I found this in my files. A bit of fun writing, inspired by the 'Joe as Rockford Campaign' in the spring. (I'd still so love to see Joe play Rockford...) I'd forgotten all about it. It was never really completed – interrupted by the bad news that Joe didn't get the role. This is about half of it. If you think it's worth finishing, which largely involves a bit of editing, let me know, I'll see what I can do. It shouldn't take long.
A Different Sort of Monday
Chapter One
The trailer was in a mess.
Ok, so he never did keep it that tidy.
No. This time, it was in a real mess.
And Mrs. Lindt, a burly – did he just describe his cleaner as burly? – fifties-something lady from two streets away, was going to freak out and that image in his head felt nearly as bad as the sight of the trashed trailer. And he wouldn't blame her if, this time, she handed in her notice and meant it.
He'd sighed when he'd parked up the Firebird and had seen the damaged lock with the door slightly left ajar. Well, nice of them to try and close it. Wouldn't want the local tom cat in there, now, would he?
But this was the third time in two months. Couldn't these people tell that his trailer had 'occupant broke, bad news for larcenists' written all over it?
Even if Jim had paid the premiums – which he hadn't – he rather thought the insurance company would be looking for that 'wriggle-out' clause for the third claim.
And he sighed again, when he pulled open the door fully and the little trash can, usually stowed under the trailer kitchen sink, rolled out suddenly, spilling its contents, the remains of three-day old take-out all over his shoes. Not a good start. He bent down and flicked off the... gooey stuff with a hand... not an especially smart move, Jim, he thought, scrunching up his face at the feel of the gooey stuff now attached to his fingers. Helplessly, he squinted round over the top of his shades for something to wipe his hands. With nothing but concrete and dust and tarmac and hot sunlight all round, there was no choice but to gingerly fish a hanky from his jacket pocket.
Breathing deeply - why do these things always seem to happen to him? - he then braced himself to face up to the inevitable. Listening. Checking. There were no noises coming from inside. Whoever had damaged the door, if they were still about, would have hightailed out of the window long ago when he pulled up with the car.
He heaved himself up into the trailer, stepping over the can.
His heart sunk. He'd been prepared for the worse and the worse was pretty much here.
The trailer was a mess.
Contents of cupboards, you name it and it was there, crocks, glass, papers, clothes, food, littered the floor and counter tops. Overturned furniture. Couch and chair cushions lay scattered like some whirlwind had just gone through - actually, they might have been like that already. The fridge, now empty of beers, stood with its door wide open, humming away contentedly, eating up more than its fair share of Malibu power, making enough ice for some homeless polar bear.
Jim sighed again. He guessed the bedroom and bathroom beyond were in pretty much the same state. And he guessed there was little point calling in the cops either. There was at least one consolation - no one had been clever with the graffiti like last time. An artistic interpretation of 'Fuck you, Rockford' was still seen faintly on one of the kitchenette cabinets from three weeks ago.
He made a quick assessment of what was missing – heck, it wasn't as if it was difficult - he didn't own that much. The ten year old TV and DVD player were gone, as was his laptop. Well, no great loss there then. The latter was a 'gift' from Angel, when Rockford had gotten him out of trouble a few months back. Which reminded him, he still had to tell Angel he could never get the darned thing to switch on.
He made his way down the trailer, grimacing at the scrunching noise his feet made on broken glass and opened one seemingly untouched cupboard. Yep. All the camera equipment he hadn't had with him for the morning was missing. Nothing but empty space. And he hadn't anywhere near finished with the payments. He guessed it was pointless looking for his revolver.
Yet, there it was. The cookie jar, still intact, sitting in its pride of place on a kitchen shelf. Funny – and lucky – how that had gotten overlooked the last time too. He reached up and pulled at the top to check.
"There you go, Rocky," he murmured under his breath, remembering the way his father was always on at him to find a safer place to hide it, or even to take the thing with him. He replaced the jar. Who ever had trashed his place had probably thought he was 'carrying' that day. Therefore they... didn't know him, but... knew of him? Knew he was a p.i. but not that he hated guns.
He surveyed the wreckage of his home again running a hand through his hair with a sense of hopelessness. Yeah. At a loss where to make a start to clear the place up. It seemed a whole lot tempting to just walk out, shut the door and sleep in his car.
Jim took another step –
Shit!
He tripped.
Took a nose dive down onto the debris on the floor, catching his head on the small table at the further end – ow! - lifting his head - a louder, ow! - only to knock it a second time.
His vision was all shot for a few seconds. Nothing would focus.
Shit!
The remnants of day old take out – a Thai curry with far too much food colouring to be healthy – one that had never even made it to the trash can - was sticking to his shirt front leaving yet another gooey mess. He sat himself up, grinding more of the stuff on the floor with the movement, rubbing the back of his head, examining his fingers convinced he'd drawn blood, ruefully looking down at the stain on his shirt. He looked like he'd been shot, he thought with a wince. Suddenly this was all beginning to seem like a Laurel and Hardy film. What had he done to deserve this?
And now his head throbbed.
He peered to his side to see what exactly had tripped him up.
The flex to the answering machine. Of course, no self-respecting larcenist who took pride in his work would steal that. Jim even doubted he could have paid them to take it.
Another 'gift' from Angel.
That Jim had been very reluctant to accept.
'Is this... hot?' he'd asked doubtfully. 'Look, Angel, you're going to get me into trouble if this is someone else's property. I'm still on probation here.'
Angel had looked at him with mock horror. Well, Jim had thought it looked like genuine mock horror.
And Jim had quickly thought of another reason not to take it.
'And... no one uses these things anymore.' Not when you have perfectly good cell phones. Angel had still pressed it on him.
'Every p.i. has a secretary!' Angel had obviously been watching too many black and white movie re-runs, and probably meant some dizzy bimbo blonde who sat and filed her nails. 'To take your calls. Imagine this is your secretary!'
'I am and she's really not my type.'
He hadn't the space for it either. Perhaps now it was broken – it sure looked broken lying forlornly on the floor - he had a legit reason to throw it out. Without moving from his space on the floor, he hoisted the machine up to the couch and twisted round to press play. The darned thing still worked. Regular stuff.
Whoever left messages all knew he kept his phone switched off. For some reason, he hated being... 'got at'. Yeah, it was paranoia... a persecution thing that came about from months of owing money. The answering machine was another way of reaching/'getting at' him. He really ought to dump it.
"Fiona MacDuff here. What do you mean you don't search for missing cats? You one of those cat-haters-" He tapped fast forward. Though... if he didn't get funds in soon, he might have to re- consider...
"Pete from the garage. Sorry, Jim. Your account don't get paid, your car don't get fixed."
"Dr McKay here."
Who?
"Don't you ever read your texts!" shrieked the voice at the other end. "I've been leaving you messages everywhere! When you gave blood Monday last..." Yeah, he remembered it. Squeezing his eyes tight shut against the needle prick. Opening them again to Mandy, the nurse. Now Mandy was his type. "...anomalies. You need to get back to us! Like now. This is an emergency!" And Jim was starting to panic a little from... the panic in the man's voice. "Can you make another appointment? Call me on 195 897949. Nononono. Scrap that. I'll come to you. Only... be careful..."
Well... that was different and sort of got his attention. What the hell was wrong with him that he had to be 'careful'? Careful of what?
With one hand holding a refuse sack and the other popping stuff in, with his cell tucked under his right jaw, he finally got back to the Blood Bank people. They'd never heard of a Dr. McKay. Nor of any anomalies in his blood.
"And neither do we give out confidential information on patients like phone numbers to all and sundry," bristled the lady at the other end.
"Glad to hear that," and Jim thanked her with charm enough that he didn't feel.
His sixth sense kicked in. It didn't need much kicking though, when mystery callers warn him to be careful and his place gets robbed...
He let the sack fall and tapped in this doctor's number. He wasn't anticipating a reply, sure that the doctor must have made some sort of mistake. The number seemed weird and didn't match any regular dialling or area codes he was aware of.
"Hi, Hastings here." A casual male voice. Very informal and over-familiar for a receptionist. More like the guy thought he was taking an interdepartmental call between offices.
"Can you put me through to a Dr McKay please," asked Jim, all nice and polite.
"Who is this?" Suddenly, there was an edge of suspicion to the voice.
"Jim Rockford. Dr McKay asked me to call him."
"This is a secure line. He has no authorisation to give this number out." The guy hung up.
Jim took himself outside, grabbing at his shades on the way, and then dialled Becker as he paced a circle beside the trailer.
"No!" bellowed the lieutenant before Jim had a chance to say anything.
"Becker. You didn't need to answer," pointed out Jim drily. He was surprised Becker actually picked up the call. He could have been busy. He could even be ignoring Jim. It was usually the latter ninety nine per cent of the time.
"The answer's still no!" By the sound of his breathing and a regular banging noise, the man was taking stairs between floors
"I've been robbed," said Jim quickly before Becker changed his mind and hung up.
"So?" The answer Jim expected. "You're kidding! Who would want to rob you? You don't own anything to rob." The response that Jim expected too. And agreed with.
"They trashed my trailer." Perhaps he was trying for sympathy there.
"You want me to send forensics? To your trailer?" said Becker with unveiled sarcasm and disbelief.
That hurt.
"What happened to the police being nice public servants?" asked Jim.
"When did you last pay your taxes?"
Jim ignored that angle.
"I dunno. You said it though. Why would anyone want to rob me? Unless it's a cover-up. They were snooping for something else?"
"You're getting paranoiac. You need to see a doctor, not a cop." Becker had reached a desk and a chair. Jim could hear a squeaky swivel action work.
"And I had a doctor ring me." Jim persisted "About my giving blood last week. He said there were anomalies. And then warned me to be careful."
"You've caught some sex- ?"
"Becker." And Jim stopped Becker dead there. "The blood bank people have never heard of this Dr. McKay. They know nothing of the anomalies. And they don't give out private phone numbers."
"You want me to check out this... this... you said a Dr McKay?"
"I have a number for him." And he reeled it off, holding his breath. Waiting for Becker to react. To recognise that it might be a secure government line and that Becker didn't want to risk his career yet again for Jim. It didn't come. "You sure? That's not a proper dial up code" was all he said.
"I tried it. Got someone and they more or less told me to go away."
"Wouldn't know why... If I have a minute, I'll see what I can do."
Hmmm, something else different about today. Becker wasn't normally that... amiable. Possibly Becker had noted the 'be careful' as the most important thing in this too.
Three refuse sacks later and the trailer looked half-way respectable again. Mrs Lindt would be proud of him.
He made coffee. The machine was still in one piece and not all the beans had been scattered over the floor. Somehow he'd got to get in some more food – and beer in. Get his clothes to the laundry. As much as he hated doing this, he'd probably have to pay Rocky a visit for funding. Groceries. The camera replacements. Then he'd get that the long lecture about getting a proper job.
His phone tone went. Becker back to him already.
"What have you gotten into now, Rockford?" hissed the detective. He was whispering?
"I wasn't aware-"
"It's military. Top secret stuff. More top secret than those special ops guys even. With hints of Area 52. I doubt this Dr McKay is even a real doctor. And this phone call never took place." Becker abruptly hung up.
Area 52. Rothwell and all that. What the hell? His day just got weirder.
He was getting paranoid after all? Half-a-dozen checks in his rear view mirror had shown him two serious looking four-wheel drives with blacked out windows. Presidential cavalcade stuff. He fully expected the ticker tape to come showering down at any moment. But if, they were following him – not a suspicion – an odds-on certainty he was sure - he tried, slowing and they'd slowed – tried speeding up and they'd sped up - they weren't exactly trying to cover that fact up.
With that warning, 'be careful' still in his head, he had to admit to something close to nervousness when he pulled into Mum's Better Buys parking lot and they glided in behind him.
He climbed out of the Firebird, noting that one parked well over to the other side of the lot, and a second four spaces away, letting out its three passengers, two men and a woman who promptly headed his way, the men buttoning up jackets to conceal guns. These were FBI and they meant to talk? They couldn't possibly mean to do anything else – not in a busy parking lot full of on-lookers. Could they?
He hitched up his jeans and pushed at his shades that had slipped down his nose, and waited for them.
The shorter of the two men - but hey, he wasn't that short, it was just that the other guy was just so much taller – he had to be six foot four and muscles bulged under a blazer jacket – pulled out a badge.
"James Rockford?"
"Yeah. What can I do for you folks?" he replied, glancing at the badge, trying to be ready if the big guy – who, close up, looked even more threatening with shoulder length dreadlocks - took him on, but what was Jim going to do exactly against a tank? Run, possibly...
And Jim found himself unconsciously checking for escape routes through the parked cars and Monday afternoon shoppers.
"Bates. IOA," said the black suited guy.
"And that's supposed to mean something?" asked Jim, raising an eyebrow.
"The IOA is a government agency, Mr Rockford," explained the woman, very politely, very deliberately, choosing her words very carefully as if English wasn't her native language. Jim couldn't take his eyes off her. As well as being very well spoken, she was also very good looking. He was instinctively doing his p.i. check. Large brown eyes. Dark skin. Auburn hair. A hundred and ten pounds. Good looks that could only be found on the front page of magazines. Wasted on a government agency if that actually was who she worked for. Then again... she packed a gun beneath a thin navy jacket... yeah, he'd been looking at her body – at the low cut bodice top – who could blame him? – if it was the last thing he saw, it wouldn't be such a bad thing. And Jim could tell by the way she stood, she wasn't just shapely and pretty - she was plenty used to taking on guys twice her size. Scary.
"We were wondering if we could perhaps talk, that you could help us by answering a few questions?" Her words were oozing with charm but had an underlying – what? – she'd flicked a concerned look up to the big guy in the rear, who in turn was fixing Jim with a stare, so... intense, heck, it was ... it was unnerving, that's what it was. All that hair. It reminded him of Chewie. He could just imagine the guy would growl at him like Chewie.
Perhaps, he was this Dr McKay? The doctor should have made contact by now. No. The looks didn't match the voice. And Jim glanced across the lot. Perhaps this McKay was in the other vehicle?
"Here?"
"You've been difficult to track down," said the Bates guy. Jim had been running errands all over for the past two hours and his phone was off. He had been difficult to track down. Yet they had. That meant they'd used traffic cameras? These three were definitely government. "And here, we can't be overheard." By bugging devices. Shit. This was getting heavy.
"Look guys, can't it wait? I'm about to shop."
"No. No. It cannot wait. And we will be very brief." And there was that tension again, beneath the lady's smile. And sadness in the eyes. And he could feel himself melt. Persuaded. He leant his hips against the bonnet of his car and folded his arms, allowing her one of his own re-assuring smiles. Still trying to relax his own tension that screamed at his legs to – hightail it out of there.
"Fire away. You didn't tell me your name." He hinted at the woman.
Her smile shot up to her eyes then, knowing she was being chatted up, flattered for a second but killing it. She was more than used to it.
"Teyla Emmagan." And she held up a ringless right hand to the tall guy, "and this is Ronon Dex."
"Oh, but your name is a lot prettier. Unusual. But pretty." She came that close to a blush.
"You seen Dr. McKay today?" blurted out the tall guy. Jim threw him a look for interrupting.
"Should I have done?"
"He was on his way to see you when..." the big guy stopped. Something was eating him up and it wasn't Jim hitting on Ms Emmagan.
"You were expecting him?" put in Bates.
"He left a message to that effect on my answering machine. Yes. And texts. But he didn't say when. Nor what this is all about. You gonna tell me what this is about? He said it was something to do with a blood test. But guys in the street don't usually get visits from "government departments" because of blood tests, do they now?"
"So you haven't seen him?" repeated this Dex, not answering any of Jim's questions, still staring at Jim with those lie-detector eyes of his. Jim sure hoped the result came out in his favour.
"No. I haven't. He's disappeared?" He could hardly imagine they wanted to hire him to find the doctor.
"He left our offices earlier this morning," explained Teyla, "without telling anyone exactly where he was going. We were able to find mention of you in his computer files. And yesterday, he referred to your name with Ronon, when he became... excitable about... a discovery." Ronon. She was using his first name. These two were close.
Jim eased himself off the car. It was getting hot out here. The sunlight glaring off cars was starting to give him a headache. Along with the claustrophobic feel of these three standing so near.
"Discovery?" And excitable? They were worried about one of their operatives who had gone and 'lost it'?
"We are not at liberty to explain at this stage. Our current concerns are for the well-being of Dr McKay."
"Look, I don't mean to appear selfish... but I sorta have concerns here too. Your doctor friend warned me to... be careful. Is there anything, in particular, I should be careful of?"
"It's been taken care of," growled Chewie, shooting a look to the other black car.
Alarm clamped in Jim's stomach as he caught the big guy's drift.
"You're giving me... babysitters? You giving me my own bodyguard and yet you won't tell me why?"
"It's too early," said Bates, and then he lowered his voice to a whisper, turning his head to face the back of the lot. "Later. Everything will be explained later. When you have... clearance. Until then – Get yourself home. Lock yourself in and those guys are gonna watch after you. McKay might still contact you."
They were probably tapping his phone already. Why did he get the feeling they were using him as bait?
"That bad, huh?" Yeah, he was getting more and more concerned. "Look, I need to buy food first. I'm right out. Earlier on, my place got trashed? Is that connected?" The three exchanged glances. This was a feeler on Jim's part but was news to them. It wasn't them who trashed the trailer then. Suddenly his concern went up a notch.
"Your place got turned over?"
"Yeah."
"They know of him and where he lives," said Teyla. Bates whipped out a phone immediately. "I'll see if we can upgrade your security." And to Teyla. "Full protective custody? A safe house?"
"It would be wise, yes," the little lady agreed.
"Look, mind telling me who 'they' are?"
"All in good time," said Bates, putting up a hand to quiet him as he got connected to who Jim guessed were the 'guys upstairs.'
"You're a p.i.? You have a gun?" asked Chewie, as blunt as ever.
"Yeah. I have a gun." Jim was trying to avoid the no-permit issue.
"You're not wearing a gun." Still blunt. And Jim hadn't been the only one eyeing up firearms.
"You think I should? I don't happen to like guns."
"You don't like guns?" asked Chewie, looking Jim up and down with a sort of incredulity that doubted Jim's manhood.
"No. I don't like guns. I said that," he snapped, letting in the irritability he was feeling into his voice.
"Why? Why don't you like guns?"
"They have a habit of going off – killing people."
"Hmmm." The big guy still didn't approve apparently. Bates snapped his phone shut and shook his head. "We're short-handed. What with McKay... and that... other thing. They're going to get back in a couple of hours." The guy shook his head, and pulled back his jacket to put his hands on his hips. "Shit! I don't believe it! Who they got in charge over there?"
"I am sure that you will be safe, " said Teyla tactfully, turning to Jim, trying to reassure him.
"Yeah, I'm sure I will," replied Jim, not being the least bit sure, but it made it easier to accept coming from her.
"Unlike McKay," gruffed out Chewie, scowling at Jim as if it was his fault. Jim straightened up. The man was seething with resentment. Coming way too close for comfort in the cramped space between the cars. Jim wasn't too sure if he was going to have to defend himself or not.
"The disappearance of Rodney is not his fault, Ronon," insisted Teyla, raising her voice more than she cared to, quickly checking they weren't attracting the attention of passers-by.
"Ok, you'd better come out with it..." said Jim, trying to be conciliatory here. Who were they protecting him from exactly when this guy was so threatening? Ronon was right in his face now.
"Hey!" from Bates. Pulling at Ronon's arm. "Not here." People's heads were turning.
"I don't trust him. He has no permit for his gun. What else is he trying to hide? Just because he has the AT-"
"Ronon!" Teyla. "Not here!" she repeated.
"Yeah, keep him under control!" agreed Jim.
Bates hastily pushed Ronon towards their car. The man allowed it, glowering back at them.
Bates tightened his tie. "Well, thank you for your time, Mr Rockford."
"Yeah. Pleasure." But he couldn't help the sarcasm. "Let you know if I see or hear anything?"
"They will," said Bates, indicating to the other car, as the pair turned to leave.
The girl gave him an apologetic backwards glance, catching him watching the way she walked... right... and he coughed... groceries...
Cindy at the grocery store - that was the name on her uniform tag - made quite a show of checking his twenty dollar bill. Crabbily holding it up to the light. And then pointedly used the pen. In deliberate slow motion.
"It is genuine," he said lamely. That's as good as he could do? All too aware of impatient sighs of other shoppers behind him in the queue. That included one of his guards, sixth in line, who'd come in for a packet of mints.
"Sure it is," she said sourly. And then looked him up and down, accusingly as she opened the till. He blinked as she slammed the drawer shut. Judge and executioner.
He wished it were Kim. For Kim, a slim young thing of nineteen, he could turn on the charm and she wouldn't even mind if his credit card did get thrown back.
"Tomorrow, try moving your bed closer to the wall," he said scooping up his bag of groceries without waiting to hear the reaction. Because she really must have gotten out the wrong side this morning. He made a mental note to self, that it probably wasn't a good idea to shop there from now on.
Outside the sun glared down and he was glad he'd left off the jacket, but even with the sleeves rolled up on his linen shirt, he was still hot. The reflection off cars in the parking lot, off concrete hit hard even with his shades. He made it to the Firebird and couldn't fish out the keys with his arms full, twisting for the right pocket of his jeans, finding he'd put them in the left. Ain't that typical? His guard wasn't out the store yet. His partner sat snoozing behind the wheel of their vehicle.
Some kids were showing off on the other side of the lot setting off a squealing of brakes and the smell of burning rubber from tyres. He glanced up from struggling with the lock on the Firebird. Yet another four wheel drive. Porshe Cayenne. Expensive. Hundred thousand dollars, give or take a cent. Not kids but someone who ought to know better. They were going to kill someone with those speeds. And someone swore at them to rightly tell them so. He swopped arms for the groceries still jiggling the key in the lock, wondering whether he was gonna have to use both hands and put his groceries on the bonnet... or even wait for his bodyguard to come and help.
The speeding car suddenly came to a halt behind him.
Three men jumped out.
Three men in black jumped out. For real?
"Hey!"
They grabbed him by the arms and pulled and shoved him towards in the direction of the Porsche.
"Hey! Hey" That's all he could think to say?
It happened so fast - he ended up on the back seat, still holding his groceries, sandwiched between two of the guys – with a gun held to his midriff – and the car sped off.
And his Monday just got worse when one guy pulled down his collar and stuck a needle in his neck... and suddenly, it wasn't Monday anymore... it wasn't even day anymore...