by Lee Goldberg
When I got to my car, I took off my uniform shirt, stuck it on a hanger, and hung it from the plastic hook in the backseat. That saved me having to wash or iron it for a couple days. I kept on the white t-shirt I wore underneath and drove down to the Ventura Freeway, took the overpass to the other side, and parked in front of the Denny's that was beside the off-ramp.
I'd been going to the Denny's since I started working at Bel Vista Estates, except for a month or two while they were remodeling the restaurant to look like a '50s diner instead of the '70s coffee shop it was before. It didn't make a lot of sense to me, since the '70s were hot again and the '50s craze was long dead, but that's Denny's for you. They'd just discovered stir-fry, too. Pretty soon they'd stumble on croissants.
I picked a booth by the window so Parkus wouldn't have any trouble spotting me. I ordered a Coke and decided to give him ten minutes before ordering, because the smell of sizzling bacon was making me drool.
I was halfway through my Coke and ten seconds away from flagging a waitress when Parkus showed up, looking like a kid sneaking into a topless bar. Not that I know much about topless bars. Well, not lately, anyway.
He smiled nervously and slid into the booth, smoothing his silk tie as if the simple act of sitting down would've wrinkled it all up. I smoothed my t-shirt, just in case sitting down had ruffled me up, too.
"Thanks for meeting me, Harvey," Parkus smiled. "I appreciate it."
I shrugged. His suit, even if he bought it at the outlet mall, was worth more than my car.
The waitress came to the table and, while I ordered a T-bone steak, fries, and another Coke, he picked up the laminated menu and made a show of looking through it. I don't think he was used to a menu with pictures on it. His discomfort already made the meeting worthwhile for me. He ended up ordering a bagel and some coffee.
As soon as the waitress was gone, he smoothed his tie again and smiled at me. I smiled back and fought the urge to smooth my t-shirt. I had no idea sitting was so hard on clothes.
"Harvey, I've got a problem and, since you're experienced in the security field, I think you're the man to help me," he said. "I need someone followed."
"Who?"
"My wife."
I knew he'd say that.
I sipped my Coke and hoped he couldn't hear my heart beating. In that instant, I'd become the hero of one of those old Gold Medal paperbacks, the ones with the lurid cover drawing of a busty girl in a bikini wrapping herself around a grimacing, rugged guy holding a gun or a martini glass.
I was now that guy.
It could happen that fast.
Then I realized that no, it couldn't. I wasn't that guy. I would never be that guy. There had to be a catch to this.
"Why me, Mr. Parkus? You could probably afford to hire a big PI firm that's got a bunch of operatives and all the high-tech stuff."
"You're right, Harvey, I could. But that would make it official, so to speak, and I want to keep this low-key."
Meaning he wanted to go cheap and pay cash out of his pocket, rather than leave a paper trail. At least that was my uneducated guess.
"Do you really want the guard out front knowing all your secrets?" I asked.
"You wouldn't know all my secrets." Parkus smiled, trying to be jovial, lighten things up. "The truth is, Harvey, I want someone I know, someone I can talk to without creating attention. You can give me your reports as I come through the gate. No phone calls, no memos, nothing anyone can ask questions about. It's certainly not going to look strange if your car is parked outside the gate. And the great thing is, you can watch her day and night without raising any suspicion. Hell, half the time you'll just be doing your job, right out front where everybody can see you."
He'd obviously given this a lot of thought, but it still didn't make sense to me.
"Aren't you afraid she'll recognize me?"
"She's only seen you a couple of times, late at night, in the dark. I doubt she'd recognize you in the daylight, especially out of context. Besides, you're not going to get that close to her, you're too good at what you do."
Either Parkus was trying to flatter me, or he was an idiot. He had to know the extent of my surveillance experience was sitting in a chair, watching the gate open and close.
The waitress arrived with our food, which gave me a few minutes to get my thoughts together. I bought another minute or two pouring A-1 sauce on my steak and chewing on a few bites of meat. I'm glad I did, because tasting that steak cleared my head. Why was I trying to talk this guy out of hiring me? If he thought I was qualified for the job, what did I care? He was offering me the chance to play detective, which by itself was exciting, and we hadn't even started talking about the money yet.
"You think she's having an affair?" I asked.
He carefully spread some cream cheese on his bagel while he considered his answer.
"I don't think so, but something is going on. She's been acting strange, aloof, very secretive. She's evasive and can't account for her time during the day."
"I see," I said, even though I didn't. I knew more about molecular biology than I did about women, and I don't even know what molecular biology is.
It occurred to me that I didn't really know anything about this guy and that my steak was getting cold, so I said: "I'm going to need some background. What can you tell me about you and your wife?"
So, while I ate my steak and fries, Parkus told me that he worked in international distribution of movies, selling them to TV networks overseas. His office was in Studio City, a straight shot east on the Ventura Freeway. He said it took him about forty minutes in good traffic to get to work, which is where he met his wife Lauren ten years ago. She was temping as a receptionist. One day he just stepped out of the elevator and there she was. Bluebirds sang. The clouds parted. Their souls kissed. It was as if he'd known her his entire life.
He made it sound a lot more romantic and personal than that, but I was too jealous to pay attention to the exact words. You get the gist of it. They were married six months later up in Seattle, where she was from.
Lauren Parkus didn't work, and they didn't have any kids, so she spent her time on what he called the "charity and arts circuit," working on fundraisers to stop diseases, feed Ethiopians, buy Picassos for the museum, that kind of thing. And when she wasn't raising money and organizing parties, she was in charge of decorating and maintaining their home, which he told me was practically a full-time job in itself. I thought about asking him to hire me for that job when this was over, but that would have been getting ahead of myself.
Nothing, Cyril Parkus said, was more important to him than his wife and her happiness.
"Even if she's cheating on you?" I asked, and from the tight look on his face, I'd gone too far. Before he could say anything I'd regret, I kept talking. More like babbling. "I guess that's a question you won't be able to ask yourself until I find out what, if anything, is going on."
That lightened him up a little. "So you'll take the job?" Parkus asked.
"For one hundred and fifty dollars a day plus expenses."
Jim Rockford used to ask for one hundred and twenty-five dollars a day, so I adjusted up for inflation. I probably hadn't adjusted up enough, but anybody could see I wasn't James Garner, or even Buddy Ebsen, and besides, it was more than double what I got paid to guard the gate.
"What expenses?" Parkus looked amused. I tried not to look embarrassed.
"You never know, sir."
"No, I guess you don't."
Parkus reached into his pocket, pulled out a thick money clip, and peeled off five one-hundred-dollar bills onto the table.
"This should cover the first few days," he said.
It was Tuesday, so the retainer would carry me through until the weekend when, I figured, we'd review the situation and make new arrangements.
"When will you get started?" Parkus asked.
"Tomorrow, after my shift. I need to get some things sorted out today, before I jump into this."
"O
f course," he replied. "Do you have a camera?"
That was one of the things I had to get sorted, but instead of admitting that, I just nodded.
"Then I guess that's it, Harvey." Parkus peeled off a twenty to cover our dinner, slid out of the booth, and stood for a moment at the edge of the table, looking down at me. "I really hope this turns out to be nothing."
I really hoped it would take a week or so to find out.
"Me, too," I said as if I cared, which, at the time, I didn't.
He walked away and I ordered a slice of Chocolate Chunks and Chips, the most expensive pie Denny's had. I could afford it now.
THE MAN WITH THE IRON-ON BADGE excerpt © 2010 by Lee Goldberg.
Table of Contents
DEAD SPACE
Teaser
ACT ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
ACT TWO
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
ACT THREE
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
ACT FOUR
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THE MAN WITH THE IRON-ON BADGE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
