Chapter Text
Of course Judith hired a fucking P.I.
Pat ran her hand down her face as Judith desperately tried to explain. She was speaking in urgent, low tones, like she was in an Alan Pakula movie and she had to tell Robert Redford about Watergate.
This is what happens when you have more money than sense, Pat thought despairingly.
Judith sighed again, like somehow it was Pat who was being ridiculous. “I know you think it’s silly, Patty, but I have to find Bugsy, you just know I have to find him.”
“He’s a goddamn cat, he’ll come back. Cats come back. And don’t fucking call me that, I fucking told you.” Pat tried not to grump too much. If she grumped too much Judith was gonna really start working herself into a tizzy and compare Pat to her father, which was always unsettling.
“Maybe he won’t, Patty," she cried dramatically. She sighed again, all breathy and despairing. “If only the window wasn’t open…” Judith turned to face the wall, all tragic and beautiful-like. Pat hated when she posed.
She resisted the urge to throw her hand in the air. “I said I was sorry!”
Judith sighed dramatically. “We have no choice.” She downcast her eyes, knowing it made her look even prettier. “My friend said this guy can find anyone.”
"Anything, in this case. And I told you, I can find the fucking cat.”
“Language, Patty!” she said, wringing her hands. Her face turned slightly sheepish. It was nice to know she had some shame rattling around between her skull. “...and I already called them.” Right on cue, the doorbell rang.
Pat put her head in her hands again. Judith leapt to her feet and ran to the door. “Oh, Patty, Patty, I look all right, don’t I,” she said, smoothing her hands over her short shorts and even tinier top.
Pat groaned. “You’re a real pill, Judith.”
“You’re no help,” Judith snapped as she pulled the door open.
It revealed two unimpressive looking men. The first guy was stout, and looked like he could fuck you up. Stood like it, too. Pat liked him immediately. The other one was skinnier, and handsome, and had an airy confidence. He had these stupid sunglasses perched on his nose, and a colourful shirt. No tie. Pat disliked him immediately.
“Judith Zimmerman?” The suave guy said, a shit eating grin on his face as he surveyed Judith. His eyes glanced up and down her 5-foot-figure, her prominent bust, and her expensive, dyed, Farrah-Fawcett hair. His eyes caught on the diamond earrings, and his face brightened even further.
Judith gave a little titter. “That’s me!”
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Zimmerman. We’re the Nice Guys. The agency?”
Of course Judith hired guys who worked at a P.I. agency with a stupid name like that. Jesus H. Christ.
“Oh, do come in.” Judith let them in, leading them to the couch opposite Pat. “Can I get you anything? Water? Wine? Snacks?”
“We’re fine, Ma’am,” the stout guy said, right as the berk cut in with “Whiskey would be great, if you have it.”
Pat tried not to pinch the bridge of her nose, and it looked like the stout guy was right there with her. “Really, Jude?”
The younger guy’s head swiveled to Pat, clearly noticing her for the first time. Judith tended to have that effect on people. He surveyed her, up and down, with her short hair, crow's feet, and bad, rumpled suit, and he looked right back at Judith. He wasn’t entirely stupid, then- he clearly knew where the bread was buttered.
The big, fuck-you guy took a harder look at Pat, and then nodded, once, as he sat down on the couch. She tried not to sneer at him. From the way his lips quirked, she might have failed.
“They might be thirsty!” Jude protested, “I’m Judith, as you know,” she said, tittering again at the asshole. “That’s my friend, Patty.” She ran to the kitchen to get the goddamn whisky glasses out.
“Patrica Barnes,” she cut in.
“Holland March,” the smiling bastard said. “This is my partner, Jackson Healy.”
Pat said nothing else, letting them stew as Judith got the drinks.
Judith ran back in, all a-flutter, and gave the jerk - March - a whiskey. She laughed again. “I know, from the ad. You’re much more handsome in person,” she said, laying it on thick, big blue eyes twinkling at March.
The other guy - Healy - got a constipated look on his face.
Huh.
Was that how it was, Pat wondered.
March twinkled back, the sleazeball. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he said, grinning.
“You have a case for us?” Healy interrupted, frowning at his partner.
Thank God.
Judith bobbed her head. “My cat is missing.” She ran over to the couch Pat was on, draping herself elegantly as she sat down in such a way that showed off her legs. “I need you to find him! I’ll pay anything. Anything!”
Pat tried to keep her expression blank as March’s expression turned from sleazy to nakedly avaricious. “If, by anything, she means your regular rate.”
“300 per day,” March responded immediately.
“300 dollars?” Pat sputtered. “Jesus H. Christ.”
March glared at Pat, as Healy gave a little side to side head nod as if agreeing with me.
“Sold,” Judith said instantly. Pay put her head in her hands. “His name is Bugsy.” She opened the photo album prepped on the table, and handed a picture of the devil cat to the men. “This is him - isn’t he just the most beautiful cat you’ve ever seen? He must be so frightened out there, all by himself - nobody to care for him,” she said, almost getting choked up. Pat tried not to roll her eyes. “You have to find him!”
March's knee was jumping up and down with nervous energy- probably sensing a big fucking paycheck. Pat could see him surveying the room, the tacky swarovski chandelier, the expensive stereo system, and the tastefully done large photographic prints. He might not know the photographer- Shore- but he sure as shit knew what the house added up too: money.
“How long has Bugsy been gone?” He said, looking down at the pictures briefly.
“Only a few hours,” Judith fretted. “But anything could happen to him out there! He escaped from the living room window, because somebody left it open.” She shot Pat a glare.
Pat sighed.
“This shouldn’t take us long, Mrs. Zimmerman- or is it Miss?” March said, shooting her another sleazy look.
Judith simpered. “Oh, just Miss.”
Healy was slowly turned an interesting shade of puce. Pat wondered at his lack of immunity; Judith loved to flirt with men as a gag. Was this genuine, from March? It couldn’t be. Gay private detectives. Huh.
She leapt up. “I’ll give you 300 now, and if you can find my Bugsy by the end of the day, I’ll add a hundred.”
Pat was amazed to discover that there was a new shade of scummy March’s face could express. She could practically see the drool and the dollar signs in his eyes, like that fucking wolf from that cartoon Sammy watched on Saturdays.
Worst of all, Healy stole a fond glance at March. Jesus. Was she that obvious? She fucking hoped not. That was just embarrassing.
Judith left the room in a fucking tizzy to run to the bedroom, hair bouncing up and down artfully. Pat leaned forward the moment their bedroom door shut as Judith looked for the chequebook. “You should be warned,” Pat told Healy, who she suspected would be doing all the work. “The cat is psycho. Good fucking luck.”
The guy nodded.
March grinned, clearly not taking her seriously. “Don’t worry ma’am,” he said, all smarmy and confident. “We’ll have your friend's cat back in no time.”
The next time Pat saw Holland March, he was falling out of a tree, which gave her no small measure of personal satisfaction.
It was Friday, the day after they hired the P.I.s, and Pat was walking home after a long day. Their firm was small, and mostly took family cases, which meant Pat was doing the brunt of the work dealing with clients and going to court, as Philip ran everything else. Luckily, their office was a 20 minute walk from their home; it had been strategically chosen.
Pat hated walking through the smog, but that was life when your partner refused to move. One day, Pat was planning on talking Judith into moving to San Francisco. Maybe Santa Rosa.
Pat saw Healy first, standing at the bottom of one of the trees that lined the road leading up to their cul-de-sac. Healy had a cigarette dangling carelessly from his lips, as he looked up at the tree with a distinctly unimpressed look on his face.
The tree was rustling ominously.
It was also talking, a steady monologue of someone who didn’t particularly care that their listener had long stopped listening. “Healy, did I already tell you that I love when it’s not a murder. I love not getting shot at. Here, kitty kitty kitty, here… Why do we always get shot at? We should take more cases like this. I love this. Look how pretty this cat is. Here, kitty kitty kitty.”
Healy noticed Pat, lifting his cigarette in greeting. Pat nodded, and paused. March devolved into incomprehensible cat-speak, presumably as he got closer, alternatively cooing and telling Bugsy how beautiful he was.
There was then an impressive yowl, and a loud “Ouch, Jesus, fuck-”
Yup. Bugsy’s claws were long, because Judith always forgot to clip them, and they hurt like a bitch.
There was another yowl, another ominous rustle, and then a loud crack.
Before Healy could move, Holland March was sprawled out on the ground in front of her, alongside a sizable chuck of the tree.
March let out a high pitched screech, and started swearing aggressively and impressively. He had a mouth like a sailor, Pat could give him that. He was also more tolerable when he was flopping around on the ground like a soon-to-be-dead fish.
“I told you that was going to happen,” Healy said to the supine March. His tone was gruff, but there was genuine concern in his voice.
March swore back. “I think I broke something. I think my fucking arm is broken!”
Healy glanced down at March’s arm. He leaned down, and felt the man’s arm. It was gentle, and the concern melted into relief, before it was smoothed over in exasperation. It was sort of horrifyingly obvious to watch. “I think you’re fine.”
March swore again. “You fall from a fucking tree and see how it feels, asshole.”
“This is the first time I’ve liked your partner,” Pat told Healy.
“You’ll be pleased to know the cat’s been found.” Healy gestured at the tree.
“I figured.” Sure enough, at the top, Bugsy was posed, beautiful and ethereal with his long, pristine white fur and blue eyes.
“Getting him down has been much more…” Healy paused, as if remembering something, and then said “onerous,” with more relish than she expected from a dour middle aged man, “than expected.”
“Word of the day?” March groaned, finally attempting to straighten up.
Healy gave a solemn nod.
March glanced at Pat, clearly trying to regain some semblance of dignity as he straightened out his tie and smoothed down his blue-striped shirt. Pat was relieved to note that he seemed mostly fine; broken bones in pursuit of Bugsy would be embarrassing. The dignity, however, was a lost cause- evidence of Bugsy’s displeasure was scratched across March’s face and arms. Pat tried not to laugh as blood oozed down his chin.
“I told you,” Pat said, trying not to be smug. It probably failed.
March clearly bit back a swear.
“No, no, go ahead, swear at me if you want. I’m not getting in the way of Judith wasting her daddy’s money.”
“I fucking hate that cat.”
Pat nodded. “He grows on you.”
March put his hands on his hips, and looked up at the tree, beginning to circle it.
“You could try climbing the tree again,” Pat suggested. “I’d enjoy watching you fall out of it.”
“You are not climbing that tree again, March,” Healy said.
At his tired tone, Pat briefly contemplated how happy she was that Judith was much too vain, in her tiny skirts, to consider climbing trees to catch Bugsy every time he got out. God knows Judith would make Pat take her to the hospital.
“I would appreciate him back tonight. Sammy’s gonna be beside himself if you don’t get him home tonight.”
March was still wandering around the tree, mind clearly elsewhere.
“Who’s Sammy?” Healy asked, clearly for a lack of anything else to say.
“Our son.”
Healy looked at Pat, confused. He then took in her short hair, her men’s suit, and general demeanor. His eyes narrowed, clearly working through something. His eyes widened slightly.
Huh.
Had he seriously not noticed?
“Get tuna,” Pat told March. “He loves tuna. There’s a corner store over there.”
March’s head whipped over to her. “That’s a good idea.”
“Not my first rodeo.”
“You’ll stay here and watch that creature from hell?”
She give him a mock salute.
March didn’t notice that Healy didn’t respond, running off dorkily in the direction of a corner store, limbs all akimbo.
“Your partner’s got shit running form,” Pat told Healy. “Did you seriously just realize we were lesbians?”
Healy still looked a little like Pat had hit him with a frying pan.
“I kinda thought, what with the whole, you know,” Pat gestured to March’s distance figure, then back at Healy. “You’d clued in.”
Healy looked like Pat’d hit him again with her metaphorical frying pan.
Pat put her hands up. “Sorry- did I misread? Is this gonna be a problem?”
“No problem,” Healy said slowly. It wasn’t the most convincing thing in the world.
“I’m not going to tell anyone, obviously. I was just kind of surprised- not every day you meet a fellow traveller, y’know?”
Healy was turning that shade of puce again. “You seriously think-” he said, clearly aiming for mild but arriving more in the vicinity of harried, “that we - look, miss, you have the wrong idea, clearly. Our- your- him? It’s not-” he tried for an easy smile. He failed. It was kind of funny to see him discombobulated. He normally seemed so badass, like a discount Sean Connery. “You’ve got the wrong idea,” he said, more firmly this time. He clearly steeled himself to say something. “And- might I say- your Miss Zimmerman-”
“You’re going to watch your goddamn tongue, Mr. Healy,” Pat said pleasantly, “and think about what you’re going to say next. I’m sorry I assumed you and your partner were queer, but you’re going to leave Judith out of this.”
Healy fell silent. He was a handsome bloke, when you looked at him; he would’ve probably been quite handsome when he was younger. Pat couldn’t tell what was going through his head, but he didn’t seem like he was about to punch her in the face, which was nice.
“It’s a new world, Tevye,” Pat quoted at him gravely. “And you’re in LA. Of course there are going to be queers around.”
Healy nodded, slowly, clearly still thinking about something. “I’m sorry, Ma’am.”
Pat waved a hand. “Oh, call me Pat.” She looked at Bugsy, high in the tree. “Do you think March can get him down? I could call 911.”
Healy sighed. “If the firemen do it, it’ll be highway robbery of your-” he glanced sidelong at her. “Girlfriend.”
“It already is.”
Healy shook his head from side to side, in silent agreement. “Still. She seems-”
Pat cut him off by saying “I’m a lucky woman.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Watch it, buddy.”
Pat imitated him shaking her head from side to side, as March came tearing down the sidewalk with something in his hands, before leaning over and gasping for breath. “Tuna,” he said, gasping. He cracked it open, and, true to form, Bugsy jumped from the tree, as elegant and beautiful as a cat could be.
March carefully put the tuna on the ground, and let Bugsy lap it up. “Good kitty,” he said, clearly pleased. “Nice kitty.” Having learned nothing, he put his hand out. Bugsy reared up and scratched him again. March yelped as the scratches started to bleed. Before Bugsy bolted, though, he grabbed the cat around the ribcage, holding him at arms length. The cat started yowling this time, writhing and wriggling. March, impressively, held on, even as the cat took more and more chucks of flesh from his arms. March started to let out an impressive stream of swears at the cat, and he started to run in the direction of Pat’s house.
“Why on earth are you letting her pay us?” Healy watched March sprint away. “You seem to have this pretty well handled.”
“I didn’t want to get scratched.”
Healy shrugged. He lit another cigarette, and together they wandered after the caterwauling from March and Bugsy.