It appeared as though Chez's rejection of his father had hit home - as I drove up to the law firm's office building, I noted the new sign on the door:
Samual Arrie & No Son Of Mine, Attorney At Law
I pulled up to the curb, covered the nearby fire hydrant with a cardboard box marked 'Danger - Hazardous Materials', and stepped inside the office.
It was like landing on another planet.
I had entered a large, lushly furnished lobby. The floors were covered with 2" shag rugs, the walls with rare and expensive art (Ramona had been teaching me an appreciation for such things - I thought it might come in handy for forgery cases), the ceilings aglow with crystal chandeliers, modern furniture as far as the eye could see. Somewhere in the midst of all this splendor, I was able to discern what appeared to be a receptionist's desk. It consisted of a clear acrylic surface in the shape of a croissant, covered with a round computer terminal, a rose in a crystal vase, and nothing else. Sitting behind it was a stunner of a blond, wearing what appeared to be a mini-skirt version of an evening gown and a telephone headset that was plugged into the terminal. As I approached, she set those baby-blue eyes in my direction, and lazily wheeled her see-thru swivel chair to face me. She regarded my presence with a look of uncontrolled desire, and spoke to me with unbridled passion in her voice, as she said "May I help you?"
"I've got some business to discuss with Sam Arrie. Tell him Roger Guts is here to see him, ok doll?"
"Hmmmmm, Roger Gutsssssss." She started punching keys on the terminal. "Gee, Mr. Guts, you don't seem to have an appointment. May I ask what this is in connection with?", she asked, as she rubbed her leg against the croissant in an incredibly suggestive manner.
"I'm investigating death threats being made against his son. I'm, uh..." At this point she was letting down her hair, and brushing it seductively over her shoulders. "...I'm here to ask your boss a couple of questions."
She disconnected her headset, stood up, and sauntered past me, hips swinging wider than a circus trapeze act. "Well, I'm sure Mr. Arrie would want to talk to an extremely fascinating man such as you, with or without an appointment." She disappeared behind an imposing office door for a moment, then returned. "He'll see you, but I don't think he'll appreciate you the way I do." She licked her lips as she talked. "This way, please..."
She lead me to the office door, and closed it behind me. The office consisted of a thick brown rug, an enormous oak desk, huge bookcases reaching up twenty feet to the ceiling, and a gold plaque hanging on the wall behind the desk, inscribed with the words "Do you want justice, or do you want to win?"
Behind this desk, looking unchanged from the last time we met, was Samual Arrie. He was about 47, slender, short black hair with a tinge of grey, wearing a brown suit that was perfectly color-coordianted witht the rest of the office. This was obviously one of those rare individuals that had found their rightful niche in life.
He looked up from a pad he was scribbling on, and motioned me to sit. As I made myself comfortable in one of the thick-padded leather chairs in front of the desk, he shoved the pad in a drawer and clasped his hands on the desk. "Mr. Guts - a private investigator, as I recall. What may I do for you?"
I was overdosing on the pomp and circumstance routine. "Look, Sammy boy, I'm in a hurry, so let's cut the smalltalk. Someone has been making murder attempts on your son and the members of his rock group, and..."
He cut me off, "...and you were hired to track the would-be killer, and my name was brought up, eh? Well, that doesn't surprise me. Chez has ever been an ungrateful child, never appreciating all that his mother and I had done for him. So you know about our less than cordial relationship, but let me tell you something you don't know. While Chez has been busy rejecting my wealth and influence, he's been accumulating a considerable fortune of his own, mostly because I, through a holding company of mine, own a majority of stock in the record company he's got a contract with. While he's out reveling in his freedom, I'm pulling the strings to insure he's got the money to revel with. In no time at all, he'll learn to become very attached to his money. Then he'll need to learn how to take care of it. He'll hire business managers, brokers, lawyers, etc., and before you know it, he'll be making business investments. In the end, he'll be doing just what I planned for him. And, in the meantime, the longer his records sell, the more money he'll make not only for himself, but for me as well. So you see, Mr. Guts, I can suffer him his pesky jabs at me, for in the end, I know I shall win."
"If all that's true, then what about that sign on your door, '...and no son of mine'?"
"Well, I've got a carreer and reputation of my own to maintain. I can't have my clientel thinking I approve of such goings on as 'Grated Chez'."
"Just a PR job, eh? And Chez, of course has no knowledge of your backstage manuevers, I take it?"
"Oh, of course not. If he knew, he'd probably give all the money he's made already to African Relief, or something like that. He hasn't fallen in love with it yet. But he will, he will. So you see, I don't really have a motive to kill him. In fact, I would appreciate your keeping him alive at least long enough to enjoy my moment of victory."
"Well, this trip wasn't a total loss. I think your girl outside has gotten the hots fer yours truely."
"Oh, is she at it again? I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Guts, but she's been taking a course in selling real estate..."
"You mean...?"
"I'm afraid so. She's not so much interested in getting inside your shorts, as she is in getting YOU inside a three bedroom colonial."
TO BE CONTINUED...