey man, is it alright if I wait here? I’m supposed to meet

my girlfriend,” Tyger lies.

“Oh yeah, I’m just on break,” notes the small black

attendant with an official parking garage logo shirt

looking for a sneaky place to take a smoke.

“They don’t like us hanging around at the entrance.”

“I know how that goes,” Tyger as friendlinessman impersonates.

“Yeah, work’s a bitch,” the attendant remarks.

“As is my girlfriend,”Tyger says.

Suddenly, the phone rings-a-ding-dings. Tyger snatches it

like a bug eating plant. The attendant wears a quizzical expression.

“What? What?” Tyger answers an unintelligible voice. ”Izz

Shoily dere?”




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“Oh, I must have the wrong number .” Click. “What do you

know,” Tyger says to the attend ant, “wrong number.”

The attend ant walks over to the phone, picking up the

receiver. “Uhh, what are you doing?” a worried Tyger asks.

After all, Joe Fine could be calling at any moment.

“I got to check in at home. Y’all don’t miiiiiiiiind. Do you?”

Tyger figures he better let the attendant have his head.

Dial dial, doo-dah, diddy as Tyger waits nervously at arm’s

length from the sacred object.

“Hey there baby. What it ain’t,” the attendant says. “How

you beautiful doll doing? Yeahhhhhhh.” Pregnant pause.

Tyger is a tad nervous, but lets the pitch go. Wide right.

“Oh yeah. Oh yeah. Oh yeah. Oh yeah. Yeah? Oh yeah,” and so

forth for two or three minutes that seem much longer.

“She said what? Hey, don’t let that bother you none baby.

You my baby doll gal. Don’t listen to that shit. Yeah. Oh yeah.”

Tyger starts losing his shit. How long is this guy going to

take? An inner debate flares between civil civilian Tyger and the

forces of investigative disorder . Finally, thank goodness,

the attendant lets the phone off the hook.

Tyger looks pissed.

“Anything the matter, my man?” the attendant asks.

“Oh, no no no no. I was waiting for my girlfriend to call on this line about

when she’s going to pick me up. Forgot to mention that to y’all.



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Didn’t know how long you would take.”

“Yeah, dem wild women . Can’t live wid dem and can’t live

widout dem. You feel me, man?” “Oh, yeah, and then some.”

Finally, ring ring da-riiing as Tyger lunges for the phone.

“Who were you talking to?” Joe Fine asks. “Focus.”

Thank the good Lord and pass the ammo.

“It’s for me,” Tyger says to the attendant who waves his

hand adding, “Okee-dokey. Got to be off. Dem wild, wild women,”

chuckling as he trails into the garage darkness. “Yeah, you right

man,” Tyger calls out. “See ya when I see ya.”

Back to Joe Fine. “Damn. The parking attendant was using

the phone to kill time.” “I was wondering if I had the right number

but I figured would get you eventually,” Joe says.

“The bitch is off,” the super sleuth continues. “The game is

afoot. They wheeled her in a Yellow Cab. Yellow Cab Number 23.

Should be there in 20 minutes.”

“Got anything on her?” Tyger asks.

“Lana took a few stills, but Baker was doing her dumb little act,” Joe says.

“I didn’t shoot any video. You got a good spot?”

“Great spot on the top floor of the parking garage. Got a

nice angle down on the entire street and no one to hassle me.”

“Good show. We’ll be down there in a little while. I’ll try

to get her from the street. You stick where you are. See ya.



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When I see ya.” Click.

Tyger takes the elevator to the top floor. Odoriferous

smell of taxi zum klo piss displeases his sensitive nostrils.

Atop the garage in the fresh crisp air, all is right

again. Tyger removes video camera and recorder .

He is not even going to bother setting up the system. No

need to. It is a straight ahead mission above ground zero. This

way he has more videographic mobility in the splendid isolation

of the empty top floor.

Checking the picture, and looking good. As usual, the

hurry up and wait department. Tyger pauses, and takes another hit

… of sweet air.

But for good measure, he smokes a roach that was in the

ashtray. After all, an intrepid investigator can never be too prepared.

So it goes, so it flows. Minutes pass. Tyger focuses with

extra attention span on each and every passing vehicle waiting

for the magic moment of decision. Tygermeister scanning

like a pelicana back and forth down along Prytania Street

until presto magic, Joe Fine’s Toyota Cressida

pulls into an empty parking space.

pCan the Baker porta party be far behind?

Sure enough, a couple ot minutes later the blessed cab

pulls out all the screeching stops at

the medical center’s front entrance. Tyger zooms in on the



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taxi driver jumping out the door, running into the open ended building.

HRH Baker remains seated in the cab. A nurse with wheelchair

accompanies the cabby back curbside. They load in Ms. Baker like

a sack of angry potatoes. She appears to be mouthing off to the cab driver.

Tyger checks his watch. He finally gets it. They are late, late for a very

important date. Baker’s White Rabbit hopping mad. Now, if only she

would actually hop. That would be somewhat entertaining.

Tick shtick tock. Nothing nothing nothing. Boring boring snoring.

A car passes around the upper curve that spirals the

parking garage thereafter cruising downward.

Tyger pays scant attention to irrelevant details. Or tries to.

Getting on to 1 p.m., comrades. No time to say hello, goodbye.

She’s late. For a long lonely time Tyger has been

waiting each nanosecond for the other shoe to drop. Tick friggin’

tock. Nothing neither way. Boring boring snoring.

At long and lovely last, they wheel out the fat little Baker girl.

She is a porker alright, no doubt about it, in more ways than one.

The harried nurse talks to her for a while, then returns to said office.

Baker idles just under the building’s awning and waits.

And waits. And Tom Waits. “Time is just memory mixed with desire.”

All this time, Tyger rolls videotape. Alas, no

suspicious activity to record. Baker playing it by the book.

She continues looking at her wrist. What time is it through the looking glass.



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Tyger follows suit. About 1:15 p.m. which reminds him to watch

“All My Children” on tape when he returns home.

The fantastically weird Mrs. Baker appears perturbed.

She wheels down Prytania Street. She wheels back to the awning.

She waits a short while. She wheels down Prytania Street and

back again. Heavy metal braces hanging from each arm.

Tyger continues with his mission control, taping the

diminutive doll judgment day style from above. She looks

— word of the day — pissed through the little birdy viewfinder .

Cab company must be late again. What a cryin’ shame.

Joe Fine sits in his car down the street as well. What a game.

Another United Cab pulls up. Baker wheels towards it.

But, can you beat that; a random passenger is ejected, yet the cabby

refuses to take Baker in replacement. The cabby must already have

a previous engagement. Ms. Baker looks very very beyond pissed.

Wild stuff, Johnny, says Ed McMahon.

Another cab arrives, stopping down the street at the corner

of Touro Infirmary. Suddenly, what do you know, Baker forgets

about the horrible condition her condition is in,

springing out of the wheelchair, dashing madly down the street,

her metallically braced arms waving wildly in the furious wake.

This claimant moves along very well for a fat lady, injured



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or otherwise. Holy cow! Tyger frantically tapes the scene.

Baker walks back to the wheelchair. Now, she leans heavily —

woe is her — on the metal braces, and plunks back down, all

the while giving the cabby quite an apparent earful. Nice lady.

The cabby helps her lumber into the back seat. They drive that

away. It is a crazy world comrades in bizarre situations. Welcome

to the Baker asylum where the inmates have become quite surly.

Tyger departs the scene and back down to Prytania Street

paying the booth attendant who looks at him oddly.

“Ya goil get wit you man?” he asks timidly.

“Oh yeah. I just finished having lunch with her.

Just came back to get my car.”

“Oh. Well, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, my man.”

“I hear that.”

By this time, Joe Fine is yoicks the fox off, off and away

into the urban street scene haze, presumably following Baker back

to New Orleans East, Morrison Road.

Tyger checks in with Dorothy telling her about the Baker mad

dash. She loves it.

“Isn’t that something?” she says. “Funny how sometimes the

lame can walk.” “In this case run,” Tyger adds.

“Strange lady. I’m sure we’ll be back on her again. Come on

over to the West Bank tomorrow, drop off the tape and your report

if you can. Then, we have another assignment for you.”



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“Sounds good.” And a day’s work is done.

The next morning, “Yip yip yip,” who is that snapping at

Tyger’s heels? Why, ’tis Poopsie of course, Dorothy’s, shall we

for the sake of argument say, cute, little poodle.

“Hey there slugger,” Tyger calls bending down to pet the

pedigreed mutt. Dorothy lets him in the door. Fawning over

Poopsie, Dorothy leads her to the backyard, telling Tyger to sit

down at the kitchen table.

“This is a toughie,” she says as Tyger sits down and she

brings him a cup of coffee. “Milk and sugah?”

“No thanks. I like it black.”

“O.K. This is Bingo LeBoeuf,” she continues, showing Tyger a

picture of a thin, blonde, mean looking soul, about 32 years old.

He has a very special scar across his nasty right cheekbone.

This is kind of a special deal for Joe. He has been trying

to get Bingo for quite a while. Sort of a personal mission.

Joe will be very well pleased if you can get something on him.

LeBoeuf’s a real low-life, a little on the violent side .

Supposedly he got in a fight with his best friend over his wife

and blasted him in the face with a shotgun .

You know the type, kind of white trashy. They are always

shooting each other up there and sometimes don’t even need a reason .”

“Oh, my.”

Dorothy chuckles at Tyger’s natural reaction . “Look, don’t worry.



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We’re not going to ask you to put yourself in any danger.

Don’t hesitate to bail out if it gets tight.

“We want you to do is meet with LeBoeuf’s ex-wife. At

least, that’s what she told Joe. Those people are always

fighting, breaking up, and getting back together. You know how that goes.”

“Oh, no.”

“Meet her at the AB&D Cafe at Springfield. That’s where she

works as a waitress. Bingo is supposed to be living in Tickfaw.

She told Joe that she has some information about Bingo

working as a roofer. We want to find out where, if possible

get some pictures on him.”


“He has been a slippery little devil. You just have to

play it by ear. After that, go over to Loranger and check up on

this fellow … ”

A pause while Dorothy chuckles, “You are not going to

believe his name. Dill Pickle. I kid you not.”

“I guess he was born to be an insurance claimant with a name

like that,” Tyger says. “Or a deli condiment.”

“No kidding,” Dorothy continues. “Anyway, Dill claims to

have an injured neck. We want you to verify his address. Do the

usual outine. You know the drill by now.

Check on vehicles and home layout.

Also, sit on him for an hour, but give him a lot of room.

We’ll go back on him later, This is just a preliminary check.”



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Merrily merrily verily, north of the lake we go. Next

day Tyger leaves early for the AB&D Cafe, cutting across the

Bonnet Carre Spillway on I-10, leading to Interstate 55 North, lovely Tangipahoa Parish.

Comrades of the short attention span pay attention as Tyger

transports you through a landscape undergoing several changes

from urban environment to swampland just past New Orleans International Airport.

Beautiful peaceful La Louisiane. Long vistas of exotic trees

and wetlands, pelicans, other indigenous creatures drifting

off to the south while Lake Ponchartrain and less well-known

sister body of water Lake Maurepas stand guard to the north.

Tyger shifts in that direction on a long stretch of highway

cutting through the wetlands parallel to railroad tracks, not

much else. Only the small town of Manchac separates the pristine

beauty of the wetlands from — shall we say — civilization .

Environment changes north of the lakes. Le Monde

more closely resembles the rest of the cracker South in humanity

and landscape with tall pine trees and flowing green fields

punctuated by cattle and red clay.

So close and yet so far, Tangipahoa Parish resembles a

foreign land to the native New Orleanian,

and of course, same is true in reverse.

Air seems crisp and clean. Tyger wends his way along the



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interstate to Ponchatoula and the metropolis of Hammond, home of

the Southeastern Louisiana University Lions.

Oops. As Tyger melds with the forest, he temporarily loses

all sense of direction. He stops at a Hammond gas station and

finds the proper directions to Springfield, which lies to the

southwest just across the parish line in Livingston Parish.

Tyger criss-crosses the famed Pearl River, for now a tiny

sliver of a stream that with April rains transmutes into a

roaring raging flood plain engulfing nearby houses and businesses.

More piney woods and inspiring vegetation are scattered

around the flood plain. Bet marijuana grows real well there.

Must be tough to obtain flood insurance as a result of 100

years floods that occur on an annual basis, so a lot of the

crackers have become expert arsonists. Joe Fine spends much

time there investigating suspicious fires.

Over and under the woods we go along Louisiana 22 to Mrs.

LeBeouf’s place of employment, the AB&D Cafe,

a nondescript restaurant just off the road.

A couple of pick-up trucks stand watch in the gravel and

dirt parking area. Tyger pulls in, parks, grabs a yellow legal pad, and enters.

The den is surprisingly airy inside and well furnished with hardwood



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tables and comfortable wooden chairs. Pleasant natural

light cascades through the front windows. A cooking area lurks

behind a half-door to the rear of the cafe.

An equally pleasing aroma drifts over as a pretty young girl

with long blonde hair approaches the looming Tyger,.

“Are you Deena LeBeouf,” he asks.

“Hey Deena,”. she calls, then turns to Tyger burning with

nascent lust. “She’ll be out in a second. Grab a seat,”

surveying the empty cafe, “I guess anywhere.”

Tyger follows her instructions to the letter. Deena emerges

from the kitchen. She is long and gaunt, more hard than pretty,

but might have been better looking before life’s irresponsibilities

descended upon her short brown hair .

“You looking for me?” she asks. “Looking for me?”

“Yeah, Tyger Williams. I’m an associate of Joe Fine. He

asked me to look you up, find out what’s happening.”

“The detective feller,” she recalls. “Where is he? He said

he was coming up.”

“Couldn’t make it. He sent me to find out what’s going on

with your- husband.” “Ex” “Ex-husband and report back to him.

I’m sure Joe will know what to do.”

“Where are my manners,” Deena states. “Care for some coffee ?

This is after all a restaurant. We have quite a reputation around

here as the place to go to. The food is very good here.”



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Tyger takes his coffee, yes, black .

“Hey Mary. Bring us some coffee?” Deena calls out loud.

A few seconds later Mary emerges with a full pot. Tyger

samples his brew. “Not bad,” he says. “In fact, not bad at all.”

Deena LeBeouf’s story goes this way: Bingo treated her, and

her two children, like crap during 14 years together. Bingo

was faking his back injury which really gets her goat.

“Hell, he went hunting over Christmas and was working as a

roofer even though he was collecting money from the insurance

company. That’s plain wrong. He is pure evil.”

“Yeah, real Napoleon of crime,” Tyger says.

“What?” “Never mind.”

She wanted to trap Bingo by using his desire to see his

children as bajt. Of course, she wasn’t quite sure that plan

would work. Bingo only paid $10 a month for each child in child

support which was shit, but she was letting it slide for now.

There was no formal agreement, so she was using the threat

of higher child support set by a judge as a form of leverage.

(For what, who knows.)

Deena reports she recently moved to a place Bingo didn’t

know about and would set him up by offering to let him visit

the kids — the 14 year old boy is the spitting image of him —

and then telling him about a roofing job.

She will call Joe Fine with details. Joe gave her his card a

few months ago.

“The Super Sleuth,” she notes, laughing. “He must be good.”



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Deena provides a few non-relevant details about herself, but

Tyger lets her ramble. He is killing time anyhow, being paid

$10 an hour to boot, Bingo child support money.

Besides, he is not entirely certain on whose side Deena

LeBeouf treads. Maybe she is setting the detectives up for Bingo.

After all, this is reportedly a very devious and evil scam

artist considered by Joe the final problem, with a PHD in redneck crime.

Continuing the story’s thread, Deena mentions her work as an

actress in a wild west show. “A what?” asks Tyger. “Never heard of that.”

“Oh yeah, we go to all kins of bars, the country and the western, do a

shoot-em-up show. I throw the lassos while the boss does a whole

western routine. You should check it out sometime. We’re down in Gretna at

Mudbugs occasionally. I can get you in.”

“Maybe sometime.” Yeah, right.

Deena loves her children, bless her soul.

She is working full-time to try to them with everything they want.

She has a beautiful 10 year old girl besides the boy.

“Raising the kids is hard work and that damn Bingo. He should

cough up some child support.” She repeats her desire to take him

to court. “That ain’t right. That asshole, pardon my French,

gonna pay one way and the other.”

Looking at his watch, Tyger realizes that time is a·wasting.



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Tyger is anxious to check out the Dill Pickle situation. This

conversation does not seem to be leading anywhere in particular.

Therefore, he excuses himself.

“Come back any time you are hungry. I’ll get you a fr\ee

meal,” Deena offers. “This place is famous around here as the

best food you can get. Real good and wholesome.”

“Thanks. I’ll pass along what you said. I’m sure Joe Fine

will be in touch. Give Mary my regards.” Who knows, Tyger hopes,

he might be back again, and Mary looks very good to a lonely

detective on badass assignment on the road.

Right back on Louisiana 22, over and under through Hammond

on I-55 in the noisy smoky makes station wagon from hell, zoom

zoom Tyger driving. He heads north through the fabled home of

Bingo LeBeouf, stately Tickfaw, and the equally magnificent town

of Independence. From there, it’s along two-lane Highway 40

across the Tangipahoa River and on to Loranger.

Loranger is a very scenic and beautiful place, a sharp

contrast to the insipid redneck motherland where the inmates tool

around in pick-up trucks making loud rackets, resembling hell warmed over.

Gentle rolling hills for a change with grazing farm animals

and lovely green fields that stretch to the farthest vista. Tyger

has only a rural post office box to go by as Pickle’s address.



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He stops at a small rural post office nearby, asking

the postmistress for directions.

“Oh yeah, the Pickle place,” she states. “Just go down

Highway 40 east a mile and turn off on Highway 1062. It’s got a

yellow flashing light, the only light. Can’t miss it.”

Sure enough. Tyger turns right at the flashing light,

making a quickie pass-by at the rural box Pickle has given the insurance

company as his address. The house is set off the road among a

group of two trailers and two very large wood frame structures.

The Pickle residence seems to be the large house that is

painted blue with white trim. A satellite TV dish receives

signals from space to the east of the house.

This object makes Tyger very jealous. The damn low-life

subject is living the life of Reilly. It would be great to have a

dish and be able to watch all the baseball and Saints games.

A woman, in her late 20’s plays with two small children near

the dish. This fits the Pickle profile.

A Ford Bronco Louisiana License Number R30998 sits in the

long driveway. That makes for positive identification as the

vehicle reportedly belongs to Pickle.

A large wooded area lies west of the house just beyond one

of the trailers. Unfortunately, it is a tough surveillance scene.

Anyone entering down the dirt road leading exclusively to the

four residences is bound to make, shall we say, waves.



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Almost simultaneously with that observation, the woman seems

to notice Tyger in his vehicle perched along the woods by the far

trailer , Therefore, he pops open the hood and goes to the usually

reliable ruse of automobile trouble.

Said lady walks across her large green yard towards Tyger,

questioning his surreptitious activity. Tyger dishes variations on a theme.

Heard a knocking in the engine and happened to pull off to thespot by accident.

Looks alright. So, he will be moving right along now,

thank you very much (not). That seems to suffice.

Git along little doggies. Tyger exits the area. He drives up

down Highway 1062, which crests at a hill about a half-mile

the road. He spends the hour checking out the various

external circumstances relating to the Dill Pickle experience .

A farm house sits high on the hilltop. Fluttering around the

house and yard like beautiful butterflies are two — no, make

that three — exquisitely attractive young girls probably in

their late teens or early 20s. Ah, sweet day.

Temperature in the low-60’s, humidity unusually lower maybe 30 percent.

Tyger loses himself in the moment.

An older woman, maybe 50 years old, very attractive for her age,

comes over to his vehicle sitting just beyond the property

off the narrow road. Soleil smiles. Seems quite friendly

in an other-worldly sort of way.



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Tyger tells her he was lost, showing a road map as

evidence, politely asking about Highway 51 which he knows is

nearby. She surmises that he must have gotten turned around,

noting that the highway is about 10 miles west of there.

The woman gives Tyger directions. He pays scant attention.

Occupied gazing with longing at her beautiful

daughters as they float laughingly about the farm house boundaries.

“Thank you ma’am,” he replies extra politely as he will be

back this way again. “Guess I’ll be on my horse.”

“You’re welcome sir. If you re in the neighborhood again

sometime, feel free to drop by. We recently moved here from

Pennsylvania and are also getting acclimated to the area.”

“Me too,” Tyger replies.

All she wrote.

Tyger roars onto the highway headed southeast towards home.

Looking good, comrades. Time to fly.

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