*****************************************************
Only when she entered her house did Laura begin to take stock of the past couple of hours. That jackass. She removed her jacket, slipped out of her shoes and flopped onto the sofa, all intentions of filing driven from her mind. Rotten, lying, scheming rat! What the hell was she thinking keeping him around? The telephone cut into her musing. She groaned then reluctantly reached for it.
"Hello? … Harvey, hi … No, it's not the wrong time. I'm sorry Harvey. It's not you, it's something to do with the agency … It's nothing. I'm fine … Of course I missed you. How was Washington? … Really? That's good news … Yes, I'm very impressed … No, not tonight. Don't come over tonight … I can't. I've got filing to organise and papers to … Well, Mr. Steele is counting on me to do it because … No. He doesn't work me too hard. Maybe I work me too hard. Me. Did that thought even occur to you? Don't you think a woman has ambition too? Or are you just like all the rest? … Apology accepted … Yes, you can make it up to me over dinner tomorrow night … Artigiano's? I like the sound of that … We'll do what together? … Oooh. I like the sound of that too … Is it two months already? … Of course I remembered … No, not the office. Would you mind picking me up here? … 8 o'clock? … Good. Sweet dreams to you too lover … Goodnight."
Laura replaced the receiver; a cat-like smile on her face as she contemplated an evening of romance. Undemanding, uncomplicated Harvey. She stretched, yawned then got up to turn on the TV. Yawning again, she plonked down on the sofa, reached for the remote control, mindlessly flicking through the channels before settling on 'Cannon'.
A classic show. Cannon - a Quinn Martin production, 1971-1976. William Conrad as the eponymous private detective. The series was set in … Eponymous private detective. The phrase struck a chord. Laura sat bolt upright and fumed. A small cry of frustration escaped her. That clown. Who the hell did he think he was? How dare he believe, really believe, that he was Remington Steele. The cheap fraud. Game of brag, hah! Glass of Dom Perignon, hah! That jerk! That reprobate! Damn him to hell! That no-good, good-for-nothing … oh no. No! Yes. Itchy. Over him. Again. Dammit.
****************************************************
A limo rolled up outside one of the many luxurious apartment buildings on Rossmore. The driver raised his eyebrows: impressive architecture, convenient location, old money residents and nouveau riche. Into the latter category fell the striking, celebrated detective. Or so it was assumed. No one knew for sure. The air of mystery extended into his personal life too.
Fred got out and opened the door for the waiting man. Until recently, they'd never been introduced. Once or twice he'd wondered why it was only Miss Holt, and not the boss, that he drove around Los Angeles. Her first words had always been the same: Mr. Steele was away and had allowed her the use of the car.
As he stared at the immaculately dressed head of the agency, it occurred to him once again that he'd pictured a completely different looking man. To him, the fancy name had always said 'New England' rather than England itself: hearing the guy talk for the first time had been a bit of a shock. He'd also visualised someone older. Moustached with a big, fat Havana sticking out of his mouth. Still, this person had a certain … whaddaya call it? … style. Yep that was it. Style.
"Good afternoon sir," he said in his deadpan manner with a tip of the hat.
"Good afternoon Fred," Steele cheerfully reciprocated as he climbed in.
The chauffeur checked his mirrors. "The office sir?"
"Yes Fred. The office."
"I stopped off and got your paper sir."
"Good man. Treat yourself to a new uniform."
"Thank you sir." Fred put his foot down and moved off.
Steele smiled and flapped his newspaper. The Los Angeles Tribune had come up trumps again. Its front page headline screamed, 'A Steele In Time Saves $9 Million!' Curiosity piqued, he eagerly devoured the print, wondering what he'd done this time … aha! An insurance fiddle busted wide-open thanks to his intrepid sleuthing:
LAPD makes four arrests … ingenious detective on the case … multi million dollar sting … Brainchild conceived by former employees … B&Q Corporation thank unidentified pair from the Remington Steele agency … suave hero gets to the bottom of things again … dashing, charming individual … the wit of a modern day Oscar Wilde … unmarried man about town … believed to be dating Crystal Olsen, glamorous actress best known for playing 'Topaz Gaines' on daytime soap, 'For Richer, Not Poorer'. Rumors of marriage in the air … detective with documented views on crime … based in …
Crystal? Old news. Really, such shoddy reporting. But another fait accompli for Remington Steele it would appear. This 'taking the bows' caper was a piece of cake. It was almost criminal to receive so much credit for someone else's endeavours. Almost.
But then again, Steele reasoned, the role demanded wearisome exertions on his part too. Those utterly tedious committee meetings in … admittedly there'd only been two thus far. One attended, one neglected. But it was the principle that counted.
And just how many press and PR obligations was one expected to fulfil happily without … actually, that part wasn't so bad. Besides, the Los Angeles Tribune had a very receptive public relations assistant who'd made it clear that she was interested. Taplonger? No-no. Taplinger. Yes that was her. Miss Taplinger. Mmm.
Greeting and reassuring clients? What a chore. And who knew the status of the individual cases? Active or not? It was an area where information was rarely divulged to him. And did anyone inside Suite 1157 really appreciate how mind numbing it was to smile on demand? So all in all, taking the plaudits was a fair trade-off.
Steele turned his attention to the photograph accompanying the editorial. It was a corker. Who was that dashing, debonair chap staring back at him? He made a mental note to find a first-rate tailor and avoid striped ties, where possible, in the future.
"Congratulations sir," Fred offered eventually.
"Beg pardon?"
"The paper."
"Ah," he waved a hand self-deprecatingly. "The Remington Steele agency is far more than just my good self."
If Fred thought it strange that all orders came from Miss Holt rather than the man himself, he made no comment. Just a poker-faced acquiescence.
"I couldn't do it without my wonderful staff," Steele went on. "Especially Miss Holt." He paused and as an afterthought added, "Y'know, I can't think of any other woman I'd rather have underneath me."
"Yes sir."
"And not just underneath me. She has only to ask. Whatever position she wants, I'll accommodate. Even if I have to bend over backwards to do it."
"Right sir."
"Y'see Fred, there are times when one must extend oneself. That's why I'm prepared to go to any lengths to fully satisfy Miss Holt -" he checked his watch, " - because I trust her implicitly. Good staff, like a good woman, is so hard to find. Is there a Mrs Fred, Fred?"
"No sir."
"It appears we're both footloose and fancy free."
"Sir?"
"Single Fred. Single."
"Yes sir."
"Well let's enjoy our freedom while we still can. How about a scenic route to the office, eh Fred?"
"Pico Boulevard sir?"
"Pico? Sounds very piquant. Good man."
"Thank you sir," he dryly responded.
Conversation was now at an end. The only sound in the limo was the rustle of paper as Steele flipped through the sports pages.
There were reams of columns dedicated to the forthcoming World Series - St. Louis who? Milwaukee what? A 'world series' with only Americans in it? Lonnie Smith? - but Steele was oblivious and unmoved by it all. The racing results were far more interesting:
Para Handy, the even-money favorite over 8-5 second-choice Garvie Queen, won the Bremner Classic at Los Alamitos with a half-length victory. It pushed her career earnings to $1,397,280. In the same race, 19-1 long shot Danny's Dessert pulled up injured.
Steele cursed inwardly. He'd bet $1850 on Garvie Queen to win. Or rather, indirectly, Remington Steele Investigations had bet $1850 on Garvie Queen to win via money drawn from the agency checking account. Some creative bookkeeping would have to be expediently arranged before Laura found out. Pity the Bedard's winnings was tied up elsewhere.
"Sir?"
"Yes Fred."
"Slight delay. Some kind of accident up ahead. We'll be moving in a minute."
"Okay Fred." He sighed and returned to the rest of the news:
The $150,000 Sullivan Handicap at Hollywood Park was won by Pastry's Progress. The 13-10 favorite cruised to a seven and a half length victory over the …
Hollywood Park. Another track to visit. What was Fred up to at the weekend? Eight lines of the four-page sport section were devoted to the First Division results back in England. Coventry and Arsenal won, Spurs, Liverpool and Man United lost, Everton drew ...
Steele folded the paper, stared out the window and took in the scenery: Korean restaurants, cheque cashing places, barbecue joints, store-front churches, dry cleaners, laundrettes, discount furniture stores, kosher butcher shops, synagogues, nursing homes, supermarkets …
"Fred?"
"Sir?"
"This is the scenic route?"
"This is Pico Boulevard sir."
"Don't give up the day job. You'll never make it as a tour guide."
"Yes sir."
*************************************************
As the lift steadily ascended, Steele contemplated his new line of work. It still took some getting used to: the recognition, the renown, the ready-made reputation. Of course old habits were hard to break and this perch afforded a window of opportunity …
Eleventh floor. The lift doors opened and people streamed out. Steele unconsciously whistled as he sauntered down the corridor anticipating another day of further monetary developments. Easy money.
He pushed open a suite door surprised that, for once, there were no clients clamouring for his services. Hands in pocket, he offered a greeting to the attractive brunette ensconced in the reception area. Her nameplate said 'Bernice Fox' but to Steele, such details were so trivial.
"Good afternoon Miss … Wolfe?"
"It was," she muttered under her breath. "And it's Fox. Not wolf, got it? Fox. 'F' for Fox. Fox."
He stopped suddenly and turned in her direction, lips lifting into a dangerous smile. "A few weeks back, a man walked into an office and encountered a woman who couldn't wait to make him a pot of fresh water. Recognise the description Miss Wolfe?"
"Don't flatter yourself. She planned to spit in it."
"Did she really? Because the man couldn't help noticing the pendulum movement of her hips: to and fro, to and fro, to and fro." He swung his hands to illustrate the motion. "Any reason for that perchance?"
"Her heel was broken," Bernice dryly shot back.
"Ah." He trailed his fingertip along the edge of her desk. "Because as far as the man was concerned, it looked very much like she was flirting with him."
"Get a load of the man's ego! Y'know, we widened the doors just for his head."
"Is that so? Well the man would want the woman to know that he wouldn't have said no. In fact, he'd have given her -" Steele dug his hands deep into his pockets and leant over, closing the distance between them, " - an experience she'd never forget."
Bernice grimaced, "Well the woman would want the man to know that she'd rather eat her intestines."
Steele straightened up, "Of course, the man didn't say he'd enjoy it. But he'd go through with it. He'd just close his eyes and think of England instead."
"And she'd still say no even if the alternative was being banged up with a bunch of women for fifty years."
"Indeed? Well I wouldn't worry Miss Whatever. The average female felon has better taste." He grinned into her poisonous glare.
Bernice's patience finally snapped. "What're you doing here anyway? I'm telling Laura that you're hanging around the office."
Steele calmly surveyed his fingernails. "Miss Holt asked me to come in. She here yet?"
"No."
"Murphy?"
"No."
"It appears it's just you and me."
"I don't know whether to cry or cry."
"Yes I do seem to have that effect on your sex. Normally, it's post-coital. Extreme satisfaction."
"Oh God, make it stop!" she cried dropping her head into her hands. "What do I have to do to get rid of you?"
"It's a bad hair day Miss Wolfe and unfortunately for you, neither one of us are going away. Would you bring me a cup of tea in five minutes please?"
"Before or after my nervous breakdown?"
"Confirmation of my devastating effect on you. Why fight it, eh?"
Bernice stood up, "I'm going to the bathroom to toss my breakfast."
He grinned mischievously. "In that case, allow me to extend a few words of comfort. I'll be -"
"On the next flight to Beirut when I return?"
"Your company affords a little more pleasure. Granted not much more but just enough to keep me from Beirut."
She rolled her eyes in disgust and grabbed her purse.
He watched her for a few seconds then called out, "Oh Miss … Wolfe?"
Instinctively, she turned around.
"Your heel's broken again."
"You - " Bernice began.
"Magnificent paradigm of manhood?"
"Creep!"
He chuckled at her retreating figure, an evil smirk on his face. Provoking her had become his favourite sport. Well, second favourite. Correction, third favourite. Parrying with Laura was way ahead. Now there's a thought, Steele mused. Alone with his libido, he didn't notice the suite doors open.
Two distinctly odd looking men unceremoniously strolled in. The first was in his forties: tall, lean and his blond hair was tinged with grey at the temples. He looked like a sun worshipper. The sort of person who'd spent too much time in the California sun. His deeply tanned skin - almost orange in fact - the legacy of indulgence.
Steele turned his attention to the man's companion. He was
younger, shorter with dirty blond slicked back hair. His clothes
appeared three sizes too small but the reason for that was obvious:
they strained against their muscular cargo, brute force bulging
from every part. He had enormous hands too. They were like shovels.
"Mr. Steele?" The man with the leather complexion spoke
first. His voice was gravelly, abrasive.
"Who's asking?" Steele swallowed. Something about both men made him slightly uneasy. "And would you like a glass of water?"
A smile. Or rather, it would be a smile on any other human being. On him, it was merely skin moving.
"No thanks. We're here on business. I'm Regan and this is Carter."
Regan and Carter? The two chaps responsible for the brouhaha?
Smooth mate. Keep it smooth, Steele told himself. Remember who
you are now.
"I hate to disappoint you two … harmless, extremely
harmless, cuddly looking chaps but you'll have to see my most
valued associate Miss Laura Holt. I am Remington Steele but within
my agency, I function in an advisory capacity only. And now if
you'll excuse -"
The slim man pointed. "Let's go in your office."
"Just to clarify. Was that a question?"
The two men shook their heads.
"Ah." Steele gestured insouciantly. "A request?"
They responded negatively again.
"An order?"
"That's the one," Regan nodded.
"Deductive reasoning is an asset in my profession gentlemen," Steele wryly stated as he held the door open for them. He straightened his tie, walked over to his chair and eased into it. "Now what can I do for you?"
"Drop the crap Mr. Steele." Regan nodded to Carter who immediately stood guard over the door, arms crossed. "You know my boss, you know he's not very happy with you and you know why."
Quick blue eyes darted from one to the other, weighing up the situation. It didn't look good but the knowledge that he'd been in worse scrapes and survived was a comfort. Thank heavens for his wits and gift of the gab. He had it - that ability to talk himself out of perilous fixes. Daniel had always sworn that such a rare, innate talent must be hereditary. Hooray for the old Irish blarney. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry but I have no idea what -"
"Mr. Steele, if I want to play games, I'll go to Toys 'R' Us. Let's try this again. You know my boss and he's not very happy with you. Not very happy at all."
"At all." Carter added menacingly.
"Let's cut to the quick shall we?" Steele suggested as he tapped his fingers on the desk.
"If anyone's doing the cutting around here" Regan sneered, "it'll be us."
"Be us," his faithful companion barked.
Steele wondered how the carroty skinned man put up with that ridiculous echo. Did his cohort do that every time? If this particular state of affairs wasn't so perturbing, it would be highly amusing. "Can you jog my memory? Prompt me, as it were? Who is your boss and what have I done to deserve you two charming gentlemen?"
Regan cracked his knuckles. "The Vieri brothers. Are we there yet?"
"There yet?"
Steele glanced at Carter. He wouldn't last two minutes in the East End of London. What a ridiculous buffoon. It was impossible to take hired muscle like that seriously. And why on earth hadn't someone taken the poor fellow to a decent tailor? A sneezing fit would surely burst his seams.
From nowhere, a vision of a TV show popped into Steele's head. He'd caught it before 'The Honeymooners'. Something about a huge, green hulk-like creature … what channel? Ah yes. Channel 2. That was it, Channel 2. So much variety. It still took some getting used to. Back in England, the choice was far more limited.
Against his better judgement, Steele drifted into fantasy land. He pictured Carter snarling, 'Mr. Steele, don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.' The vision took a twist: Carter's biceps inflated like a balloon, his skin and hair turned green, his clothes started to rip and … it was too much. Steele forgot himself and broke into chuckles.
"Something amusing you Mr Steele? You think the Vieri Brothers are funny? Huh? Is that it? You think they don't deserve your respect? You think they don't mean business?"
Regan signalled to his accomplice. He moved from the door and walked purposefully towards the desk.
Steele swallowed and resolved not to show the very real fear he suddenly felt.
Carter grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him out of his chair.
"A little respect please!" Steele cried. "You're not dealing with a Kmart attired individual."
"Huh?" Carter grunted as he tightened his hold.
"This is a bespoke suit from Henry Poole & Co. in London's Savile Row. It's made from the finest mohair worsted. First-rate, perfectly weighted textured fabric. Wonderful, exclusive quality. I can't just hop on a plane back -"
"Mr. Steele?"
"Yes?"
"Shut the hell up," Regan commanded. "I got a message from the Vieri brothers for you." He nodded and Carter's massive fist flew into Steele's stomach.
The effect was immediate. His legs wobbled as air blasted out of his body. It felt like an explosion had gone off inside his belly. He wanted to double up, to hold his torso, to cradle himself, to stop the throbbing pulsation. Steele's distress articulated itself as an anguished moan that escaped against his will.
"A little tip for you Mr. Steele," Regan crowed, delighting in pain that was all too evident. "The Vieri brothers don't like being made fools of."
Carter pulled out a knife and pressed it against Steele's side.
"We're all going to take a little ride," Regan insisted. "Don't try anything funny Limey. This is a new shirt."
"Really?" Steele panted, "I'd never have guessed."
"And I don't want your blood on it."
"Rest assured, the feeling's mutual," he gasped. "I like my blood where it is. Besides, a drop of the red stuff isn't enough to improve that polyester horror you're wearing."
"Wise-guy," Carter snorted.
Steele pointed at Regan's chest. "A prop from 'Saturday Night Fever' perchance? Audition and lose did we?"
"Let the comedian have his little jokes. For his next act, he's going to disappear."
"Disappear," chimed the hulk.
"Leaving no cliché unturned, I see. You'll be offering me a last cigarette next."
"Out the door Limey."
With great difficulty, Steele summoned up more flippancy. "Tell me, if a brain cell falls inside your skull and there's no other brain cell there to hear it, does it make a sound?"
Regan's eyes narrowed. "Let's go Mr. Steele."