J. Jance - A more perfect union

"I haven't the foggiest, Derrick. You tell me."

"Merrilee," he said. "Remember her? We're having a little party. BYOB. Can we come up?"

I could have said no. I didn't. When I opened the door it was clear neither one of them was feeling any pain. Out of uniform, Merrilee Jackson was more than moderately attractive. Her regulation shirt and trousers had concealed both her figure and her legs. The clingy knit dress she was wearing accentuated both.

Derrick made his way to the bar and poured three drinks, two from one bottle and one from another. "She offered to give me a little extra police protection," Derrick said with an exaggerated wink as he slopped an old-fashioned glass full of MacNaughton's in my direction. "Cutest little bodyguard I've ever had."

Merrilee had kicked off a pair of high heels at the door. Even without them, she was none too steady on her feet. She took the glass Derrick gave her and with a giggle the two of them toasted one another's health.

"How'd you two get here?" I asked dourly.

Merrilee grinned and toasted me as well. "A cab," she said. "I told him we're both too drunk to drive."

"You've got that right." It's hard to catch up when you come into a party that far behind the rest of the drinkers. I picked up the phone and dialed the doorman.

Pete Duvall is a full-time biology student at the University of Washington who works part-time as a doorman/limo driver for Belltown Terrace. It's a good job for a student. He can use the slack times to study.

Pete recognized my voice instantly. "Hello, Mr. Beaumont. What can I do for you?"

"What time do you get off, Pete?" I asked him.

"Eleven o'clock," he replied.

"How about making a limo run around ten-thirty. I've got some guests here who need to be hand-delivered."

"Sorry, Mr. Beaumont," he apologized cheerfully. "No can do. The Bentley threw a rod coming back from the airport tonight. We don't have a replacement vehicle until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest. Would you like me to call a cab?"

I turned around and looked at Derrick and Merrilee Jackson. They were sitting in my window seat, necking up a storm. I didn't much want to turn them loose in a cab in their current condition. Seattle still has enough of a small-town mentality to be scandalized by the comings and goings of movie people, stars especially. There had already been some unfortunate gossip about Derrick Parker's public antics, for which Cassie Young held me totally responsible. I had more faith in Pete's discretion than I did in some late-night cabbie's, but there wasn't much choice.

"You do that," I said. "Have the cab here just before you get off."

Parker was looking at me balefully over Merrilee's shoulder when I hung up the phone. "Some friend you turned out to be," he grumbled. "We just got here and already you're trying to throw us out."

"Look, Derrick, a few minutes ago I learned that I have to be back on the set at six tomorrow morning."

Parker poured himself another drink and offered one to Merrilee. She tossed down two fingers of Glenlivet as though she'd been weaned on it.

"Me, too," Parker sighed. "Isn't that a pisser! It was all scheduled to be over today. I mean, that's what the party's supposed to be for. Too bad." He dropped heavily back against the window. The drink in his hand sloshed precariously, but it didn't spill.

I glanced at the clock. It was only ten, but I picked up the phone and dialed Pete again. "Go ahead and call that cab right now, Pete." I told him. "The party's over."

Ignoring Derrick's noisy protest that it was his very last one, I relieved him of the remaining half-bottle of Glenlivet and then escorted the two of them downstairs. Merrilee was a happy drunk, and leaving was fine with her. Derrick turned morose.

"Spoilsport," he grumbled. "We were just starting to have fun. Besides, those makeup people can work miracles."

"You'll thank me tomorrow when Cassie Young doesn't string you up by your thumbs," I told him.

As the elevator door opened into the lobby, we were greeted by the sound of a raised voice.

"If I wanted a goddamned cab to pick my mother up at the airport, I wouldn't be living in a luxury high rise! I made that limo reservation over a week ago. The concierge assured me it would be no problem."

Pete Duvall was doing his best to be polite. The man who was berating him was someone I had never seen before.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Green," Pete said. "As I was trying to explain, the Bentley was out of order with a fuel-pump problem last week. We got it out of the shop day before yesterday, but tonight it threw a rod. We should be able to have a substitute here by early afternoon, a Caddy probably, but your mother's plane reservation is too early for that."

Mr. Green bristled. "You know, when they rented me this place, they told me that the Bentley was one of the amenities. It was in all the ads, remember? The property manager is going to hear about this. And so are the owners. Personally. I'll see to it."

Pete gave me a veiled look. "I'm sure they will," he said mildly.

In actual fact, I had already heard far more about the ancient Bentley than I wanted. It had been a pet project of one of the syndicate's five principals. The proposal had sounded fine when it was first suggested, but it had turned into a major headache once the Bentley actually arrived on the scene. The car spent far more time in the shop than it did on the road.

A cab pulled up out front and honked. Happy to be rescued from the irate Mr. Green, Pete hurried to the door. "Here's your cab, Mr. Beaumont."

He helped me shepherd Derrick and Merrilee into the cab. By the time we got back inside the lobby, Mr. Green had disappeared into the elevator. I watched the digits as the elevator monitor ticked off the floors of the building and stopped on seventeen.

"I take it Mr. Green is new to the building. I've never seen him before."

Pete nodded. "He's only been here a few weeks."

"He's not the one who works across the alley in the Labor Temple, is he?"

"I think so," Pete replied. "The concierge told me he's a big-time mucky-muck with one of the unions."

The elevator returned. With a good-night wave to Pete, I got inside. Once more I felt the aching throb in my foot. As soon as I was inside my apartment, I stripped off my clothes. Within minutes I was in my private Jacuzzi soaking away the day's problems. Not even early-bird Peters could be counted on to call at five A.M. I managed to fumble around and reset the alarm on my clock radio before I stretched out naked across my king-sized bed. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

When the alarm went off the next morning, the first thing I did was grope for the telephone and dial the Sheraton. I asked for Derrick Parker's room. The phone rang several times before anybody answered. Derrick sounded as though someone had pounded him into the ground.

"Up and at 'em," I told him, imitating Peters' brisk, early-morning manner.

"We…I just got to bed," Derrick croaked.

"Too bad," I said. "I'm picking you up in twenty minutes. You'd better roust your friend out of there. She's got to work today too, you know."

For an answer, Derrick slammed the phone down in my ear. Being the one making the wake-up calls for a change made me feel terribly self-righteous. I got to the Sheraton in time to see Derrick hustle Merrilee Jackson into a cab with a quick peck on the cheek. I wondered if she'd have time to get home and change into uniform before she had to report for duty.

Derrick was pretty hung over. He weaseled a couple of aspirin out of Wanda, the morning waitress at the Doghouse, and when the food came, he barely picked at it. He seemed unusually subdued.

"What's the matter?" I asked him finally.

He shook his head. "My conscience is bothering me. Groupies are one thing, but Merrilee's really a nice kid. I shouldn't have taken advantage of her that way."