"Laura, I don't believe I'm hearing this right," protested Murphy Michaels as he sat with Laura over coffee and a bag of donuts for their Monday morning confab. "You want to let Him use the agency gun!?"
"It's not about him," countered Laura. "It's about our license."
"License to kill, you mean," he shot back. "God knows what'll happen. Probably murder us in our beds."
"And how would he find his way to your bed, Murph?" she asked, icier than the glaze on the donut she was about to bite into.
"It's a metaphor! How could you possibly believe it's a good idea to give that guy access to the agency gun?! Next thing you know, LAPD will be knocking down our door asking about some jewelry store he's just knocked over!"
"Because if we don't do this, questions will be asked at our next external review on why Remington Steele doesn't have a valid gun permit. Can you imagine how that would look?"
"I'm imagining what you would look like with blood splattered across your pillow," he shot back. "God know what he'd try if he had access."
"He's not getting access to my bedroom! And why would you be worried about me being murdered in my bed, Murph? Don't you think you're going just a little overboard here?"
"Overboard? Do I have to remind you we haven't a clue about His 'mysterious past' and what crimes he committed before hitting LA? We don't even know why he's decided to stay and inflict himself on us! Why the hell should we give him access to our only weapon?"
Laura finally bit generously into the sugary treat, chewing carefully and savoring the taste while giving Murphy time to calm down. Then she said, dryly, "What's to stop him from waltzing in right now and helping himself to it? Assuming he figures out where we misplaced the bullets yet again. This way, we have control over his knowledge. " She reached for her coffee mug. "Besides. This is L.A. We both know there's pawn shops and gun stores all over the city, and most of them don't ask a lot of questions. He could get his own gun in less than ten minutes if he really wanted one."
"If he uses ours, Laura, then it's our neck on the line. Not his."
"If he uses ours, then the evidence trail leads right back to us. He's much better off buying his own under his umbrella of false names."
"That's your idea of reassuring?" Murphy sighed and fell back in his chair. "You really do have an answer to everything, don't you?"
She smiled, then. "Math majors are known for the logic of their arguments." That was one of the things she loved about Murph, his sense of humor. He never held a grudge and never held his anger for long.
She said, gesturing with the donut fragment, "Look. Everyone here at the agency except Bernice has to have a gun license from the State of California and a concealed carry permit. It's a requirement of our PI license since we own a gun. I'll pick some morning when he's not scheduled to speak at a Rotary breakfast and take him down to the practice range. He can spend a half hour or so pretending to be Matt Dillon, and then get the instructor sign-off and apply for his permit."
Murphy snorted. "Matt Dillion? James Bond is more likely. I can just see him in the classic pose with white tie and tails." He made a cocked finger and mimicked the image, tossing his blonde hair back in the bargain. Laura couldn't help but laugh at the image.
Murphy reached for a second donut and said, more seriously, "Doesn't he need an ID for a permit?"
That was when Laura flushed. She bit her lip and stared into her mug. "I was hoping you wouldn't figure that bit out."
"What bit?" He thought it through, and then leapt out of his chair. "You got him a fake ID as Remington Steele?! Laura! Where are your brains this week!?"
"Well, what was I supposed to do, Murph? If he's going to trot around town introducing himself as Remington Steele, then he needs a driver's license and his PI ID."
"But how does he get a driver's license when he doesn't have a birth certificate? Or a prior ID?" He eyed her and his gaze grew suspicious. "Wait. Don't tell me."
"Our Mr. Steele's very resourceful," she said carefully.
"So was Genghis Khan. What did you do?"
She felt like a prize pupil being dressed down by a favorite teacher, and knew that somehow she'd let her partner down. "Well, we know that New York driver's licenses still don't have a photo on them. At least, not the older paper ones."
"You didn't."
Laura shrugged, attempting nonchalance, but it only made her feel guiltier. "It wasn't hard. We printed one up with his name and contact info borrowing a midtown Manhattan address from one of my college roommates. DMV took it like a song."
"You didn't!"
"And with that in hand, we went over to the state bureau of licensing and got his PI license." She frowned, remembering. "I have to say, he was a very quick study for the exam. I wonder what that means?"
"That means you've given the fox the keys to the henhouse. He also needed letters of referral for the license, Laura."
"Uh, huh." She smiled brilliantly at him. "Thanks, Murphy."
Now he flung himself away from the table and began to pace her small office. "Have you gone stark raving insane, Laura!? He's got you committing criminal acts now! Falsifying identity! Faking a PI license! We could lose our real license over this!"
"We could lose it if we don't! Don't you think I haven't thought this all through six ways till Sunday? What do you think's going to happen the first time some newspaper or magazine decides to run a profile on our Mr. Steele? We got a lot of press from his first two cases. They're going to start knocking on our door. And when they do, they'll run background on him."
"But that's why you invented that CIA cover story," Murphy said. "Precisely so we could explain his lack of background."
"I know. But he exists now. And we have to deal with it." She sighed. "Besides, this is L.A. He needs a driver's license. I can't have him calling Fred for a ride at all hours of the day and night. The poor guy has a family, too."
There was a brief knock at the Steele-side door that accessed Laura's office, followed by the man himself, black hair neatly coiffed and shooting his cuffs as he glanced from Murphy to Laura. His own blue eyes twinkled with what suspiciously looked like mischief.
"Oh, good," he said. "Mother and Father have stopped arguing. I assume it's safe to admit the morning client now?" And from that and the blue-eyed twinkle, Laura knew he'd overheard at least part of the conversation.
She rose, grabbed her linen jacket draped over her chair, and pulled it on as she headed into his office, her head high and utterly composed. In her attempt to look defiant, she was oblivious to the unintended consequence that it put color in her cheeks and only enhanced her attractiveness.
"Indeed it is. Come along, junior. Time to earn your keep."
Laura had been right. He'd heard pretty much the whole damn argument. And damning was the right word. He knew full well what Murphy Michaels thought of him and he didn't particularly care, because what he cared about was what Laura thought, and he was heartened by the fundamental trust that he'd overheard. Because she was right, of course. He wasn't going to murder them in their beds, and he'd also be damned if harm came to Laura on his watch. In fact, her ploy to get his California ID – so simplistic compared to his passports – made him uneasy precisely because he knew Laura had compromised her beliefs and integrity to obtain the falsified documents. Murphy was right on this one; they'd lose their PI licensing if the fraud was ever discovered, and so he was acutely aware of the price Laura paid and what he owed her. She trusted him to hold up Remington Steele's reputation, and so he would do it. Because by now, just a few short weeks into his LA residency, he realized that he deeply admired Laura Holt.
That, plus the added bonus that being good would drive Murphy Michaels crazy.
What he couldn't figure out, on those occasions like this morning as Fred drove him to work, was why he admired Laura so. Part of it was simple recognition of a fellow traveler; she had created a fictitious person in order to achieve her dream, and he understood that need better than most, having reinvented himself into so many dreams that he'd lost count. He also admired her ability to dive headlong into risk and pull herself out…yet hadn't the Felicia's and Shannon's in his life thrilled to the dare? What exactly was it about Laura Holt that kept him captivated ever since his arrival? Since the horror of Anna's death over two years ago, he had believed no woman would ever mean more than a satisfying tumble or a weekend romp on the Cote d'Azur. Laura Holt was an attractive woman, that was obvious, but his beloved Anna had been a stunner in comparison. And while Laura was witty, Felicia had a repartee that could make Oscar Wilde blush. Laura was also smarter than almost anyone he'd known – a guaranteed turn-off when women were concerned – yet he found her mind stimulating and intriguingly tempered by a charming naivety that popped out at the oddest times. The truth was, he couldn't get enough of Laura Holt and he awoke every morning fantasizing about her and looking forward to that moment when he first laid eyes on her. And this was nicely complemented by the discovery, just several days ago, that she was definitely interested in him. That much became obvious several nights ago, when he kissed her for the first time at the Santa Monica pier. Right before they were shot at. Her warm and welcoming response to his kiss was personally gratifying. The shots were not. He hoped the shooting parts of the evening weren't going to be a habit, because it would play havoc with future attempts at seduction. What do you suppose it would take to seduce Laura Holt? She's clearly a woman of taste and elegance, so surely not being fired upon? She doesn't seem the bauble type. Opera tickets? A romantic dinner? A pearl-handled revolver?
He was still wrapped in the possibilities as he was decanted from the elevator to the eleventh floor of the Century Towers and strolled into what he liked to think of as his office, having collected his morning paper and freshly poured tea from Miss Wolfe. Another surprise was the discovery that he relished ritual, having been deprived of it for so long courtesy of his transitory existence. But hardly three minutes after he'd settled into a perusal of the headlines (seeking his name, of course, after the gratifying business with Ratooi Games) and had that first, restorative first sip, Laura herself entered his office without so much as a knock. Which meant she'd been waiting for him and wanted something. And he'd already figured out that usually meant he was in trouble, so he favored her with his best offensive weapon – his charm.
He hastily folded his newspaper and donned an attentive expression. "Laura, Laura! Good morning! To what do I owe this pleasure?" There. Charm-plus. That should calm whatever beset these stormy seas. Mind, he couldn't precisely recall what he might have done to elicit wrath, but when in doubt, be pro-active.
She had come around to perch on the edge of his desk, which partially quelled his alarm simply because it offered an unexpected view of very attractive leg. It was with reluctance that he refocused his attention from that shapely leg to Laura herself, because he also knew what it felt like when that leg connected with his shin. It wasn't until he fully looked at her that he realized that she wasn't annoyed. Or upset. She was…hesitant. Uncertain. Definitely un-Laura-like.
And that really set his alarm bells ringing.
"Are you free this afternoon?" she asked without preamble.
He didn't bother to hide his relief. "Free? Absolutely! I gather we have a foul murderer to pursue?" She was shaking her head. "Kidnapping and ransom?" More shaking. "Daring robbery? Missing heiress?" Oh, god. Not another Rotary Club speech.
"How good are you with a gun?"
A gun? Thoughts of Edward G. and William Powell flashed through his imagination.
"Hate the things," he said quickly. "So vulgar. No finesse. A real detective lives by his wits. Wouldn't you agree, Miss Holt?"
"I'm glad to hear you say it," she said dryly. "But a real detective also has a concealed carry permit. I have one. Murphy has one."
Ah. The argument. He opted for prevarication. "I thought we agreed I function best in a purely advisory capacity."
"No argument on that one, Mr. Steele. Glad to hear you buy into the company line. But the state licensing board has a different view. And before they get wise to us, we need to get you trained."
He pulled a face, remembering the people he knew who preferred to carry a gun. They were not his type of people at all. "Is this strictly necessary? Somehow I doubt a client's going to waltz into my office and brandish a gun."
"It does seem unlikely. But stranger things have happened."
He considered it. Reconsidered it. Then he pronounced, "Remington Steele doesn't need a gun." Laura arched an eyebrow at him, so he smoothly added, "Besides, there's you and Mr. Michaels to protect me."
"Yes, isn't that fortunate?" He thought there was just the merest soupçon of sarcasm there.
"Nonetheless, California law states you need to be permitted for the agency gun. And that means an hour's practice at the local range." She frowned at him. How on earth does that make her look even more enticing than she already is? "Um, you have fired a gun before, haven't you?"
Truth? Or what she expects to hear? Or…what she needs to hear? He met her gaze. "Does it matter to you?"
Now she eyed him consideringly. "Murphy thinks you may have killed a man."
"Mr. Michaels has a low opinion of his fellow man."
"I don't think that's true." He knew she was answering her own question and not his response.
"Guns are the first resort of men too stupid to live by their wits."
She smiled, then. "So you're not interested in packing a rod?" He remembered their conversation from several weeks back, when he'd delivered that magnum of champagne in the hotel restaurant, along with what he'd mistakenly thought was a witty line that instead had almost given the game away. So she hadn't forgotten.
"I put my strength in other, more useful formats."
She tapped his desk. "I'll pick you up at three, then." She made it sound like a challenge. Excellent. The anticipation sent his blood racing.
He spent the rest of that morning considering how to best handle the situation. He genuinely liked Laura. Definitely respected her. Nonetheless it didn't seem prudent to reveal all his secrets, and it was an instinct difficult to break. He'd spent a lifetime learning the invaluable lesson that it was best to show people only what they expected to see. It gave you an advantage in case you needed to change the rules later on. Especially if you were caught in a pickle.
There was one core truth he had shared with Laura Holt. He hated guns. He hadn't lied when he said they were loud and vulgar and, in his experience, were the sort of thing that lesser quality people resorted to when they were too stupid to solve their problems by more reasonable means. The people he'd known who used guns did so because they were failures and not because they were strong and successful. Guns were the first resort of drug dealers and hoodlums like the Kray brothers, and he'd managed to steer clear of those brutal blokes. Daniel had an equal dislike of the weapons and he'd instilled that dislike into his protégé.
"Bullets can go anywhere, Harry," he had said once, over whiskeys, "and more often than not, they don't go where you intend. They also breed false confidence. And they're never a substitute for a good plan."
Of course, guns weren't anywhere near as common in Europe as they were in the wild west of America, and so the option of relying on them had never really arisen. Thank god. Because he'd seen what could happen when they did enter the equation. The Palermo Brothers, as just one example.
Besides. Guns attracted the police, and the one thing he'd been very, very successful at – well, mostly successful at – was avoiding the attention of the authorities.
So when Laura popped into his office at three, he'd reached a decision that sat easy on his conscience. He'd ample time to dart out for a spot of shopping and assemble a wardrobe suitable for Remington Steele at the gun range – a fitted leather jacket with upturned collar and an open-necked shirt. What GQ recommends for the best dressed shooter. Laura still wore her skirt-and-jacket combo and she did a double-take at his outfit. An appreciative double-take. Well done, old sport. Glad to confirm that nixing the shooting tweeds with the leather rifle patches at the shoulder was the right approach.
"Laura," he said as Fred drove them in the limo to the range, "are you sure this is quite necessary?" He decided it wouldn't hurt to protest a wee tad more.
"It's not my decision. Ask the California Board of Licensing."
"Pointless. Bureaucrats have no sense of perspective."
"I can't argue with that one." She swiveled on the leather seat to face him. "Look, it's only for an hour. Pretend you're Sam Spade. Or Wyatt Earp. Or someone from one of your movies."
He took her hand then into his own. Gazed into those enchanting gold-flecked brown eyes. "Provided you'll reward me at the end, with your company for dinner."
She flushed a little. He loved that about her. So sophisticated, yet a California girl at heart.
"I'm not exactly dressed for dinner," she protested, half-heartedly.
"Easily mended."
"Let's just get through the licensing approval, shall we?"
Steele glanced at the rearview mirror and caught Fred's shadow of a smile. Yes, we lads must stick together.
At the target range, Laura introduced him to Ernest, an older gentleman who managed the facility and would sign off on the training. He greeted Laura with a welcome handshake and a fond gaze, and Steele caught the familiar scent of retired cop. Terrific.
He made a show of not knowing the drill and played the double game of pretending he knew what this was all about, acting ignorant while trying to conceal his ignorance. He gazed surreptitiously around the long room and its taped alleys that demarcated the firing lanes with targets on the far walls. There were one or two other people practicing, and he didn't need to fake his jump at the sudden, sharp reports. It was true. He hated guns.
Laura handed him a pair of muffling ear protectors and took a second pair for herself. He copied her move to drop them around the neck while Ernest gave him instructions.
"I'm assuming you've fired these before, Steele, in your business."
How to respond? I have to be good enough to convince Ernest for the license without being so good that it scares Laura into believing I'm someone that I'm not. What would Bogey do? "Needs must, Ernest." A bon mot was an excellent way to avoid answering a direct question. He accepted the weapon that Laura offered him, a revolver that was a touch too large for Laura's slim hands. Checked that the safety was on. Opened the chamber, taking care to fumble the gesture slightly, and confirmed it was empty. He slid the bullets in, handling them individually and a little awkwardly. He clicked the chamber back into place and reconfirmed that the safety was still on.
"That's good, Steele. Can't check the safety enough. And thank you for keeping it pointed down and away. Can't tell you how many folks forget and start waving it around like a cooking ladle."
"Much to their detriment and ours." He pulled on the heavy ear protectors. "Shall we?"
"In a moment. Just want to make clear. This isn't a race. It isn't a competition. You're looking for good, steady practice. Make yourself comfortable with it. And always respectful."
Steele glanced at Laura, who was watching intently with her lower lip caught between her teeth and that small pucker on her brow. She wasn't certain what to expect of him. His goal was to put her at ease. Convince her that he wasn't the man that Murphy Michaels claimed he was.
It ought to be easy. He only had to be not quite as good a shot as he really was.
"Okay," said Ernest. "Sight your target and fire when you're ready."
With studied nonchalance, he hefted the revolver and sighted it experimentally down the practice range at his target. It felt a little unbalanced and if this had been his own, he would have shaved the handle to reweight it. Good old muscle-bound Murphy probably never noticed it. He figured he'd have to shift aim slightly to the left to compensate.
He took a two-handed stance and started with three rounds at an easy pace. Bang! Bang! Bang! All three hit the paper at the far end of the alley and two of those hit the line-drawn figure, one in the arm and another in the groin. Ernest winced. "Sorry," he apologized.
"Not bad," said Laura and he caught a wicked gleam in her eye.
"My goal was to cripple the man, not kill him."
"Oh, you've crippled him, all right."
He resighted his target and released another three shots. This time he circled around the head, putting one in a shoulder and the other two on the adjacent paper. He glanced over to see Laura frowning.
"You're holding it wrong. Don't copy how they do it in the movies. You need to be a marksman, not James Bond."
He placed a hand against his heart. "Laura, you wound me."
"Somehow I thought you'd be better than this, given your accuracy on the polo field. I mean, whacking a little ball astride a galloping horse?"
"Merely a matter of practice, I'm sure." Then he had an inspiration. "Perhaps you could show me? There's a nuance that eludes me."
"Well…" She moved in closer and wrapped her hands around his – it was astonishing how petite Laura really was – and raised the weapon, shifting his fingers slightly to what he knew was the correct grip. "Hold it like this. Sight along here. Use both eyes; one could mislead you." Her delicate floral perfume wafted and teased his senses, and he relished the warmth of her slim body and how well it fitted against his. He suppressed a happy smirk at getting her where he wanted her. "Now, disengage the safety…Aim…Exhale…Fire." He exhaled. A slow breath deliberately aimed at her earlobe. He could feel her involuntary shimmer.
And just as he fired the last two rounds, in the corner of his vision Ernest grinned broadly and gave Steele a thumb's up. "Atta boy," he said appreciatively. Distracted, his shots landed beautifully in the chest, barely an inch apart. Whoops.
"Miss Holt, you're my lucky mascot," he said and handed her the weapon. "Your turn."
He was delighted that she was still a little flustered. "Oh, no. I'm not that great."
"I shan't quote Annie Get Your Gun. Betty Hutton, Howard Keel, MGM, 1950."
"What?"
"Anything you can do…"
"…I can do better. Got it." She emptied the spent rounds from the chamber, reloaded, and donned her own earplugs. Steele had to agree with Laura. She was a competent marksman but not brilliant, and she shrugged as she handed the discharged revolver back to him. "I never like the things. We keep it for emergencies."
"Ever had to use it?" he asked, suddenly serious and suddenly needing to know.
"No. I'd consider it a failure. I'd rather get out of a scrape using my wits. Loving excitement only goes so far." She smiled. "Besides, there's too much paperwork to file with the State afterward."
"Ah. The best reason of all."
He continued to practice, and it was hard work because of the constant recoil that made his hands and forearms ache, and because he needed to conceal how good he really was. His accuracy with projectiles came naturally, whether it was a hook attached to a climbing rope or a rock through a window. He'd always had a quick eye and great reflexes, honed from his earliest years when catastrophe could come from any direction and defense had to be instantaneous. It was a skill he'd parlayed into his retrieval business.
He was genuinely relieved when, twenty minutes later, Ernest was happy to sign the authorization form that attested to his training and ability. "And I'm gonna assume Laura here's taught you the safety portion. Based on your handling, I'd say you're good to go for your license." He handed over the form. "May you never have to use it."
"May you be right. Thank you, Ernest."
He took a minute to wash up afterward – he'd need a shower and a clothing change back at his apartment to remove the cordite smell – and met Laura at the gun range entrance. As they walked back to the parking lot where Fred waited with the limo, he said, "Thank you for the vote of confidence."
"It had to be done. It's part of our licensing. But—" and brown eyes met his "—you're welcome."
As Fred started the car, she asked, "I never asked. Do you keep a gun?"
The question was wholly unexpected and, because he was unprepared, it cast him back several years earlier, to a time when he thought he'd found happiness. Instead, happiness had been snatched away by Anna's disappearance and the incomprehensible discovery that she was dead. And married to another man. It had been a dark, dark time and he almost hadn't been able to pick himself up and walk away from what had been unendurable pain. In retrospect, if he'd had a gun, he might well have ended the pain a different way.
"No," was all he said. "I don't keep a gun."
Laura surprised the hell out of him, then, and said, "I'm sorry." Only then did he realize that he hadn't completely hidden his reaction. Or fully recovered from his loss. It was time to change the subject.
"What makes you ask?" he said.
"Well, since we've been honest about this, don't you think it's time you came clean about other parts of your past as well?"
"Eh?"
"You didn't fool me back there. You knew exactly how that safety worked and flicked it too easily. But I appreciate you're not trying to intimidate me with your marksmanship."
Her perception caught him off guard and he turned in the limo seat to look at her. At her heart-shaped intelligent face. At her honesty and determination. Her unexpected faith in him. Had there been anyone in his life who extended such unwarranted faith? Apart from Daniel, of course. Seeing her anew, his black dog mood scampered off, driven away by his natural optimism. He chuckled softly in acknowledgement. "Does anything slip past your detective skills, Miss Holt?"
"On occasion. Hopefully not when it comes to you. For example, you're certainly not going to avoid that dinner invitation you made earlier. You're still on the hook for that." She was smiling now and anticipation danced in her eyes.
He cocked an eyebrow. "Then let the pursuit continue, Miss Holt."
THE END