A/N So… I have returned to the world of writing! This is very weird; I said I probably wouldn't be back, yet here I am. I've been beta-ing mostly, but when the mood strikes me I've been working on this little story. I started it almost a year ago now, but I promised myself I wouldn't post it before I'd written the whole thing – I have to confess, it's been difficult for me (and, strictly speaking, it's not entirely finished; I still have to complete the last chapter). If you've read anything of mine before, you'll know that I'm not so great at updating… That will not be the case here, though, so fear not!
So, this story is set somewhere before Stella leaves, and also somewhere before Flack ditched those badass suits and started dressing like… well, like someone's dad, quite frankly (like what is up with those brown suede shoes that I've noticed a couple of times?). So yes, when you read this, it is suits, suits and nothing but suits, OK? And this story may or may not be influenced by the Whitney Houston film, The Bodyguard (well, the parts I've seen from the music video of I Will Always Love You; full disclosure, I haven't seen the movie). I sincerely hope you enjoy this story!
"Shit," Don muttered as the words 'insufficient funds' flashed across the ATM screen. Payday was only two weeks ago, so where had all his money disappeared to?
Well, a depressingly hefty chunk of it had gone to his landlord; that smug bastard who never seemed to be doing anything but couldn't ever find the time to sign off on much-needed improvements to his building. Don was paying out more than half of his paycheck to live in a dank, cold and, quite frankly, squalid walk-up in Flushing – a walk-up with a heating system more temperamental than a teenage girl, and a rats' nest in the basement.
Another big portion went on parking the car that he rarely drove, a high premium charged for keeping it off the road. The rest of his money, he presumed, went on bills and groceries. And if he was being one-hundred percent honest, he drank a fair share of it on Friday nights. But how could he have nothing left?
"Money problems, Flack?" Danny asked, coming out of the bodega with a cup of coffee and a sandwich.
Don realised he was still standing scowling at the ATM and turned his attention to his friend, standing there with a shit-eating grin on his face. That was where his money had gone – into the wallet of his poker buddy, and it was probably now being mentally spent by Mrs Messer, who only seemed to approve of her husband's gambling habit when he brought home some green for her. "You in the mood for a rematch?"
"Not a chance – Lindsey'd kill me if I lost my paycheck." The grin was back, and for a second Don felt an overwhelming urge to knock it off his face. "You need a loan?"
"No," Don replied, perhaps a little too quickly. "I got it covered."
The rest of the work day went quickly, taken up mostly with paperwork and reports – the two things Don hated most about his job.
His mind kept going back to the ATM, and the almost mocking tone of the message he got from it, unable to keep a guilty feeling rising in his gut. One of the things his father had instilled in him from a young age was that a cop's salary isn't much reward for the job they do, which was why it was so important that you didn't turn it all into beer after shift with your partner. It was almost as if dear old dad knew that Donny Jr's bank account was empty and gathering dust…
But he couldn't dwell on that right now – he had to come up with some ways to survive without any money for the next two weeks. He fished his wallet out of his jacket pocket and opened it up, only to be greeted by the faces of Andrew Jackson and the Hamilton twins – forty dollars to last him 14 days.
He supposed, almost reluctantly, that if he packed a lunch for himself each day, using up whatever was in his kitchen, he would save seventy dollars, but would probably sacrifice a slice of his dignity. And he'd stay home this Friday, maybe getting an early night and some much needed sleep in the process. He could take the train to see his parents on the weekend and take advantage of the free, home-cooked meals his mother would no doubt be thrilled to put in front of him. And then it would be back to work on Monday morning, bagged lunch in hand – if he was lucky, he might even be able to pick up some overtime.
As he considered what was sure to be the most boring two weeks of his life, he said a silent prayer to whoever might be listening that they at least went quickly.
Leaning back in his chair, desperate to put any thoughts of money or bills out of his mind, Don scanned the precinct – how did these guys manage it? Hennessey had a drink problem that everyone but him could see plain as day. Olsen had a mistress. Danny had a kid. All of those guys had more outgoings than he did, yet they all managed to keep their heads above the water. He turned his head further, his eyes settling on a relatively new officer called Freeman, and suddenly dollar signs were flashing before his eyes as the solution to his money woes came into view.
Every kid fresh out of the academy got given the same speech – often slurred as it would usually occur at the bar after the first tour with your training officer – detailing how you can use your badge to make some extra cash if the situation ever arose.
When Don had been hearing that same advice from Moran some fifteen years ago, his rookie mind had jumped to the conclusion that his mentor was telling him to become a male stripper – he laughed to himself now just thinking about it, but truth be told, he was actually considering it for that split second before Moran caught his shocked expression and clarified that he meant private protection.
It was a card that Don had never had to play, but now he was not only thinking about it, he was on his way to sign himself up. How hard could it be? Follow some Wall Street-type around for a few weeks while he built up his cash supply and use some vacation time that he wasn't going to need this year anyway, protect that fat-cat from the protestors that littered the Financial District these days, get treated to expense account lunches with the guy, then go home once he'd been safely dropped off back at this penthouse overlooking Central Park – not a hard day's work by anyone's standards. He might even get lucky and be assigned to some hot young heiress in town to spend daddy's money; his hatred of shopping could be overlooked while he followed her around Tiffany's.
It was six-thirty and as he pushed his way out of the subway station on the upper West Side, he was sure he was making the right decision. He'd flipped through the yellow pages by the payphones earlier, picking out the first private protection firm he saw – well, actually, it was the fact that they displayed their rates on their ad that caught Don's eye. And now here he was, coming to a stop outside a neat brownstone, complete with stoop and window boxes, with a sign on one of the windows on the upper floor reading, 'Klein Security Services' in gilt letters.
Don climbed the steps and was buzzed in through the heavy door, being directed to go to the top floor. He passed what smelled like a dental surgery and what he presumed was a modelling agency, judging by the beautiful women coming and going, on the way up. When he finally came to his destination, he went through another door marked with the same lettering as the signage on the window and introduced himself to the receptionist who had greeted him through the intercom.
"Do you have an appointment?" she asked in a heavy Long Island accent. Don was a little taken aback – how busy could this place possibly be?
"Uh… No, I don't. Sorry," he added as an afterthought, still curious as to why he would actually need an appointment.
"Mr Klein is with a client at the moment, but we have an opening in about a half hour. You can wait over there." She nodded towards three plastic chairs opposite her desk, not needing to ask him if he actually wanted to wait – most people who came in did.
He muttered his thanks, put off by the thought that maybe this guy wouldn't be needing to hire anyone else, and slumped down in one of the chairs. Half an hour ticked by excruciatingly slowly, and when fifty minutes had passed he considered cutting his losses and leaving – he'd go somewhere else tomorrow, for now he could survive on boxed mac and cheese and salami. He went to stand up and leave, but the door to what he presumed was Mr Klein's office opened and a burly man in an ill-fitting suit came out; Don had him pegged as a bouncer immediately. He winked at the receptionist on his way out, but she tried to ignore him and instead signalled for Don to go in through the door the bouncer had just come out of.
"Mr Klein?" Don asked as he walked into a small office. The stout man behind the cluttered desk in the centre of the room stood, hand extended. Don took it, looking for somewhere to sit.
"I had to bust up a fight in here last week, alas, the chair was a casualty. You'll have to stand, if that's alright."
"Yes, sir," Don replied, wondering if the fight had really happened or if this was some kind of test. "You are Mr Klein, right?"
"Sorry, yes, I'm Klein. And you are?"
"Flack. Detective," he added.
"That's a good start. You done private protection before"?
"No. But I've been on the job since I left high school. I bought a copy of my jacket, you can see for yourself, I'm capable."
Klein looked at him over his glasses as he was handed a few sheets of folded paper. He gave them a cursory glance, knowing after thirty years in this business what he was looking for, and set them down on top of a pile of similar sheets. "Give your number to Kitty on the desk, I'll call you."
Don frowned. That was it? "I'm not being funny, Mr Klein, but I've heard that one before. So how about you just tell me straight – you looking for guys or not?"
"I am. But, as I'm sure you know, else you wouldn't be here, the economy is a bitch right now. And for me to cut a profit, I've gotta hire the best. Since you have no experience in this business, that ain't you, son."
"Ah, come on! You've got nothing you can give me? Not even a job you're regular guys don't want?" Seeing the smirk on Klein's face, Don regretted asking that last question. Klein seemed to think for a minute, then got up and walked over to a bulging filing cabinet.
"Mr Flack," he began, flicking through the files. "Rightly or wrongly, this is a somewhat – how should I put this – glamorous profession. My men, they all get off on the power trip of walking around in a dark suit and shades, rubbing shoulders with celebrities or tycoons. Every once in a while, we get a job that isn't so prestigious; someone comes along who's your average Joe, nothing to offer you, but somewhere along the way they crossed the wrong mob boss or loan shark. And that's where you come in…"
"Let me get this straight – your boys don't want this one because it's some guy from Queens who can't tip them in diamonds or shares in a company?"
"Precisely. You still interested?" Klein found the file he was looking for a held it out.
Don thought for a minute. The prospect of being slipped a little something extra at the end of a long day was appealing to him, but at the moment, he couldn't afford to be picky. He took the file and hardened his gaze.
"I'll take it."
