Chapter 2: What's Up His Sleeve?

Daniel climbed out of his sleek Mercedes, his alert eyes scanning his surroundings for any potential miscreants that might try to make off with the car. Given the long summer days, the street was still well lit and the steady flow of pedestrians and traffic provided a certain assurance nothing untoward would happen to the vehicle in his absence. With the confident air with which he carried himself, he strolled around the front of the Mercedes, then stepped up on the curb. Looking back over his shoulder one last time, he reached for the handle of the door to the restaurant portion of Haven House and pressed forward…

Then turned to lift a brow at the door when it didn't budge. Odd. Then again, the place was in the middle of Brixton so a bit of caution would be sensible, although the distrust a locked door implied seemed to run contrary to the very purpose of this building. But that really wasn't his concern, was it? Lifting his hand, he rapped his knuckles on the door, then turned his eye back to the street while he waited for Harry to respond.

It was hard to believe it had been two decades since he'd plucked Harry from these very streets; harder, even, to believe these streets had changed little over that time. An argument could be made, in fact, that the conditions in Brixton had become worse over time.

A fire back in '81 in which several black youths had been killed had stirred the unrest always simmering in the impoverished borough. The popular opinion amongst the large African-Caribbean population that had taken root in Brixton was the fire was the result of a racially motivated arson – an arson the police dismissed by claiming the fire may have started within the home. The incident had led to a passionate outcry and in March of that year thousands had marched through the streets of London to the House of Parliament to protest the treatment of minorities, particularly by the police. Tensions between the police and the community had continued to rise until, on the tenth and eleventh of April in '81 beginning with the attack of young Michael Bailey by a group of black youths. When Bailey, whose injuries were quite grave, was loaded into the back of a police car for quick transport to the hospital, it was assumed by some witnesses that the police were not lending aid to the young man, but arresting him. Rumors abounded: The police had witnessed the attack on Bailey and refused to intervene, said some camps, while others swore Bailey had been left to die by police. Tensions between police and the community continued to escalate, yet, none the less, the police decided to carry out Operation 81, where residents of the community were stopped and searched without due cause. The ensuing riot had left two-hundred-and-eighty police officers and forty-five members of the public injured; hundreds of vehicles torched, including fifty-six police vehicles; and thirty buildings were burned to the ground, while another one-hundred-fifty buildings faced severe damages from the fires.

Despite the enormous cost to the residents of Brixton for this uprising, it would repeat itself only four short years later – when Harry and Linda had last been in London, if memory served. This time, the police shooting of an unarmed black woman had been the impetus. From the twenty-eighth to the twenty-ninth of September of '85, one building and fifty-five cars were burned; fifty-five counts of burglary, including looting, had occurred; forty-three civilians and ten police officers were injured; and, photo-journalist David Hodge had been killed.

Yet near on a year later, one could feel the unrest of the African-Caribbean community and many residents lived in unease, wondering when tensions might flare again.

Still, life moved forward, as it always did: Children played on the streets; pedestrians marched to work and ran their errands; the street markets were frequented; and businesses continued to peddle their wares – all while the tensions that had erupted in '81 and '85 continued to simmer and brew. One could only wonder how long until they boiled over again – he turned to glance at the building in front of him – and if Haven House would fall the next time they did. All this work for what, then? A rather fruitless endeavor, should you ask him, but Harry did so enjoy the ridiculous notion of altruism, as if such a thing existed.

Lifting his hand, he rapped again, growing annoyed.

This bit of petulance on Harry's part was a little too reminiscent of their early years together, when the boy used to disappear for days at a time whenever he got himself into a temper over one of Daniel's demands. It had taken a solid pair of years for Harry to recognize that he was always looking at the bigger picture, the end game. He always had Harry's best interests at heart…

And his own, of course.

Harry had been destined to be far more than the common thief he'd have become if left to his own devices. The boy's fingers were too deft, his intelligence too keen, his instincts too sharp… and his looks, even with that dirty mop of hair and filthy face had told Daniel the boy could molded into one of the greatest confidence men ever to sweep through Europe. Private tutors to not only catch the boy up in his studies, but to educate him in art history, gemology, comportment, the languages and even in the art of seduction. Harry's future had been without limits, and in time he'd come to appreciate Daniel's efforts on his behalf, finally having understood the opportunities laid out before him, if only he chose to take them.

Pity the boy – hard-headed as he could be - had decided to throw all of that training away, preferring seemingly everything else over the confidence game: Art heists, jewel thefts, smuggling… gold prospecting, for bloody sakes.

The only con Harry had ever committed fully to was swiping little Linda's mythical detective right out from beneath her nose. And look where that had gotten the boy… positively domesticated.

Yes, well, now the opportunity of a lifetime had arrived for Harry and he was not about to let the boy turn his back on it. If grasping that golden ring meant losing little Linda, so be it. Harry had spent more time being made miserable by the woman than he had been happy since they met. Women were a dime of dozen – especially where men such as Harry were concerned – and little Linda was far more trouble than she was worth.

Besides, a little heart ache was well worth a lifetime of wealth and prestige. Harry would understand that in time. He was sure of it.

But to ease Harry around to his way of thinking, they had to get past this first little… disagreement.

This time, Daniel gave the door three swift poundings of his fist, while surveying his surroundings again. Yes, yes, there's the Aston-Martin four cars down on the opposite side of the road. He frowned. In the midst of a temper or not, Harry wasn't one to be rude – not to him. Then, what Harry had said to him the evening prior came to the forefront of his mind:

"Ah, it would seem the buggering prick responsible for setting in motion the events that saw me evicted from the States has decided to pay me a visit here in London."

No, something was amiss. There had to be. A quick trip back to the Mercedes saw Daniel retrieving his lock pick kit from behind the glove box where it was secreted. At the door again, he casually observed the street, nodding pointedly to a pair of passerby, while removing his house keys from his pocket, then pretending to search for the correct key. Palming the keys, he made quick work of the lock and slipped inside.

"Harry," he called out. "It's Daniel. Have you forgotten our plans for dinner, my boy?" He spoke as he walked through the empty dining room that was currently in the middle of restoration. A sound, unidentifiable, out of place and troubling drew him towards the kitchen. "Harry, are you here?" he called as he stepped into the long room with its narrow passage way between grills, griddle and stoves. Listening keenly, he followed the muffled sound to the closed and pinned shut walk-in cooler. With the lift of a single brow, he slid out the bolt and pulled the handle.

Remington's limp body tumbled to the floor from where he'd clearly been leaning against the door.

"Harry, my God!"

At her desk where she sat leaning back in her chair with feet crossed at the ankles and propped on the corner of the desk, Laura twiddled with the earring in her left ear as she held the phone to her ear with her right.

"Those details are a little hazy," she was telling Jarvis. "I know he swung me in to that wall, but given the bruises on my back, it's my guess his foot aided in the cause. I still have no idea how my hands and knees were skinned up…" She laughed low in her throat, as she listened to Mildred answer an incoming call. "…It would have made a lousy match given I was KO'ed in under ten seconds… Let's just say now would not be the best time for publicity photos… Ahhh, because I prefer to be the person behind the camera… Now, about Keyes. Given his ongoing harassment, I've decided to refile—" She frowned when the intercom buzzed. Mildred could clearly see she was already on the phone. "Jarvis, hold on a second, Mildred's calling." Giving Mildred a questioning look across the distance between them, she placed Jarvis on hold then hit the button for the intercom.

"What is it, Mildred?"

"Daniel Chalmers is on line two for you."

Daniel? Calling her? Why would he-

There was only one reason that came to mind. Her stomach sank to somewhere in the vicinity of the toes on the feet that had just fallen heavily to the floor and her heart began to pound. She stabbed at the blinking light of line two.

"What is it? What's happened?" she demanded to know, standing and cutting a course across the room as far as the phone cord would allow.

"It's Harry—" Daniel began, only for her to impatiently cut him off.

"I know it's Harry. Tell me what's happened!" she snapped. Mildred stood up at her desk and with palms pressed to desk top leaned forward, openly listening in to the conversation.

"I can't say, just yet, I'm afraid, other than he's been badly injured." The floor swayed beneath her feet, and she leaned against her desk for support. "He's been taken to The Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel. He's in surgery now. I've told the hospital his wife is on his way from the States. I know you're not fond of these little ruses—"

"What name is he registered under?" she asked numbly. This couldn't be real. She'd spoken to him not even ten hours ago. He'd been fine.

"Remington Steele, as he would have wanted. Laura—" She shook her head, refusing to acknowledge the name he'd never once voluntarily addressed her by. She sucked in a breath and forced herself to say the words.

"Daniel, is he going to—" He spoke before she could finish, unable to bear the idea of that particular verb being applied to Harry.

"I don't know," he admitted.

"I'll be on the next flight out," she vowed, then added. "Will you please tell him… Tell him… I'll never forgive him if he isn't waiting for me when I get there," she finished, her heartache heard clearly in her words. She hung up before he could answer, fearful he might preface anything said with 'If…'

Moving to the other side of her desk, she yanked open a drawer and pulled out her purse. Her passport was still safely tucked away in the zippered center pocket.

"Mildred," she called through the open doorway. "Call LAX and book us on the next flight out to London."

"I'm on it." Opening the address book lying next to her computer, she thumbed quickly to the airport's reservation desk, then dialed the number.

"Do you have your passport?" Laura called from her office where she opened her top desk drawer and removed their Peppler rings then dropped them in her purse. Mildred mimicked her actions, pulling open a desk drawer while speaking to a reservation agent. Rifling through the drawer, she called out…

"Bingo!" and lay the passport on her desk. "Straight through or—"

"Whatever gets us there the quickest, Mildred," Laura yelled back, her exasperation obvious. Now was not the time to worry about money but expediency.

"They have a direct flight leaving at 11:45, arriving at Heathrow at 1:10 our time, 9:10 London time but they only have seats in first class." Laura glanced at her watch. They had forty-eight minutes to make it to the departure gate.

"Book it," she ordered, stuffing Remington's notes, clues and the ring in her purse then closing it… then promptly reopening it. Removing her wallet, she snapped it open then rifled through the cards stored there to confirm she had the agency medical insurance card. Satisfied, she returned wallet to purse, then slung her purse over her shoulder, grabbed her Fedora and exited her office, shutting the door behind her.

"That's right… Pan Am Flight 1435. Got it. We're on our way." She hung up the phone as she stood and grabbed her purse, and not giving a cat's patoot, did a cold shut down on the computer then followed Laura to the Agency doors. "Our seats our reserved."

"We can buy whatever we need when we get to London…"

Laura stared at the palm of her hand, oblivious to the wispy clouds floating past the window pane to her right or the glorious reds and oranges that lit the sky beyond. Blinking her eyes rapidly, she slid the Peppler wedding band onto the ring finger of her left hand. Holding up the engagement ring Remington had gifted her with, she was reminded of the vow she'd made to Mildred: It would only find its way onto her finger if it meant she had no intention of taking it off again.

She settled the ring onto her finger next to the wedding band.

Such a moment should mark a happy occasion – accepting the marriage proposal from the man you loved. Yet the woman seated next to her knew the moment could only be described, at best, as bittersweet. Mildred reached for her hand and gave it a supportive squeeze.

"Good for you, honey," she praised quietly.

With a quiet sigh, Laura leaned her forehead against the pane of the plane's window and stared sightlessly out it, her heart breaking.

Good for her.

She closed her eyes and pressed her hand over them, battling back the tears.

Yes, good for her.

She'd just become engaged to a man who might no longer have a future to share…