“I’m sure they are, Mr. Gould. I’m sure they are.” He rose from the edge of the desk and shook my hand. “It was quite a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gould. I have a few more applicants to interview before making my final decision. In the meantime, just take it easy. We’ll call you as soon as we’re sure we’ve got the right man for the job. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” I said, returning his paperweight.
As I closed the door behind me I heard Mr. Bartlett say, “Well boys, what do you think?”
That’s when the boys really began to grunt.
Chapter Five
It’s not that I minded finding a beautiful woman in my apartment, it’s just that I was a little surprised. After all, I didn’t even have the television connected yet. But it wasn’t as if we were total strangers. We had spent the entire morning tossing stale smiles at each other in Mr. Bartlett’s office.
She was in the kitchen making tea when I walked in wondering why the front door was no longer locked.
“Hi,” she said from the kitchen. “I’ve been waiting for you for almost an hour.”
“Sorry for the inconvenience,” I said with some sarcasm. “I went to the movies. Double feature.”
“Oh, yeah? What did you see? Would you like some tea?”
“Please, with two sugars.”
She came into the living room/bedroom carefully balancing the green plastic cups of tea. She handed one to me, then sat on the sofa-bed facing me, her knees pressed suspiciously together. “Now, what was it you saw?”
There were other things I was more interested in talking about right then, but obviously we were going to have to go through some civilized formalities before I would be allowed to bring them up.
“It was a revival of Midnight Cowboy and The Graduate at that ninety-nine-cent theater on Hollywood Boulevard.”
We chatted a while longer about the movies, about how rundown Hollywood Boulevard and the Sunset Strip have become and about how darling Dustin Hoffman is.
“Just how did you get in here, Miss . . .” I said, abruptly interrupting her dissertation on the differences between Jon Voight’s and Kirk Douglas’s clefts. She looked startled for a moment, then smiled courteously as if we were back in the office again.
“Stephens. Heather Stephens.” I tilted my head at the introduction. “Actually, Mr. Gould, the manager let me in.”
I reflected a moment on why Californians call the superintendent “manager,” as if he were taking care of a football team or a rock group instead of an apartment building. I took another moment to decide whether that was an insightful observation or not.
“I’m afraid I told him I was your sister,” she said, lowering her eyes modestly.
I played with that fantasy for a few moments before continuing. “And why did you tell him you were my sister?”
“Obviously because he wouldn’t have let me in otherwise.”
“And why did you want to get in?”
“Because I haven’t been able to get you on the phone all afternoon and you had to be told as soon as possible.”
“Told what?”
“Told that you got the job,” she said with a broad smile. “You are Mr. Bartlett’s new bodyguard.”
“That’s great,” I said, also smiling broadly. “But what do you mean new bodyguard? You mean there are others?”
“Oh, no, you’re the only one.”
“Then there was somebody before me?”
She hesitated. “Well, there was Mark Bendix.”
“I see, and I’m replacing him. Right?”
“Right.”
“What happened to him,” I said smugly, “he get fired?”
“Not exactly. He was shot to death last weekend stopping a bullet meant for Mr. Bartlett.”
“Oh?” I said calmly as I reached for the want ads.
Chapter Six
“It’s not as if we’re asking you to give up sex,” he explained.
I shook my head, unconvinced.
“You’ll have your own room and everything; it’s just that to do the best job of protecting me you’ll have to move in with me. You can still have as many women up there as you like. Right boys?”
The boys looked at each other as if trying to remember why anyone would want to be alone with a woman in the first place.
“Look at it this way,” Mr. Bartlett continued. “First of all, you won’t have to pay any more room or board, that means you’ll be making a clear $500 a month. Second, there’s a $1,000 cash bonus for you the moment you move in, as well as another $5,000 when the job’s been completed satisfactorily. That’s $6,000 cash plus your regular salary. What do you say?”
I was convinced.
“Good,” he said, vigorously rubbing his hands together as if he had just stepped in from a snow storm. “Now that we know you’re with us, let’s get you officially initiated into the firm. Boys.”
The boys sprang up so suddenly, I involuntarily flinched. They stood in a tight formation on either side of Mr. Bartlett’s chair. “Farrow,” he said, and the one on his right reached inside his jacket. Farrow, for purposes of identification, was the one with a single thick eyebrow that stretched across his entire forehead, forming a hairy canopy over his eyes and nose that strangely resembled a drunken caterpillar. When his hand reappeared, it was pointing a gun at my chest.
“Now, Harry, if I may call you that, this is your gun. As you know, it’s a .38 police special.”
“If it’s my gun,” I pointed out, “then why is it aimed at my chest?”
“Huh?” Bartlett muttered, then noticing that it was, began to chuckle. “Ha, ha, ha. That Farrow, always with the jokes. What a sense of humor that boy has.” Farrow curled his upper lip into a sneer to show his sense of humor. “Okay Farrow, give him the gun. Ha, ha.”
Farrow reluctantly handed me the gun which I then twirled professionally around my finger a few times to remind him that guns were my business.
“I’m sure you’ll find it quite satisfactory. In fact, it was my own gun.” I examined the gun again and noticed the initials E .C .B. engraved into the stock.
“Then why give it to me?”
Suddenly the familiar congenial expression on his face tightened into one of deep concern. He looked down at his desk a moment as if uncertain whether or not to confide in me. “The truth of the matter, Harry, is that I’m frightened. I’m convinced that my life is in extreme danger. I constantly have to be wary of everything and everyone. They’ve already tried to kill me once and I’m certain that they’ll try again soon. When I first began to realize the seriousness of the threats, I ordered this gun, although I had never even fired one before. I even obtained a permit so that I could carry it on my person for self-protection. Then, when my closest friend Mark Bendix was killed last week by a bullet that was meant for me, I knew that this was a situation only a professional like yourself could handle.”
“What about Mark Bendix, wasn’t he your bodyguard?”
Mr. Bartlett grimaced. “Not really. He was just a wealthy adventurous friend who thought it would be fun to be a bodyguard for a few weeks.” He shook his head grimly. “Some fun, huh? And I blame myself. I should have persuaded him that there was more to being a bodyguard than being one of the best shots in the state like Mark was. It takes sharp eyes, extreme physical prowess and most important, experience. In short, it takes a man like yourself, Harry.”
I smiled modestly.
“That’s why I’m giving you my gun. I know that in my inexperienced hands it’ll be more of a liability than an asset. But in your capable hands it could just save my life.”
I looked at the gun again, noticing for the first time how heavy it was. It was even heavier than my old .22, which actually was the only gun I’d ever shot in my life.
Don’t think I wasn’t feeling like a heel—I was. Here was a man who had opened up his heart to me, literally placed his life in my hands and I didn’t know the first thing about being a bodyguard. All I had been
interested in was the $500 a month and $6,000 cash bonus. It just wasn’t worth risking such a valuable man’s life, not to mention Mr. Bartlett’s life. No, I would definitely have to tell the truth. Then I looked at Farrow and Putnam, who looked like the kind of guys that would enjoy doing terrible things to my body if they ever learned the truth.
On the other hand, maybe I could do the job. At least until I collected my $1,000 cash bonus. That should be enough to keep me going until I found somebody to steal cars for.
“Just why is your life in danger, Mr. Bartlett?” I asked, attempting to at least appear like a professional.
“It’s a bit too complicated to go into right now, Harry. But I think it will be enough to say that I head a rather large business organization that’s part of an even larger business organization. And like all organizations of our magnitude, other companies are constantly trying to find out what our business plans are. That sort of thing . . .”
“Like industrial espionage,” I interjected knowingly.
“Exactly!” he said, nodding his head. “I can honestly tell you that there is absolutely nothing our competitors would stop at to get ahead of us.”
“But murder seems so . . . extreme.”
“Not when you’re talking about hundreds of millions of dollars, my boy. People have been killed for a lot less.”
“Can’t you go to the police?”
He laughed quietly as Farrow and Putnam looked at each other with curled lips. “I’m surprised at you, Harry. A man in your business should know all the reasons why people don’t or can’t go to the police.”
“Well, I do,” I quickly explained. “It’s just that I’d like to know yours. If I’m going to protect you properly, I’ve got to know all the facts.”
“You’ve got a point there,” he admitted, while Farrow and Putnam allowed their lips to slacken to their original drool. “But I assure you, it’s nothing sinister. It’s merely that there is no way to prove which of our competitors is the guilty party—although I have strong suspicions—so they can’t yet be arrested. As for police protection, they can only provide that for a short period of time before they have to quit—that’s regulations. But you,” he added with a warm smile, “you’ll be there day and night, seven days a week, ready to lay down your life to protect mine.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want to be too hasty, ha ha.”
“Now that that’s settled, let’s get back to the business at hand. You have your gun, right?” I held up the gun. “Okay, now the shoulder holster.” He opened a desk drawer, removed a brown leather shoulder holster and tossed it to me. Not certain how to put it on and not wanting to make an embarrassing mistake in front of them, I merely nodded and mentioned something about slipping into it later. Mr. Bartlett shrugged and continued. “The next thing you’ll need are some clothes.”
“What do you mean?” I protested. “I already have clothes.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean to imply that your clothes weren’t fashionable, I just meant that I do business with a very select group of wealthy men and in order to have you operate more effectively, it’s important that you blend in more with my surroundings, to disguise your real purpose. You can see that, can’t you?”
I nodded reluctantly.
“Good.” And with that declaration he removed an oblong metal box from another desk drawer, unlocked it and handed me five one-hundred-dollar bills. “I think $500 should be sufficient to get your wardrobe started. I’ve already alerted my tailor to be expecting you, so you’ll have no trouble there.”
“Well, I . . .” I began.
“Of course there won’t be enough time to have your clothes tailor-made, at least for the present, so you’ll just have to pick out some things from the racks. I hope you won’t mind?”
“Well, I . . .”
“And just to help you make the proper selections, I’ll send along Miss Stephens. Is that okay with you?”
“Well, I . . .” I concluded.
“Good,” he agreed. “Miss Stephens?” he said, pressing a button on the intercom. “Would you please come in here?”
“Yes sir,” she answered. Three seconds later she was standing alertly in front of his desk, her short skirt and long legs gleaming defiantly in my face.
“I’d like you to accompany our Mr. Gould down to Hamilton’s to pick out a few appropriate suits and shirts, etc.—you know the kind I mean.”
“Yes sir.”
“Fine. Now, as to the last item on our list, Putnam,” he said, and the one on his left slipped his hand inside his jacket so deftly, he might have been picking his own pocket. Putnam, for further purposes of identification, was the one who hadn’t yet heard that the wethead look is dead—as demonstrated by the hairy layer of Vaseline adhering to his skull. When his hand emerged again from his jacket it was holding a small black velvet jewelry box, which he promptly handed to Mr. Bartlett, who ceremoniously opened it and slid it across the desk to me. Sparkling proudly up at me was a pair of white-gold cuff links set with clusters of diamonds. Adding to the glittering light show was a matching tie clasp—the kind you usually only see at a first-class fence’s or a rich boy’s bar mitzvah.
“A little something from all of us to say welcome to our family.” Mr. Bartlett said, his warm friendly smile once again intact. Miss Stephens stared shyly at the floor, while Farrow and Putnam competed in a lip-curling contest.
“I don’t know what to say,” I said. “Thank you very much.”
“Think nothing of it, my boy. Nothing of it. Now, why don’t you two kids run off and get those clothes. And when you’re finished with that, you can move your things over to my house. Miss Stephens will help you to get settled.”
I nodded and we turned to go.
“Oh, Harry,” he called after me. “I think it would be a good idea if you started wearing your gun now. I have a feeling that from now on things are going to be getting pretty rough.”
“Shouldn’t I get a permit for it first?” I asked.
“Don’t worry about that. I have a friend in the department who’s taking care of it right now. Just leave it to us, we’ll take care of everything. And be careful. From here on there’s no telling what could happen. All our lives could be in danger.”
“All our lives?” I asked.
“All our lives,” he answered.
Chapter Seven
“Take your pants off, please,” Miss Stephens ordered.
“What?”
“Take your pants off,” she repeated impatiently.
Although we were alone, the dressing room of Harrison’s Haberdashery was not exactly my idea of the best location for such a request. Besides, what had happened to the shy Miss Stephens with the tight knees? Apparently the shy routine was something reserved for her personal life, but when it came to following Mr. Bartlett’s orders there was no such thing as personal life—for anybody.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked briskly, not bothering to hide her annoyance.
Having a few quarts of exhibitionist blood in my veins, I nevertheless felt it only fair to warn her that I had long ago abandoned the quaint but bothersome custom of wearing underwear.
“That’s okay, Mr. Gould,” she said, consulting the list in her hand, “we planned to buy some new ones anyway.”
“There’s one more thing, Miss Stephens,” I said, unfastening my belt.
“What now!”
“I simply cannot remove my trousers in front of someone who calls me Mr. Gould.”
“Really, Mr. Gould! I have a job to do, and you . . .”
I shrugged and refastened my belt.
“Okay, okay, Harry,” she said elaborately with a slight grin. “Now, would you please take your pants off?”
Under the circumstances, there was nothing else I could do.
There was a sharp rap at the door followed by the untimely entrance of Carlton, our salesman. Together they surveyed my body with an indifference I found irritating. This p
rocedure was frequently interrupted with quick impersonal measurings (by Carlton) followed by grim whispered consultations, the nature of which I was anxious to discover—for personal reasons. Then there was another sharp rap at the door followed by Mr. Hamilton’s entrance into the room and conversation.
Three hours, six boxes and $487 later, Miss Stephens and I were relaxing in my apartment while I pondered the question of packing.
There were still quite a few items left over from my credit card spree my first week in Los Angeles. Since I hadn’t yet found somebody reliable to sell the goods to, I’d had to take the chance of selling them to pawnbrokers. Even so, I hadn’t made much money and still hadn’t met the right contacts to establish my usual business operations. That’s why I’d decided to get a job in the meantime. I had to earn a big enough stake to hold me over until I met the right people. The same thing had happened to me that time I moved to Newark, so I’d taken a job as a short-order cook at an all-night diner. This time I thought I’d pick up something a little easier.
“Whew! That was some shopping spree, Mr. Gould,” she said sipping her tea, her knees white from being pressed together.
“I thought we had agreed on Harry.”
“That’s only when your pants are off,” she explained with a tight smile.
We loaded the car and drove to Mr. Bartlett’s house in Beverly Hills. House was what I called it before seeing it—mansion was what I called it after. It stood coolly in the afternoon sun like a glowing tribute to Gone With The Wind. The huge white columns meant to suggest tradition seemed strangely out of place here along with the swimming pools and tennis courts.
“Gregory Peck used to live here,” she said as we drove up along the driveway, while I tried to figure out what one person could do with twenty-three rooms.
Henry Parsons, the butler, helped us carry everything upstairs to what was now known as my room, complete with private bath, color television and room service.
“That will be all, Henry, thank you,” she said and he bowed stiffly and left.
The Goulden Fleece Page 3
