HARRY
So Perry said we needed someone part time for the office. I don't know what the fuck he's talking about since he doesn't actually have an office. That is, a place where people walk in and talk to him about doing the stuff he does. Cell phones are Perry's mode of conducting business, but ever since the last case business has picked up, and I don't mind because working with Perry sure as hell beats heading back to New York and a ratty apartment in Queens.
I'm not kidding about the ratty part, either.
"We need someone to handle the paperwork," Perry said, "Someone who can manage a fucking date book and not leave post-it notes on my dry-cleaning, which for your information Harry is NOT a bulletin board even though it's hanging on the wall."
Sheesh, I was only trying to be practical. The cleaning was there, the message was in my hand—seemed pretty clear he'd be picking both up at the same time, right? Win/win for everyone.
Where was I? Oh right, part-timer. So Perry contacts an employment agency, one of those temp places with a godzillion phones and an automated system that could drive you to jump off the Sears Tower thanks to the Tony Orlando muzak—nothing against the guy but the only yellow ribbon I'm going to be tying is around my neck before I leap—and they promise to send over three or four applicants the next day.
No guys, Perry warns them. I'm guessing he doesn't want to A) deal with temptation or B) deal with fagophobia. Fair enough.
In case you're wondering what happened to Harmony, here's where I tell you that she decided to go back to Indiana for good. Seems that once Pop kicked it—which was about a month after her sister's funeral and Perry's little bitchslapping visit to dear old dad—and the bastard left her not only the house but a hefty collection of insurance policies he'd saved up.
Good for Harmony, but not so good for us, in the 'us' sense of being together. We did the usual bullshit thing of promising to call and write, but in the end, as we got drunk the night before her flight out, we both knew it was over.
Yeah it hurts, even a year later. That's all you need to know, thank you very much.
Anyway, so Perry was less of a bitch about things for a few weeks after that, because he's sensitive that way, and then he starts pushing me to get my license. Now as an employee of a PI, I'm getting those six thousand mandatory hours of experience done, but we are talking something like three years to go—maybe longer because I severely lack the college degree in something useful, like Criminal Justice. Still, according to the state I can qualify if I keep my nose clean, do the paperwork and pass the exam. Thank God all New York had on me were a few misdemeanors—one felony and I'd be screwed.
So it's sort of a good thing nobody but Perry knows about all the people I've shot, huh?
PERRY
Harry Lockhart used to be the bane of my existence. I've downgraded him to pain in the ass because despite himself, the idiot doesn't have a malicious bone in his body. He doesn't know HOW to be malicious, although he's picked up the fine art of being bitchy from yours truly.
Not that I let him get away with it much; he owes me, and he knows it. Call me a soft touch, but letting Harry loose on the streets of LA by himself is like throwing a puppy under an eighteen wheeler , which is to say, bad for traffic. He's got good instincts for investigation; he's nosy and picks up on details—usually the wrong ones but it's a start—and best of all nobody credits him with any intelligence, which is a factor I can use in this business. That's why I decided to sponsor him for a while and see if I can make the investment pay off.
Yes he's still a fuck-up, but he's getting better—or else the little cretin is wearing me down. We've cleaned up his wardrobe, gotten him some time at the firing range, gotten him a handgun permit and enrolled him in CJ courses at the community college. Harry has gone along with this because he knows the alternative is a one-way ticket back to the Big Apple on standby.
He's hopeless with numbers, but shows some promise with everything else, which is good. And Harry's laid off most of the faggot jokes and manages not to offend most of our clients which helps. I've had him doing basic surveillance for nearly half a year now and he's reasonable at it. The little idiot also has a knack for schmoozing receptionists and switchboard operators, which goes to show that everyone's got hidden talents I guess.
Too bad about Harmony. That is, that they broke up. To be honest, I didn't see it lasting long anyway—Harry was seeing her through those teenage lenses, all misty and romantic, and Harmony knew she was eventually going to burst his bubble in more ways than one. Still, she's a bright woman, and it's good to see that she got the hell out of Lalaland before the bitterness set in permanently. Daddy left her enough to do pretty much whatever the hell she wants, and although Harry doesn't know it, I keep tabs on her, just to make sure things are going well.
Hey, she saved my life, and it's worth my while to remember little things like that.
Anyway, the priority now is to find someone to manage paperwork before I lose my mind. It was annoying enough to keep track of matters myself, but now that I'm mentoring Harry through the job I don't have time to keep the appointments, court dates, filings, information databases, and case files as up to date as I'd like. It's time to bring in some nice, matronly secretarial school graduate to stop Harry from charging lunches at Spagos and keep track of when my next massage is.
Someone sensible and immune to flirtations of any kind, because the last thing I need is another major distraction for either Harry or me. A spinster girl Friday with nine cats all named for soap opera characters and an addiction to Sudoku would be just fine. Oh, and if she makes a decent espresso, that would help smooth the deal over the top.
ED
So I show up at the address the agency gave me, and it was a nice place, so clearly Mr. Van Shrike has money, which is good. The man who let me in wasn't Mr. Van Shrike, but he was polite, and showed me into a living room where two other girls were waiting.
I knew them: Shelli and Julie, both long on the bitchy side and determined to make it big by sleeping into money. Shelli's dream is to marry a has-been star and live the trophy-wife life. She can get away with it if she can find someone deaf, I guess. Julie is willing to negotiate and I suspect her dates often have a financial transaction to them at some point in the evening.
But they both needed a day job too, and this offer of minor bookkeeping/receptionist and office assistant looked pretty good to all of us, so we sat there not making small talk and waited.
Me, I'm in it for the experience. My dad told me he'd support me in anything I wanted to do with one big stipulation, and since it was something I could completely agree with, not a problem. I got up after a few minutes and wandered over to one of the bookcases to check out Mr. Van Shrike's literary tastes.
Some Stendahl, some guides to wine, an early biography of Reid Wallace. I picked that out and took it back to my seat to skim through while Shelli was called into the next room for her interview.
I noticed the other man was hanging around, pretending to be busy, but he was keeping an eye on us—well, mostly on Julie's legs. He was dark-eyed and missing part of a finger on his left hand, which seemed kind of sinister.
The Wallace bio was good, though, and I got into it. By the time the dark-haired guy called my name I was regretting that I couldn't borrow it from Mr. Van Shrike unless I got the job.
When I sat down opposite the blonde man—Mr. Perry Van Shrike- I knew two things right away: he wasn't going to hire either Shellie or Julie, and that he was in a bad mood.
I reached into my purse and handed him a bottled water I had there.
"What's that for?" he asked. Nice voice, low, well-modulated.
Gay.
"You're getting a headache and that won't help my interview," I told him. "You probably could use some water."
He almost smiled at that, so I felt my chances go up, even though he set the water aside.
"Miss Ed . . . Ragozy?"
"Edwina," I told him. "I go by Ed because anything's better."
"I can see that," he nodded. "Okay, you have my attention; why should I hire you?" He sat back, waiting for a show, but I went with honest, because I really did want the job.
"You're going to hire me, Mr. Van Shrike, because I don't have an Equity card, a screenplay, or novel. I have no intention of taking this job just to dump it three months from now when the open casting calls for Christmas commercials hit Variety. I'm a good worker, I have the skills you need, and I'm willing to take less than the other two candidates if you have an investment plan with your offer."
He stared at me, but I'm used to those sorts of contests, and just waited him out. Finally he blinked a little. "Anything else?" Mr. Van Shrike asked, and that was when I knew I had it.
"Not really. I like your taste in literature. Do you have any questions?"
"Can you be here at eight tomorrow morning?"
"Yes sir," I told him, and he almost rolled his eyes.
"Yea Gods, manners as well; tell me, are there any more at home like you, Miss Ragozy?"
"Just 'Ed' will do, Mr. Van Shrike, and no—I'm the only one besides my dear old dad."
"Ragozy . . . as in Milos Ragozy, the restauranteur?"
I nodded; lying, especially to a detective would have been dumb. Besides, it would have come out sooner or later anyway. Dad's pretty well-known.
"Okay then, show up at eight tomorrow and I'll get you started. You'll need to bring ID and get fingerprinted—you have no objection to that, right?"
"None at all. Dress code?"
"Dressy casual; I have no objection to slacks if they're office appropriate, and sandals only if they have a heel. Your jewelry is up to you, but minimum is best, and the rest we can work out as we go," he fired off, and I tried not to smile because it's so . . . . Precise.
I figure I'm off to a good start.