A/N I don't own either Remington Steele or Crossing Jordan, this is just a fic that's being posted on a Steele website by Roz and on here by me, well, enjoy it...

He was jostled out of his reverie counting the ceiling tiles by a sharp rap on the door and the appearance of one blonde head. "Mr. Steele, there's a phone call for you, a man named Sam Bisbee?" Steele paused for a moment as he wracked his brain to place the name, and when he finally did, he smiled.

"I'll take it in here Mildred, thanks." He said, leaning forward and picking up the phone the instant the red light flicked on. "Now there's a name I haven't heard in a while. So's Your Old Man-W.C. Fields-"

"Is there any movie you haven't seen?" The man on the phone asked, cutting him off.

"Anything that doesn't exhibit a certain cinematic art."

"So how are you boy? Remington Steele is it now? Even have your own secretary. Moved up in the world. Now you're chasing down your own pals."

"I try to avoid chasing down my own pals. So why call me after all this time? Last I heard you were in jail for-what was it?"

"A few bad checks." The man on the other end of the line pause for a minute. "Listen," he continued as he tried to come up with a way to word his request. "I'm kinda in a rough spot and need your help."

"Harry, I'm legitimate now. I have a buisness to run, I'm not going to risk all of that."

"No, no no, that's EXACTLY why I'm calling you, because you've got something resembling a profession that would scare this guy shitless." Steele rolled his eyes.

"So you want me to go to wherever you are-where are you, by the way?" Steele asked.

"Boston." Was the man's almost silent reply.

"Boston! That's all the way across the bloody country!"

"I know, I know, but I really need your help. I'm almost broke, and I wanted to retire, once and for all. Collect my money from him, pay off the little bit that I do owe, and spend the last few years of my life in peace. I'm not getting any younger you know."

"How much does this guy owe you?"

"Two fifty."

"You're doing this over less than three hundred bucks? You can make that playing monty in an hour."

"Did I mention the grand after it?" Steele almost feel out of his chair.

"A quarter of a million? What did you bet on?"

"Five grand on a 50-1 horse." The way he said it was so nonchalant that Steele almost couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Five grand on a fifty to one? What the hell possessed you to do that?"

"Becaues I had the money and I had to spend it, so I put it down on a gut instinct, and won it. But now I could really use that money."

"So you want me to fly out there to tell that bookie to pay up?"

"Exactly what I want you to do. You'd do it for an old friend, won't you?"

"You're asking an awful lot of me mate."

"I could do it myself, but that's asking an awful lot of an eighty year old man." Steele thoguht for a minute.

"Fine. But ONLY as a favor to a friend. In and out. I'm not going to get myself involved in anything more than just being someone that you bring in to put pressure on this guy."

"In and out." The second man echoed. "I get my money, I'll even give you a cut, and you go back to Boston, the only one who looses is Bart."

"Bart?"

"The bookie who I owe the money to."

"Right. I'll catch the first flight I can."

"Thanks." Steele hung up the phone with a dull thud as he realized what he got himself into. He walked out of the office and into the lobby of suite 1157.

"Mildred dear, could you find me the next flight out to Boston?"

"Sure thing boss." The stout blonde secretary-cum-dectective in the making clicked a few times on her computer and revealed a flight out in just over an hour. Two keystrokes later and there was a ticket waiting for Steele to pick up when he got to the airport. "Should I tell Miss Holt?"

Steele thought for a long minute before recalling the fiasco that came about the last time he went off without a trace. "Simply tell her that I'm visiting an old friend, and that I'll be back by the end of the week." With that, he was out the door, ready to pack a small overnight bag to last him for the two days that he expected to be in Boston.