PART I

I've been back for four whole months today. I can't find a whole lot to complain about. Hair looks good. It's sticking up just the way I like. All that time it the great outdoors left it blonder than it's been since I was eight. The clean living and Mountie cooking put a few pounds of muscle on the old frame, and in all the right places, let me tell you. My jeans are not quite too tight and my grey T-shirt is just the tiniest bit too tight.

I should be lounging in the corner of a dark café somewhere, smooching it up with some sweet young thing. But this is my life. So here I sit at my crappy old desk finishing up some reports on my crappy Smith-Corona in this crappy excuse for a police station. Things aren't going too fast of course, because I'm using the old "Bible method" to type stuff in. You know, seek and ye shall find.

Still, I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself because these reports are only a week and a half overdue. And Welsh isn't even going to chew my butt about it, because ten cases cleared in as many days is pretty damned good, especially since I'm working sans Mountie.

Sans Mountie -- got to put that one in my next letter to Fraser. All the letter writing I've been doing for the last few months has really improved the old mental muscles.

So I'm typing and I'm thinking. I'm thinking about how things are actually going okay for me. I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to say that again after the last two years. What with Stella leaving me, and me hitting Fraser and then after we went away there was "The Incident" as we like to call it. We can even laugh about it now. If it had happened to any other two guys they'd probably have killed each other or themselves instead of ending up even tighter than before.

Who'd a thunk it? We go off on this great adventure to do the old buddy buddy thing and we end up coming out to each other.

*

There we were, Kings of the Frozen Tundra. We'd been trekking for a good six weeks looking for that reaching out hand. And having a pretty darned good time doing it, I might add.

I was getting to be quite the intrepid explorer. I drove the dogsled and did my fair share of the hunting duties. I had even mastered the art of snow shoeing. The secret, in case you're wondering, is to not care that you look like a complete dork while you're doing it.

Fraser was his usual perfect self, only more so, because he was in his natural habitat.

We decided to take a break and spend a few days in some Inuit village a thousand miles from the armpit of God. They were treating us pretty good. Honored Guests they called us. I think they really meant "the only white guys who've been stupid enough to travel this far north in the last century".

We were playing along. Fraser was really eating all of the native culture stuff up. I was flirting with the first women I'd seen in forever and a day.

Boy do those Inuit know how to throw a party -- the best time I can barely remember. They did all of the usual good host stuff. You know, offer the white men the really disgusting animal parts to see if they'll eat them. Then see just how much alcohol you have to pump into those same white men so they can taste those pieces-parts all over again.

And we did or good guests part by trying to provide the best entertainment value for their efforts.

"Oh, you saved the Caribou eyeball just for me? You shouldn't have!"

Once the show was over, we headed back to our gear to sleep it off -- after a serious bout of tooth and tongue brushing. It was colder than Stella on a bad day, so we piled our blankets together and laid down, just like a million times before.

I was three sheets to the Arctic wind and Fraser wasn't far behind. Fraser is one of those quiet, sleepy drunks, but not me. Oh no, I get all hyper and silly and talkative. It was a disaster waiting to happen.

Fraser rolled away from me and said, "Night, Ray," and immediately fell into a light sleep.

That struck me as being really, really funny. I started laughing -- which woke Fraser up. So he rolled over and asked me what was the joke.

"You fell asleep, Frase."

"I am aware of that, Ray."

"You are drunk and you fell asleep."

"I am also aware of that, Ray."

"You are drunk, you tossed your cookies and you fell asleep."

"Yes, Ray."

I'm getting more hysterical with each exchange. Fraser is getting frustrated with me, and it's just egging me on.

"You are drunk, you ate disgusting Caribou parts, tossed your cookies in the snow and you fell asleep."

"Your powers of observation never cease to amaze me, Ray."

"I'm drunk too, Frase, old buddy, old pal."

"Perhaps you could tell me something I don't know, Ray."

"Ooooh, are you admitting that I might know something that you don't?"

"I find it highly unlikely, Ray."

"Is that right?"

"Yes, Ray."

Fraser tries to discourage me by turning away from me. It doesn't work.

"I know something you don't know," I sing in that annoying little kid way.

"I'm waiting with bated breath, Ray."

"I'm gay."

That gets a reaction. Fraser rolls over and studies my goofy, self-satisfied grin.

"Gotcha!" I laugh, "What do I win?"

He gets this real serious look on his face and starts with just the kind of speech I've come to expect from him.

"A person's sexual orientation is not something to joke about, Ray. Especially considering the persecution homosexuals have had to endure in the last two thousand years. And also considering that a large number of those who have perpetuated such cruelty have been members of our own profession, I should think you would be particularly mindful to not make light of such things."

This shoves me over the edge -- hard. Tears are running down my face and I'm doing my best not to wake up our entire host village. I push Mr. Sensitive on to his back, straddle his thighs and take his head in my bony hands.

"Frase, listen to what I am saying. I'm gay. I, Stanley Raymond Kowalski, am a gay queer of the homosexual persuasion. I'm coming out to you. You are my best friend, and I'm drunk, and I'm coming out to you and you are supposed to tell me that you don't hate me and you are still my friend and you'll march in those stupid parades with me. You are not supposed to give me a history lesson on the persecution of a minority group of which I happen to be a member.

"Well?"

He's just staring at me with one of those Benton Fraser copyrighted, trademarked deer in the headlights looks. And I realize where I'm sitting and what he must be thinking.

I jump back to my side of the blankets real quick and start trying to clear up this whole mess.

"Don't worry, Frase. I'm not going to jump your bones or anything like that. You ain't my type. No offense, I mean you are completely gorgeous and all -- in a pushy, passive-aggressive kinda way, but there's already someone else. Well as far as I'm concerned he's someone else. Of course he doesn't know and he won't, because if there's anybody on this planet that's straighter than you, it's him.

"I just wanted you to know is all. You're my best friend, and I wanted you to know. I wanted someone to know."

I just laid there for a while and tried to make myself even smaller than I am. I kept real still. His silence was like a big old anvil sitting on my chest, trying to crush me.

I don't know how long we went on that way before I realized that there were sounds coming from his side of our blankets, but he didn't want me to hear them. He was crying. It was so soft and sad that my already fractured heart broke all over again, just for him.

I opened my mouth to apologize for putting him in the middle of my problem, and he spoke through his tears.

"He left me."

I didn't have to ask. Those three words opened my mind to a lot of things. I rolled over to face him. I put my hand on his shoulder and waited for what I knew was coming.

"He left me. He told me he loved me, and then he left me. I waited. It was so hard, but I waited. And then he came back. It was him, but it wasn't. He wouldn't touch me. He wouldn't look me in the eye. He wouldn't even talk to me like we used to. He left me all over again. He left me and this time, he's never coming back."

He was sobbing and shaking. I had to do something. I've never been good at that comforting stuff. But I'm pretty good at making people laugh.

"If I had known this was going to be a Coming Out Ball I would've worn my good dress."

This got a little smile, so I kept going.

"Of course I don't think my pumps would work in the snow, and I'm not sure if mukluks and lavender taffeta go together . . .

A little laugh.

"Do you think Frannie would lend me that little black number of hers? We're probably the same size."

A good laugh. Not a big one, but a decent sized Mountie laugh.

"Thank you, Ray."

"So what do we do now, Frase?"

"We sleep, Ray. And in the morning, you eat the other eyeball."

Leave it to Fraser. The poor guy's heart is breaking, and he does his best to make me feel better. So I smile a little, just to let him know I appreciate the effort.

He reached out and took my hand in his, and we fell asleep just like that. That's buddies.

***********

Like I said, I'm typing and I'm thinking. I'm feeling pretty good about things in general. I have my life in order. I have real help-you-move-bodies friends, two families and, most importantly, Thursday nights.

Am I the same guy who, just eighteen months ago, said routine was the silent killer? I don't think so.

Lieutenant and me got season tickets to the Hawks. They're really crappy seats. But what the hey, we go mostly for the warm beer and cold 'dogs.

And Jack and Dewey can even be kinda funny. Of course it's usually not when they're trying. But they don't charge me cover at "The One Liner", and they don't complain too much when I whip their butts at poker. We've even worked a case or two together.

I go to my parent's house. . .uh. . . home. . . well, RV. . . that tin can on wheels they live in. . . for dinner every Sunday. Mom does my laundry, and Dad and me work on the GTO. It's just like being back in college. Only Dad and me don't yell so much, Mom doesn't end up crying and Stella never drops by -- a big improvement, all things considered.

Monday nights are reserved for mi familia de Vecchios. I let "Ma" pretend like she still has her Golden Boy, and I get to play with "my" nieces and nephews. Besides, I'd miss fighting with Frannie.

We're tight, Frannie and me. When I got back, we were both so lonely, her missing Vecchio and both of us missing Fraser. We started going to lunch a couple times a week. I even talked her into joining the academy. It took a while to get her past that whole hat thing, but she's going to be a great cop. The best Vecchio the department ever had, in my opinion.

I even told her about me. She surprised me. She was really cool about it, once she figured out that Fraser didn't do it for me -- or to me. I just wish she'd stop trying to set me up on dates. Frannie's got great taste and all, but I'm seeing someone.

*

Is a date really a date if only one of you knows that it is? A date, that is. I mean, I know this guy, Renfield Turnbull. Can you believe it? He's big and gorgeous and buff and big and sweet and polite and big. Anyway I was attracted to him from second one. But I was new to this stuff -- being gay and all -- so I didn't know how to send out signals or pick them up. I think that whole gaydar thing is a lie.

So I went out and got some experience, just a little flirting. You know, smiling at the waiter over my coffee cup or holding on just a little too long when I shook some guy's hand. I started to feel pretty confident. So I asked Turnbull on a date. At least what sounded like a date to me.

I didn't know where his apartment was. When Fraser moved out of the Consulate, he did too. So I went to the Consulate while I was on the clock. Unprofessional of me using city time for personal business, I know. But it wasn't like I'd be able to concentrate on any real police work until I did it.

*

I walk into what has got to be the most depressing building in the greater Chicago area, and there he is in the lobby. He's wearing his brown uniform, sans jacket -- I love that word -- and this ridiculous apron with big flowers all over it. He's Minwaxing the banister and looking all adorable and big.

I'm just standing there staring at his left hand. I'm watching the way it grips the cloth he's running over the dark wood and thinking about other things that big, capable hand could be rubbing. Good thing I'm wearing my long coat -- wouldn't want Big Ray to scare him away.

I don't know how long he kept me waiting, but this room came with a view, so I wasn't complaining.

He finishes his cleaning and bends over to pick up the bottle of oil. Talk about assets. The guy doesn't even know I'm in the room with him, and he just managed to fulfill about a gazillion of my fantasies. I know what I'll be seeing tonight when I close my eyes.

I'm feeling pretty light headed, because Big Ray has redirected the flow of blood away from my brain. Of course that's when Turnbull looks up and sees me.

He smiles at me like I'm his best friend in the whole world. He puts all of his cleaning stuff on the front desk, comes over and starts shaking my hand.

"Why, Detective Vecchio, what a pleasant surprise! How are you this fine Winter day?"

"Doing good, Turnbull. And yourself?"

Damn, I'd forgotten just how big he is. Big is good. I like big.

He's still shaking my hand, and he's towering over me. He's got to be six foot four in those shoes, maybe more. I wonder how tall he is in the boots.

He's so glad to see me. I can't believe I stayed away two whole months. I should have done this my first day back. He's smiling and telling me all about his plans for decorating the Consulate for Christmas. I can't hear most of what he's saying because all of the blood that had pooled in my dick is racing to my head. My ears are pounding and I can feel myself blushing.

He's stopped talking. I figure he must have asked me a question.

"Sorry, what was that, Turnbull?"

"I asked what brought you here today, Detective Vecchio."

It hits me like a ball-peen hammer to the 'nads. Here I am, crazy nuts about the guy. I want to take him home and do things to his body that are illegal in seventeen states and the District of Columbia, and he doesn't know my name.

I pull my hand out of his.

"Kowalski."

"Excuse me, Detective?"

"Kowalski. My name is Stanley Raymond Kowalski."

"Oh, of course! Well, I'm delighted to make your acquaintance, Detective Stanley Raymond Kowalski."

"I, uh, I was in the area working on a case, and I thought I'd just check in, see how things are going. And say thanks, you know, for lending me your uniform that time when you let me wear it and all."

I'm rambling because I remember just how good that red serge had smelled from being wrapped around him all day -- lucky suit. I'm so nervous my hands are flying all over the place, just like a real Italian when they talk.

His smile gets even bigger and he blushes almost as bad as me. Then his face gets all serious and he leans in real close, like he's going to tell me a secret or kiss me.

"I'm glad I could be of help, Detective Kowalski. I know how terribly uncomfortable it can be to not be able to urinate when the need arises."

So he's not the brightest bulb in the box, he's a decent guy. I bet he'd never call me a loser or point out every one of my many flaws -- in detail. He's always glad to see me, and he brings me tea and nice stuff like that.

Did I mention that he's big?

"Say, Turnbull, I almost forgot. You like country music, don't you? I was thinking of that because I was in this coffee shop the other day, and I saw that they were going to have this real live cowboy there on Thursday night. He sings and reads some of his cowboy poetry that he wrote about being a cowboy. I thought it sounded interesting in a cultural kind of way.

"Would you like to go with? It doesn't start until nine thirty, so maybe we could get some dinner first, your choice?"

I'm thinking that's the most obvious come-on I have ever made. I'm pretty much a kick them in the head kinda guy, so this was bad with a capital B-A-D. I should have just said, "Lube's in the left coat pocket. Bend me over the reception desk and take me now, you big Love God, you."

But he accepts, and we agree that I'll pick him up from work on Thursday at six.

*

We went out as planned. I couldn't believe it. I had a good time. We talked until two in the morning about nothing much really. This is Turnbull, remember?

Okay, I know it's childish. I admit it. I was pretty thrilled when he told me his first name is Renfield. I figure I found the only guy in the world whose name is worse than mine. He can't tease me. I can't tease him. Everybody's happy.

Stanley loves Renfield. Now there's a title to a Harlequin, if ever I heard one.

When he couldn't hide his yawning any more, I drove him home and walked him to his door. We agreed to do it again the next Thursday. I shook his hand and said, "See you Thursday. "

I slept alone in my big bed that night, and I dreamt of his hands.

*

We've gone out every Thursday for the last eight weeks, and each time I've looked for signals. I am now a master of signals. I've been looking so hard, I can spot a guy that's attracted to me or Renfield, when the guy is a hundred paces away.

I'd get looks every time we went out. I think its my boots. Guys dig the boots. I get the once-over from just about everybody -- everybody except Renfield. So being the lovesick jealous fool that I am, I started looking to see just what he was attracted to. You know, checking out the competition.

It's the weirdest thing. The guy is so gorgeous, like sex on a stick. But he doesn't send out signals -- not to anyone -- man, woman, canine, bovine. I mean everyone sends them out. Come on, Fraser sends out signals.

But not Renfield. He doesn't send and he doesn't receive. Its like he's just turned that part of himself off.

The more I think about it, the more it bothers me. People don't just end up that way. Something happens to them to make them like that. Something turned him off. I don't know what it was. But I do know I'd like to be the one to find his "on" button.

*

It's Thursday today. Six and a half more minutes and I can stand up, crack the old bones, bid another work day goodbye and head over to the Consulate to pick up Renfield.

Tonight we're going to eat at a little Nigerian restaurant he read about. Then we're going to watch Madrigals, whatever the Hell those are.

At the end of the night, I'll drive him home and walk him to his door. We'll agree to do it again the next Thursday. I'll shake his hand and say, "See you Thursday. "

I will fall asleep alone in my big bed and I will dream of his hands.

***********

Just type these last few lines and I am gone.

-Arresting officers searched the area and loocated the suspect in a dumpster behind the offense location-

"Hey, Vecchio! Good to see you!"

"Very funny, Huey."

-Suspect was taken into custody without inciident-

"Vecchio, how've you been?"

"Oooh, you guys are a laugh riot."

-Complainant was transported to Chicago Geneeral by CFD ambulance #807-

"Vecchio! Looking good."

"Dewey, you and Jack need a new shtick."

-Complainant was listed in fair condition, wwith a gunshot wound to his left knee and a large bruise on his right cheek, which appeared to have been caused by a ladies high-heeled shoe-

"Vecchio, nice tan."

"Ha, ha."

-Arresting Officers retrieved a Sig Sauer P2226 blue steel semi-automatic 9mm, a Sig magazine, fourteen 9mm rounds, and a pair of ladies, red satin, high heeled, sling back shoes, size 11 1/2-

"Vecchio, good to have you back."

"Har de ha ha."

-Listed items were placed in the 27th precinnct property room on tag #X-47752. Susp was transported to 27th precinct house and placed in holding. No further information-

"Vecchio, what brings you to our neck of the woods?"

I am a patient man. Really. But it was getting real old, real fast. I jumped up and started yelling at everybody, making sure I gave each one to them the patented Stanley Kowalski "I'm going to kick you in the head" stare, so they got the idea and good.

"That's it! That is it! I am trying to do this little thing called police work here! So if you mental giants could just find someone else. . ."

I'm just finishing my old three-sixty when it happens. The shit hits the fan.

And considering the shit is a skinny, balding Dago in a two thousand dollar suit, I figure that makes me the fan.

"Vecchio."

He smirks at me, the bastard. He saunters over to my desk and picks up my nameplate. He studies it for a minute and reads it out loud.

"Detective Kowalski."

"I see Hooked on Phonics worked for you."

"How have you been, Stanley? Did you miss me?"

"Oh yeah, Vecchio, like a case of the clap."

"Stella told me about that. Glad to hear the antibiotics cleared it all up for you, Stanley."

I'm a reasonable guy. I figure I'll punch him in that Monster-truck sized schnoz of his and if he passes out, I might not kick him in the head.

Then again, I might.

Just as my fist is tensing up to carry out the old action plan, Welsh comes to his door and saves Fashion Pig from The Wrath of Ray.

"Vecchio, you're late."

"Sorry, sir. You see there was this station wagon full of nuns broken down on the side of the road, and I felt it was my duty as a good son of the church to . . ."

"Save it, Vecchio. In my office."

"Saving it, sir. Right away, sir."

He throws his coat over my chair and gives me a long look and a verbal parting shot to the gut.

"I'll be seeing you around, Stanley. Hope you haven't gotten too comfortable at my desk."

It's Thursday and I should have left five minutes ago. So I don't bother to follow him into the Lieut's office and pummel his face into something resembling road kill. I just head for the door. And clumsy me, I knock his coat to the ground and step on it -- several times.

Oh well, accidents happen.

I'm two seconds from the door. Two little seconds and I'll make good my escape.

"Kowalski. I need you in my office."

"Lieutenant, it's Thursday." I say, giving him my best lost little boy face.

"Oh, Thursday. I forgot. Well, first thing in the morning, then."

"Yes, sir."

"Kowalski, first thing means first thing. Not first thing after a romantic breakfast for two."

I don't say anything to that. I just grin real big. He doesn't know where I go on Thursdays, but he knows I go somewhere. They all do, and they know that I don't go there alone.

Vecchio comes to the door and puts in his two cents.

"Well, isn't this just wonderful, Little Stanley has a girlfriend."

"Yeah, Vecchio, I hear that makes one of us."

I whip around and skate out of there before Welsh changes his mind.

*

I'm running late, so the Traffic Gods are laughin' at me -- big shock. I run more than a few red lights, narrowly miss sideswiping a Yellow Cab and cut off a tour bus. Just doing my part to keep the reputation of Chicago's drivers intact.

I'm not going to be late. I am not going to be late. I did that once and that was more than enough. It was the only time I'd ever seen Renfield upset. It hurt, knowing I'd done that to him. He might be as big as a mountain, but he's as fragile as those cups he pours my tea into.

*

We had reservations to eat at some Honduran restaurant. Some "dinner at seven, jacket and tie required" kind of place.

I'm two hours from my daily parole, and I get this call. It seems some woman got tired of listening to her armchair quarter-back husband dissing her beloved New Orleans Saints. So she does him in by hitting him in the kisser with a bowling trophy -- eighty-seven times.

By the time I get her down to holding and complete the paperwork that can't wait until later, I'm running a little late. So I shower and change at the station. That's when everyone figured out what I was doing on my Thursdays.

I rush out of there, and I make it to the Consulate about twenty minutes after six.

I walk into My Favorite Hellhole, and Renfield is standing there looking at his watch.

"Hey, Buddy, sorry I'm late. Something came up at work. I was going to call, but I figured that would make me even more late. You ready?"

"It's six twenty-three, Stanley."

"Yeah, we'd better hustle."

Suddenly, Hoover dam breaks.

"You said you would be here at six o'clock. It's six twenty-four. You are twenty-four minutes late. I looked at a map of Chicago and used the city's Street Department's information on signal light timing and calculated that the trip to the restaurant will take exactly thirty-seven minutes. Considering the time I have been talking and the time it will take us to get to your car, we will be six minutes late for our reservations."

I was getting a case of the heebie-jeebies. He wasn't upset with me. It was like he was worried the clock would be upset with him. Like his whole universe would crumble if he couldn't follow some kind of rule that existed only in his head.

"Well that would be true, Renfield, if we were to use the major streets. But I know a back way that only takes twenty-nine minutes."

"Honestly?"

He looked so hopeful.

Hell no. But I'll drive over dogs and old ladies to get you there on time.

"I promise."

He walks to the door and holds it open for me.

"After you, Stanley." He's smiling, just like he's always does. There's no sign in his eyes that he's ever been upset in his whole life.

Two little words from me and all is right with the world.

As I'm walking past him, I stop. I look into those trusting eyes of his and tell him the God's honest truth.

"I'm sorry I was late. I will never let it happen again."

He beams at me, all happy because he thinks I understand.

I don't. But I know that it's important to him. So that makes it important to me. It's a big responsibility taking care of him -- bigger maybe than a skinny little Polack fuck-up like me can handle. I pray God I'm up to the job, because I really want to be. I want it more than I've ever wanted anything.

*

Hit the brakes. Slide into a quick right turn. Punch the gas. Cruise fifty feet. Slam on the brakes. Throw the car into park. Take the keys. Lock the door. Run up the walkway, up the steps to the front door. Open the door. Walk inside.

It's all so easy and yet so complicated.

One good look at Renfield and all of that crap with Vecchio fades away. I'm not going to let it ruin our night.

He's standing in his usual spot, looking at his watch. He's like something out of a big budget Hollywood movie. He's wearing a black wool suit and a cornflower blue silk button-down shirt and matching tie that are the exact shade of his eyes. His shoes look perfect. His suit looks perfect. His hair looks perfect. He looks perfect, perfectly edible.

Whoever the lucky stiff was that measured his outfit deserves the Oscar for costume design. It hugs everything it's supposed to hug and it drapes everywhere it's supposed to drape. I know what I want for dinner and it ain't on the menu.

I resist the urge to tear his shirt open and make intimate with every square, ripped inch of his chest.

"Hey, Renfield, you ready to tie on the old feed bag?"

"Stanley, it's five fifty-nine. You are one minute early today." I can tell this turns his crank, and I make one of those "Fraser mental notes" to be early more often.

"That's me, Mr. Punctuality."

He smiles and holds the door open for me, just like he always does, and out we step into an uncertain future.

***********

I slide into work a full ten minutes early -- thank you very much. I take a seat in Welsh's office. I'll be waiting for him like a good little soldier -- just to show him I appreciate getting let off the hook last night.

Last night. That was the best yet.

The restaurant was one of those out of the way romantic places with lots of dark corners. Our table was so small we ended up bumping knees -- a lot. Our calves even brushed once. That sent all kinds of mating signals running up my leg, straight to my crotch. It felt so good, I kinda half-spit, half-choked on my wine.

Renfield got all concerned. He came around to my chair. He put one of his perfect hands on my shoulder and rubbed circles on my back with the other one. We have contact! My dick almost fired off a couple rounds right there.

He was talking to me real soft and low, telling me everything was going to be okay. Just breathe real deep and it would be all right.

Deep breathing? While you're stroking me? No problemo.

So he asks me if I'm all better, and I just nod. Can't trust the old mouth to keep from saying what would really make it all better. So I nod.

He picks up a napkin and wipes the wine off my chin, and it hits me like a boot to the head. I'm not the only one who's breathing funny. And when he put down the napkin, I think maybe his hand was shaking.

By the time he gets back to his chair, he has his Mountie face back on. I'm right about him being as thin as a tea cup. But now I know there's something under that eye candy.

How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie-Pop?

Dinner was great.

And Madrigals. I love Madrigals. A bunch of people in funny clothes, singing songs I don't understand, sitting really close to Renfield in the dark -- our shoulders touching and our thighs brushing and him leaning in breathing in my ear while he translates the French songs for me.

Oh, we still shook hands at the end of the night, and I slept all alone in my big bed. And I still dreamt of his hands. But this time I dreamt of other body parts too. Even though I'm pretty sure it ain't possible for a human tongue to do all those things, I came so hard I was surprised the morning news didn't say anything about an earthquake. So I ain't complaining.

*

Lieutenant comes in with a cup of coffee. He's still stirring it. He's being real careful, like spilling a drop would bring on a nuclear meltdown. I'm no rocket surgeon, but I know what that means -- first cup of the day. Do not speak until it's gone, and then only when spoken to. And don't, do not, not, not, not ask for anything until he's on at least cup three.

We sit like that for a while -- him drinking and me breathing and the wall clock ticking. It's sort of relaxing in a weird familiar way. I'm almost drifting off, getting a pretty good replay of that whole thigh-touching thing from last night running through the old grey matter.

The door slams open and Mr. "Do you know how many silk worms died to make this suit?" comes walking in. He sits in the chair next to mine and looks at me like I stole his spot.

"Good morning, Stanley. Did you get your date back to the Lighthouse for the Blind before curfew?"

I could kick him in the head, but I just smile. I can see the clock. I know what's coming.

"You're late, Detective Vecchio. One would think that on your first full day back you would make that extra effort to show your superior officer that all of his hard work to get you returned to active duty with no loss in rank or pay grade is appreciated. I, for one, would most certainly not want anyone to think that I planned on sitting on my well rested, deeply tanned laurels."

Vecchio gets his nose out from up Welsh's ass long enough to answer.

"Sir, let me assure you that my laurels are raring to go."

"That's good, Detective. Now, before we start doing any actual police work, I thought it would be a good idea for the three of us to have a little talk. Meaning I will do the talking and you two will do the agreeing.

"We've already agreed that you, Detective Vecchio, will be Ray Vecchio and that you, Detective Kowalski, will be Stanley Kowalski."

Vecchio starts to laugh at this, but Welsh shoots a death look at him so he shuts it.

"As to the matter of desk space, Kowalski has been at that desk, as Detective Kowalski, for four months now. So he stays there. Vecchio, Detective Bauman is on maternity leave. You can have her desk until she gets back."

Oooh, Mr. GQ doesn't look none too happy about that. He can have the name. Bauman's desk is right next to the window, which is right above the dumpster.

"Seeing as the Mountie and State's Attorney Kowalski are gone, there shouldn't be anything else that needs dividing up."

We both look at Welsh real quick, trying to figure out what he meant by that last bit. But he just takes another swig of coffee and waves us out of his office.

We get up and start to shuffle out, neither one of us very happy about the whole situation.

"And Gentlemen, in case there is any uncertainty in anyone's mind, that room out there is my playground. I decide who plays with the toys and who gets sent home to mommy. Any questions? Good. You both have case folders on your desks. Get to work. If anyone needs me, I'll be getting a coffee."

*

Twenty-eight hours. We made it through three and a half working days. I was feeling pretty proud of both of us. Me, because I hadn't used his pointy head for boxing practice. Him, because he hadn't messed up the precinct floor by bleeding all over it.

We did it by playing peek-a-boo. If I can't see you, you don't exist. It might have been driving the Duck Boys crazy, but it worked for us.

"Huey, put this on Detective Bauman's desk, would you?"

"Dewey, do you see the Schwarz file on my old desk?"

They started avoiding us pretty quick. So did everybody else, soon as they figured out the deal.

*

It's almost lunch time. I'm walking out the door, and I'm whistling. I just got a good hint from my favorite snitch about a case I've been working on for two weeks.

Kids are going to these Rave parties all over town. Usually, I don't care about stuff like that, but some of the Ravers ain't just drinking. Some of them got pretty whacked on something and started shooting out windows of parked cars.

Gabriel Wilder was asleep in the back seat of one of those cars. His mom let him sleep while she went in the store to pick up some milk.

I know. She shouldn't have left a three year old sitting in a car. But she'll never get the chance to apologize to him, and he'll never get the chance to be four.

Kids, old people and animals.

This job makes you hard. You got no choice. But if I ever stop feeling for kids, old people and animals, I'll know it's time for me to quit.

*

I'm two seconds from freedom when I hear them, the words that get me in the gut.

It's Welsh and he's calling us.

"Kowalski, Vecchio, in my office, now."

We walk in, and he doesn't even give us time to take a load off. He just starts in.

"We have just had a confirmed child abduction report. It happened thirty minutes ago in front of the Rosa Parks Elementary School. His name is Jackson Bennett. He's a fourth grader. His math teacher, Mr. Gallegos, observed Jackson being pulled into a car as he was walking to the cafeteria. Mr. Gallegos is in Questioning Room three and is very eager to assist us.

"The school's principal, Ms. Offord, tells us that the boy's father has custody. Apparently, the mother has a history of mental problems and has attempted to abduct the boy in the past.

"Jack and Dewey will be questioning the math teacher. I trust you two will be able to put aside your differences to help us get this case solved? Good.

"A couple of uniforms are on their way here with the father. He is bringing a copy of the boy's fingerprints and recent photos.

"The uniforms will bring him to you in room five."

And what can we say to that? There isn't anything.

Vecchio makes it to the door first. He holds it open for me. I look at him kinda suspicious like. I start to make some wise-ass remark about pearls before swine. But then I see his eyes. They look sad -- sad and scared. I don't tease him about it. Because I know mine look the same.

I open my mouth to say something nice instead. But he just shakes his head and motions for me to lead the way. So I do.

***********

Vecchio and me, we know the deal. We both walk to the breakroom and get a coffee and some vending machine sandwiches. I'm short a couple quarters. Vecchio hands some over. We don't talk about it -- we don't have to. Unless we get lucky, this is probably the last meal we're going to be having for a while.

We eat real quick, barely taking time to chew. It's not like we can taste our food anyway. Besides, considering the expiration dates on these things, who'd want to?

I fish my gum out of my jacket pocket and offer Vecchio a piece. He shakes his head and flashes a package of mints.

We both look around, hoping for something else, anything else, to do. Something to delay this just a bit longer. But there isn't anything. So he squares his shoulders and I crack my knuckles and off we go.

*

It's awful, meeting the parents. You're sitting there telling them that everything is going to be okay, telling them you're going to get their kid back -- no harm, no foul. But the whole time, you're acting all quiet and respectful. Just like you would if you were sitting at the kid's funeral. And you can't help thinking that this just might be the first of many memorial services for a boy that might already be dead.

Javier Bennett ain't no millionaire, but he ain't no bum either. He looks like a working stiff, like he's in his mid-forties. He's not fat or nothing, but he's no gym rat that's for sure -- just a regular Joe. With his stooped shoulders and spare tire, and suit and tie that don't quite match, he could be a detective waiting to question us. But he isn't. He's the father of a little kid that's just been stolen from him, and we're the only chance he's got to see him again.

Kids, old people, animals and real victims.

*

Vecchio's a lot better at this sensitive stuff. So I let him handle the interview.

Things go good. Real good. Usually, in an abduction, you're lucky if you get someone to tell you the make and model of the car used. This time, we have a hell of a lot more.

Mr. Bennett says he knew this day was coming. He just didn't know when. It seems the lovely and talented former Mrs. Bennett is a member of one of those doomsday, end of the world, suicide cults.

So Bennett has two really good pictures of his son -- one full length and one close up. He's got fingerprints and knows exactly what his son was wearing. He also has a set of dental records. I take the photos and the fingerprint sheet. I write down the clothing description and tell him to keep the dental records. I tell him we won't be needing those.

Mr. Bennett ducks his head real quick and clears his throat. Real men don't cry. Vecchio flashes me a surprised look. I wait for him to start in on me. But he just pats Mr. Bennett on the shoulder and says, "My partner knows what he's talking about, Mr. Bennett. Why don't you just put those dental records back in your briefcase."

Mr. Bennett, God bless him, also has all of his ex-wife's information. Driver's License number, last known address and place of employment, her shrink's name and number, and addresses and phone numbers of her whole family. He's even able to tell us which family members are most likely to help her hide out.

He doesn't know as much about the cult. Just the name, House of the Final Harvest, and that they're somewhere out west.

I read my hot sheet out to him "BOLO, that means be on the lookout for, Wanted in the abduction of Jackson Bennett, white male, 10 years of age, four feet six inches tall, 85 pounds, light brown hair, blue eyes. Last seen wearing a red and grey striped t-shirt, blue jeans and Small Soldiers sneakers is Susan Anne Friedmont Bennett. White, Female, DOB 070760 5'06" 165 pounds, red hair, hazel eyes known to drive a blue 1988 Olds Cutlass 4 door IL lic # FDT 385.

Suspect has family in Skagway, Canada and may be heading for the border. Suspect has a history of mental problems and has assaulted police officers in the past."

Bennett looks surprised by that last bit.

"We put that stuff in there so the officers will know it's not some mom saving her kid from being molested or nothing like that."

Bennett turns to Vecchio and he nods his agreement.

I walk out of the room to take the sheet to Frannie. Vecchio keeps talking to Bennett.

"We'll put this out over the radio now Mr. Bennett. We'll update it as soon as the other detectives have finished speaking with Jackson's math teacher."

You can tell a cop takes a case personal when he calls the victim by their name. I hear the kid's name come out of Vecchio's lips and I get a real grim smile on my face. So he's taking this one personal. I'm glad to see I ain't the only one.

*

Frannie brings some coffee in and sits with Bennett. Before you know it, she's got him telling her stories about Jackson. Talking is good. The more people talk, the more they remember. Maybe she'll get something else out of him. Even if she doesn't, she's helping the time pass quicker.

Dewey pops his head in and motions to me and Vecchio. Frannie looks up, but he shakes his head. She goes back to listening to Bennett.

Dewey, Vecchio and me pow-wow in the observation room. Dewey looks at Bennett through the two-way mirror.

"How's the dad?"

"Better than most."

Vecchio and me say at the same time. Dewey looks at us funny, but he doesn't say anything.

We all just stand there for a minute, staring at the guy. We're sorry for him and glad it ain't us. And we're feeling guilty about being glad about anything, especially that.

Vecchio breaks the silence.

"OK, Dewey, tell us the bad news."

"You guys are not going to believe this. The math teacher, Mr. Gallegos? Mr. Thin as a pretzel, momma's boy looking Gallegos, he was in the Army for fifteen years. He was in covert ops for ten. The guy is a trained observer.

"We got him sitting in the room. Jack and me come in and sit across the table from him.

"Jack says to the guy, 'Just tell us what you remember seeing Mr. Gallegos, no detail is too small.' And then Jack turns on the tape recorder."

Dewey hits play and we stand there with our mouths hanging open.

"It was eleven twenty-seven. I know, because I had just looked at my watch. Jackson was walking east toward the cafeteria. He was wearing a red and grey striped t-shirt, blue jeans and sneakers with some kind of logo on them, Small Soldiers, I believe. There was a sticker on his t-shirt. It said 'Star Student'.

"He was in a group of approximately four boys. They had just passed in front of the main office when a yellow, late-model Ford Taurus four door station wagon with a hatch back pulled on to the grass in front of Jackson and his friends.

"A White male, mid to late twenties, with short brown hair and sideburns jumped out of the car. He was approximately six feet tall and 180 pounds. He was wearing a green polo-style shirt, black pants and white running shoes.

"The man grabbed Jackson and pulled him to the car. I had started running for the car the moment it ran on to the grass, but I'm not as fast as I used to be. The car was pulling away by the time I reached it. I recognized the driver from a PTO meeting about three years ago. It was the boy's mother.

"The car had an out of state tag -- Idaho, I believe. It headed west. It didn't make any turns while it was still in sight.

"That's all I can remember. I'm sorry I can't be any more help. I'm sorry I didn't get there in time."

You can hear the guy start to break down and then the tape stops.

*

Dewey leaves to put this info out on the radio, and Vecchio and me just stand there. He looks at me in the eye. He grins and I grin, and we grin at each other. He punches me in the shoulder friendly-like and says, "I'm going to talk to Susie-Q's head shrinker. He might have some information on those Final Harvest lunatics. You go sit with Mr. Bennett."

Leave it to Vecchio, a sucker punch followed up by a pigeon drop. Before I can get a word out, he's gone. The door slams in my face. Suddenly, the door swings open and Vecchio's back.

"Oh, and Stanley, keep your greasy Bo-hunk mitts off my sister."

He's smiling when he says it, so I let it slide.

I go back into Observation Room five and talk to Mr. Bennett. I let him know what's going on. I tell him that I think we have a good chance of finding his son. And I'm smiling, just a little, when I say it, because I almost believe it.

***********

I leave the station as quickly as I can. Kowalski isn't going to be happy that I pigeon dropped Bennett into his lap. Welsh isn't going to like my going out without a partner.

That last part hurts too much to think about, so I jump into my newest old Riv and head off to see Susan Bennett's court-ordered counselor.

Of course I get stuck behind a bus and we both get caught at a red light. Without thinking, I turn to Benny to fire off some smart-assed remark about public transportation.

But the only thing in his seat is a pair of shoes I picked up from the repair shop on Friday -- shoes that have been sitting there for four days. They've been sitting there because it doesn't matter if I move them or not. The only person I want in that seat is gone, and he's never coming back.

I close my eyes and see him so clearly. I've known him for almost four years. We were partners for two of those years. Back then, we were together more than we were apart -- hundreds of moments, thousands of images. But when I close my eyes, I always see the same thing. I see the first, last time we made love.

It's supposed to be complicated. Love is hard. You have to sweat and agonize and yell and everything else that goes along with it. And that's just for the usual man/woman thing.

So for two guys, it should have been worse.

I should have spent hours on my knees praying to the Madonna to make me "normal". And Benny, he should have gone off to the deep woods and had some kind of vision quest that involved starving himself and smoking medicinal herbs.

But it wasn't like that. It was easy. It was so easy and so natural and so good.

*

It was just another Thursday night at Benny's place. I was sitting in a chair watching him pack for his trip home. He was laying all of his so-called clothes out on his bed really carefully. He was arranging them and rearranging them, trying to figure out how to get the most number of outfits out of the least amount of clothing.

I was trying not to, but I was whining about him going without me.

"I don't see why you have to go, anyway, Benny. You've got everything a man could want right here in Chicago."

"Ray, while it is true that Chicago does provide numerous cultural diversions, I haven't been home to the Territories in almost a year. Besides, Diefenbaker is in dire need of tracking and hunting exercises."

Dief whined and hid under the bed after lip-reading that last statement. Benny gave him a stern look and then pointedly ignored him.

He was still rearranging his clothes. I wasn't sure why, but that was really starting to bother me. And when he bugs me, I tease him. It's the natural order of things.

"Why don't you just take everything, Benny? Hell, you're probably going to meet some Inuit princess and build her a yurt, or whatever they live in during the summer, and end up staying."

"That's just silly, Ray."

"What? Marrying a princess or building a yurt?"

"Both, Ray."

Finally, I can't take it any more. I stomp to the bed and set out some outfits for him. I stand up and make a "there, are you happy?" gesture.

He smiles at me and says my favorite thing in the world,

"Thank you kindly, Ray."

But this time it's different. His voice is as thick and dark as maple syrup in January.

Once I could have ignored the invitation in his voice. But that was two former lovers and two bullets ago. I step deep into his personal space and stare at his mouth.

"Miss me, Benny?" I whisper, my breath feather-light on his skin, as I take his beautiful face in my hands and run my thumbs tenderly over his parted lips.

His eyes drift shut and his face nuzzles into my hands.

"Everyday."

I can't resist. I bite him teasingly on his lower lip and ask, "What about the nights, Benny? Will you miss me then too?"

His eyes open and he gives me a slow sexy smile. He wraps his hands in my jacket and pulls me forward a few final inches, until we are chest to chest.

He runs a large calloused finger over my left ear and down the side of my neck to my collar bone.

"You know what they say, Ray. You can't miss what you've never had."

His hands slip around to my shoulder blades and mine slide down to his waist. His palms are open and warm against my back. His lips are smooth against mine and his tongue explores my mouth hungrily.

He pulls away and stares at me, making sure that this is really what I want.

"Benny, I'm only going to say this once. You have exactly thirty seconds to get completely naked. If you are not naked in thirty seconds, I will not be responsible for my actions. And if you are naked in thirty seconds, I still will not be responsible for my actions."

The blue button-down and white Henley go first, pulled over his head in one swift motion and tossed aside. The boots are next. He removes the left and then the right and throws each of them over his shoulder. His socks are pulled off and discarded. He shucks his jeans and kicks them away. Finally he slides out of his boxers and hands them to me.

Seventeen seconds -- must be a new world's record.

I don't have time to get an eyeful because he's all over me. His tongue is down my throat, his hands are squeezing my ass, and his dick is knocking on the front door asking mine to come out and play.

His shorts fall from my hand and he starts to pull me down to my knees. I push him away from me. He looks confused -- flushed and sweaty and lust filled and confused.

"Benny, if you try and make me do the nasty on this hard floor, you're a dead man."

He takes a few deep breaths, like he's trying to remember how to think. He looks around frantically, and his eyes come to rest on the bed. The bed that is covered with freshly washed, neatly pressed and folded clothes.

I know what's coming. I get ready to kick back while he finds a suitable resting place for his casual wear.

That's when it happens. Hell freezes over and the Texas Rangers win the World Series.

Benny grabs the top blanket and younks it off the bed. His clothes go flying. They land on the floor and on the table. It's stupid. It's ridiculous. It's the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.

One shirt lands on Dief's rump and it makes him jump. That's what he gets for scooting out from under the bed to watch. I always knew the wolf was a pervert.

Benny's looking at his hand that's holding the blanket like he can't believe that any body part that's attached to him could be so daring.

I want to tell him how remarkable he is, but I can't get the words out. He's back in front of me and he's looking so pleased at his recklessness that it's all I can do to keep from laughing.

His hands slip inside of my jacket and up over my shoulders. He slides his hands down my back, drawing my jacket off. He holds it out to his side and lets it drop to the floor. He then tucks his fingers in my waistband and leans forward. He leans in until his lips almost touch mine. At the last moment, his head dips south and he places a firm kiss over the first button of my shirt that isn't undone.

He then worries at the button with his teeth, until it comes off in his mouth. Benny turns his head to the side and his lips form a perfect "O". He exhales sharply and one Italian Mother of Pearl designer button goes flying across the room, bounces off the wall and lands with a "tink" on the floor.

He repeats the process three times, until he comes to my belt. He looks up and asks permission with his eyes. I nod once. My eyes rolls shut, and my head falls forward as he undoes my belt and pulls it, inch by inch, from my slacks. I hear the sharp metallic clank of the buckle hitting the floor. His hands are kneading my ass, and he's rubbing his cheek over my crotch.

The thin silk of my trousers offers no protection from his hot breath. My hands, which had been resting on his shoulders, take a hold of his head and I grind my hips into his beautiful face.

He pulls back and undoes my slacks, letting them fall to the floor and pool around my ankles. He stares in surprise at my raging hard-on. Boy, did I ever pick the right day to go commando.

I run my fingers through his hair and pull on it. Just enough to let him know I want him back up here with me. He complies, Mountie style. He licks me all the way up. He licks me in one long slow line. His tongue lays flat against my balls, slides up the vein that runs the length of my cock, glides over the purple swollen head, trails up my stomach, coasts over my sternum, worries at my Adam's apple, tracks its way over my chin and plunges into my mouth.

While he's exploring my mouth, I shrug out of my shirt and throw it somewhere behind me. I toe my shoes and socks off and leave them where they lay. Benny turns us around and presses me back until my legs are against the mattress. He places his palms against my chest and shoves me. I hit the sheets and bounce from the force of his push.

Before I can protest, his hands are on my knees, pulling them apart. He presses his chest lightly against my swollen, demanding cock and slides up my body until we are nose to nose and dick to dick. He's got my knees up in the air. He leans forward, resting his weight on my legs, and he sucks on that spot. The point where my shoulder meets my neck. The spot with the nerve that ends at the base of my cock.

My legs are starting to cramp, so I wrap them around his back and cross my ankles, just to relieve some of the pressure. He takes the hint and moves his hands to the mattress. He shifts some of his weight to his forearms and his mouth starts sucking that other spot -- the one right behind my ear.

I dig my nails into his back and drag them roughly down the hot velvet of his skin. He moans and arches his back, thrusting against me. I lift my hips to meet his and take his flawless ass in my hands.

We're bumping and grinding. Sweat pours from our skin and eases the sweet pain of friction. Our bodies glide against each other. We grab and kiss and bite and suck and lick. His hands twist in the sheets and I hear the ragged protest of tearing cloth.

I'm breathing through my nose to keep from screaming. But it doesn't matter. Benny's making so much noise, the whole neighborhood is getting a play-by-play.

He's loud. And descriptive. Leave it to Mr. Stoic to be a moaner.

"Oh, yes, Ray! Oh, God, that's so good! Harder! Harder! I can't stop! Don't stop! Whatever you do, don't stop!"

How someone can talk so much while breathing so heavily, I'll never know.

This goes on far longer than I would have though possible. But, finally, the driving need centered in our cocks pulls us inevitably over the precipice.

My torso contorts and I spill my seed between our bodies. I come as silent as a whisper. It's second nature, after years of jacking off in a house full of people.

When Benny follows me, short moments later, it sounds like he's just won the Superbowl and the Stanley Cup. A primal scream rips from his throat, shaking the rafters.

He collapses against me and I let my legs fall to the mattress. We stay like that, sticky and tired and sated, until goosebumps form on our skin as our sweat slicked bodies cool. Benny reaches down and grabs the blanket from the floor. He covers us both and slides down so his cheek is resting on my shoulder.

Everybody in his building knows what we've been doing. Hell, everybody on West Racine knows what we've been doing. This should worry me. But I can't bring myself to care, not just yet.

Benny looks so happy. I've never seen anyone look this happy. He's kissing my chest and he's thanking me over and over.

*

An eighteen wheeler's air horn blasts me back to the present. The bus is gone, and the light is yellow. I gun the Riv's engine and shoot through the intersection just as the light turns red.

***********

I park the Riv in a fire lane in front of a swank office building. It's concrete and glass, with marble around the entrance and a doorman standing guard. Not exactly the kind of place you would expect to find a counselor to the masses.

It's unusual to say the least. This immediately sets off my detective alarm. I slip into suspicious mode and walk inside this monument to modern architecture, fully prepared to find Dr. Toland guilty of something, probably raiding my pension to pay for his Porsche.

I introduce myself to the security yutz at the reception desk and he makes a quick phone call. A second larger security yutz materializes and announces that he'll be escorting me to the good doctor's office.

Police in the building -- there goes the neighborhood.

Officer Yutz and I spend the ride to the tenth floor listening to some geriatric organist's version of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and staring at one another in the polished brass of the elevator doors. His polite smile says I don't make muster. That's all right. Mine says, "You may be younger, bigger and in better shape; you may make more money and have better benefits, but you aren't the real deal, and you never will be."

A bell dings our arrival and the doors slide open. I motion to the lobby and say, "After you, Stanley."

He get this surprised look and starts to say something, but stops himself in time. He leads me to yet another reception desk where Daryl Hannah's identical twin sister is plugging away at a computer.

Yutz and Daryl have a quick conference. Yutz retreats to a corner and sets up sentry duty. Daryl comes over and introduces herself.

"Detective Vecchio, is it? I'm Moira Yoder, Dr. Toland's assistant. How can we help you?"

She looks at Yutz and says, "Really, Officer Mitchell, he's a police detective. I'm sure he has no intention of wreaking havoc in the building. I'll call you if we need any help at all."

His lower lip drops and my opinion of Daryl rises. I give her a patented Ray Vecchio dazzler and ask, "Do you know you look just like Audrey Hepburn?"

Without missing a beat she answers, "No, but if you hum a few bars, I can fake it."

As Mitchell slinks out of the room, Daryl and I share a laugh.

With the pleasantries out of the way, I get down to business. I quickly explain the Jackson Bennett situation to her and tell her that it's urgent that I speak with the doctor.

Daryl disappears through a mahogany door and is gone for several minutes. She returns and tells me that the doctor is busy -- big shock -- and can only spare me a few moments -- bigger shock.

I show myself into the the doctor's office. The nameplate on the desk says "Bernard Toland, Ph.D.", but I look at the man and all I can think is Mr. Toad's wild ride. The only thing missing is a teenaged twinkie wearing Mickey Mouse ears to take my ticket.

Dr. Toland invites me to sit, so I plant my keester in a two thousand dollar leather chair.

"The city must be paying really well for court-ordered counseling these days," I say, just to break the ice.

The Doc smiles and replies, "My practice is very lucrative. It allows me to volunteer some of my time and skills to help those less fortunate. Besides, it impresses Ms. Yoder."

Speak of the Goddess. Moira returns with a silver tray loaded down with coffee and all that goes with it. She pours us two cups and then retreats to her desk.

The Doc and I don't start talking again until we've watched her sashay across the room and shut the door. We grin at each other like guilty school boys.

I start the ball rolling, "Dr. Toland, this is a very important investigation . . ."

He interrupts me.

"Detective, I understand how important this is to you. But you must understand that what you are asking my to do would violate my profession's Code of Ethics."

I open my mouth, fully prepared to lay on the old Vecchio charm, but he holds up a hand to stop me and continues speaking.

"It would be unethical for me to tell you that Susan is an invested member of a cult know as the Church of the Final Harvest. 'Invested' meaning that there is a place reserved for her at the Right Hand of God. That she came to me as a condition of her deferred adjudication for her involvement in an assault on a former member of the same cult. That, while in group counseling, she formed an unhealthy bond with a young man by the name of Wallace Reynolds. It would also be unethical for me to tell you that Susan and Wallace often talked about joining Susan's fellow cult members at their main complex.

"However, as a founding member of Cult Watch, a non-profit organization dedicated to uncovering and investigating cults operating in North America and the rest of the world, I can give you a copy of our November 1996 newsletter. This issue contains a ten page article dedicated to Church of the Final Harvest. It lists leaders, beliefs, practices and gives a detailed description of the location of the complex that Susan mentioned.

"Now, as I'm sure Ms. Yoder told you, I'm a very busy man. And since I can't tell you anything, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

I start to go like a good little boy. But I turn around and offer the doctor my hand.

"Thank you, Doctor. And good luck with -- you know," I nod my head toward the reception area. He shakes my hand and that guilty school boy grin is back.

On my way to the elevator, I stop to have one last word with Daryl.

"Here's my business card. Call me if Dr. Toland thinks of anything else that he can't tell me."

She takes my card, and I bask in the glory of her smile. I can't resist.

"Are you going to marry that guy, or what?"

She gets this wicked gleam in her eyes, "I already have the church picked out." She looks at my card and continues, "I'll send you an invitation."

*

I'm back in the Riv. I've got the copy of Cult Watch sitting on my newly repaired shoes. I've just put the car in gear, and I'm getting ready to head back to the station for a little light reading. Suddenly, Officer Yutz flags me down. I crack my window and he leans down so we're eye to eye.

He licks his lips nervously and asks, "How did you know my name was Stanley?"

I just smile and wink and drive away.

***********

I'm fifteen minutes from the station when I pull up on a major accident. Lucky for me there are already a couple units on the scene. Of course, I'm in the center lane and there are cars all around me. The intersection is shut down and it doesn't look like it's going to be cleared anytime soon. I know the response time for city wreckers, and the only thing I can say is they're better than the cable company.

I call into the station and tell Frannie the situation. I shut off the Riv's engine, ease my seat back and settle in to learn what I can about Susan Bennett's friends.

The Church of the Final Harvest. And I thought we Catholics had depressing names for everything.

It's all pretty cut and dried. The usual nutbag group of losers who are convinced that their leader is the Messiah and they are the chosen of God. You'd think one of these guys could come up with something a little more original. Like, the Church of the Ruby Slippers, dedicated to the truth that Judy is God and we are all just her transvestite children. Hey, at least it would make dressing for work interesting.

Just as the intersection is clearing, I get to the part about the cult's main complex. So that's what they're calling compounds these days.

It's located two hundred miles northeast of Cardston, Alberta, a one horse town just over the border from Montana.

That throws a monkey wrench into the works. Can't send the FBI to raid a robbers' roost located in Mountie Country. Back in the day, I would have just told Benny, and he would have taken care of everything. But this isn't back in the day, and these days Benny isn't taking care of anything but his own business.

Benny may be gone, but the Consulate isn't. When the light changes to green, I pull into the intersection and whip a quick u-turn. I ignore the horns and sign language lessons from the other drivers and head across town.

*

I pull up in front of the Consulate and spend ten minutes in the car repeating over and over, "I can do this. I can do this. I have to do this."

Once I've convinced myself, I get out of the Riv. I walk up to the door. I don't recognize the statue standing guard, so I just nod hello.

As I step inside, I'm blinded by the sudden darkness. While my eyes are adjusting, I have a moment of near-panic. Benny is gone. The Dragon Lady is gone. What if there isn't anyone left who is willing to help me? I could have just wasted thirty minutes of valuable search time.

A familiar voice greets me.

"Detective Vecchio, how are you this fine Winter day?"

It's Turnbull. I'm so relieved that I grin and shake his hand like he's a long lost uncle with a fat bank account.

"Turnbull, my friend. I'm great. How are things in Little Canada?"

He blushes when I call him "friend" and starts telling me all about his plans to decorate the Consulate for Valentine's Day. The guy is a complete idiot. But he's an idiot in red serge. And if I can get one Mountie on my side, maybe the others won't be too far behind.

He's saying something about doilies and confetti when I interrupt him.

"Sounds great, Turnbull. Listen, is your new boss in?"

"Oh, yes. Inspector Allen is doing paperwork."

"Do you think he could spare me a minute."

"I'm sure he could find time for you, Detective."

"Now?" I ask. Doing my best to not lose my temper.

"I'm not sure, Detective."

"Could you ask?"

"Now?"

"Yes, Turnbull. Could you please go and ask -- now -- if Inspector Allen could see me now?"

"Certainly, Detective."

He heads off to talk to the brass, completely unaware that he's just narrowly escaped a choke hold. Even as I'm seething, I can't help but notice how his brown pants hug his ass while his mile long legs stride down the hall. I've got my own theories about how Turnbull made it through the academy and most of them involve Yoga positions and lime Jell-o.

*

Inspector Allen turns out to be a decent guy, more like Welsh than Thatcher, thank God. He makes one phone call to Alberta and says there will be a full security team watching the complex outside Cardston. Tells me to fax him Jackson's picture and he'll have it posted at every border crossing and airport. He offers the full support of the Canadian government and all of the resources of the Consulate, namely, Turnbull.

I almost turn him down on that last bit. But the thought of a Mountie in the passenger seat of the Riv is just too tempting to pass up.

He calls Turnbull into his office.

"Constable, Detective Vecchio is working on a very important case. It involves a child abduction and may have a Canadian connection. He has requested our assistance in this matter. I would like for you to help him, if you feel up to the task."

Turnbull pipes up with, "I would consider it an honor to serve in any capacity my superior officers deem necessary, Sir."

Allen gets this weird look on his face, like he's just been sucker punched. I can tell he's about to change his mind. I stand up and hustle Turnbull out of Allen's office. I thank the Inspector, and he stops me at the door.

"Renfield's father and I graduated together. I've known the boy his whole life. I was his class adviser at the academy. I got him his first duty assignment. Please, keep an eye on him. If there are any -- problems -- call me immediately."

Problems, yeah, I can see it now.

"Inspector, this is Detective Vecchio. I'm having this problem with Turnbull. I'm trying to type a report and he won't stop dusting my desk."

*

I open the passenger door, and it squeals in protest. It hasn't been opened since the test drive. It's been so long that it's almost forgotten how. I throw my shoes carelessly into the back. There's no wolf to worry about hitting, after all. I gallantly motion for Turnbull to take a seat. He slides in easily. He seems more comfortable in the seat of a car than Benny ever did. I shut the door for him. As I head around to the driver's side, I jangle the keys in my hand and whistle a nameless tune. I pop the keys in and turn the ignition. She purrs like a kitten, and I flash a Vecchio special at Turnbull. Things are looking up.

***********

I pull up to the station just as afternoon traffic is getting heavy. The Parking Gods are pleased with me, and I get a space right out front.

I breeze into the station, Mountie in tow. I run into Dewey almost immediately.

"Hey, where's Stanley got himself to?"

Dewey starts to answer. His mouth opens just as his eyes settle on Turnbull. He stands there with his jaw flapping in the wind. He looks from Turnbull to me and back to Turnbull.

"Listen, Dewey, Turnbull is going to be helping us out on this one. You round up Stanley and Jack and meet us in Questioning Room two."

I head off to get a coffee. Turnbull follows behind, like the obedient little puppy that he is.

By the time I get my second coffee just the way I like it -- Turnbull having spilled the first one all over Frannie -- and we make it to the room, Jack and Dewey are already there. They have their heads together and are obviously talking about something.

I clear my throat, and they jump away from each other, like two Junior High kids who just got caught making out.

"Where's Stanley? Oh well, his loss."

I take the chair that's furthest into the room. The one that faces the door. I've seen cops come to blows over the chair that faces the door. Jack and Dewey glance nervously at the door and reluctantly seat themselves across from me. They turn their chairs toward each other, so they can see the door out of the corner of their eyes. Turnbull stands just to my left, like a slave boy out of one of those pornos I keep hidden in my closet.

I fill the guys in on the cult.

"First of all, it's the Church of the Final Harvest, not the House of the Final Harvest. Susan Bennett is one of the big-wigs. The guy is her boytoy. His name is Wallace Reynolds. I don't have anything else on him just yet. And the cult's not out west. It's up north. It's in Alberta, Canada. That's where Turnbull comes in.

"He's our liaison with the Canadian government. We tell him what we need and he gets it for us."

"Ideally, we'll stop Susan before she makes it out of the state. If not, hopefully the Mounties will catch her at the border. Worst case scenario, she makes it to the complex and we have another Waco on our hands."

I wait for an intelligent response from my fellow officers. But they're too busy staring at Turnbull. I snap my fingers at them.

"Hello. Earth to the Duckboys. Quack, quack. Is anybody in there?"

Huey answers. He never takes his eyes off the Mountie, but he answers.

"Kowalski got the boyfriend's name and address out of Jackson's dad. He should be talking to the guy's mom right now."

"Well, I guess the rest of us will just have to sit around and wait for Stanley to check in. Seeing as how he didn't let his partner know where he was going."

Dewey starts to say something smart, but Jack kicks him under the table.

I face Turnbull.

"I'm starving. Feel like some Italian while we're waiting for Stan?"

"That sounds like a fine idea, Detective. Unless you would rather visit the Church of the Final Harvest's local chapter."

"Local chapter?" I ask doubtfully.

Dewey looks up from rubbing his shin and Jack just keeps staring.

"Yes, they are located in an industrial structure that sits on the site of the old stockyourds. There was an article about them in last Wednesday's Chicago Tribune, section B, page fourteen, column two. Surely you read it."

"Oh yeah. Ray Vecchio reads the paper front to back everyday."

I grin at Turnbull and kick Dewey under the table.

*

We brave rush hour traffic, and after forty-five minutes and a vocabulary lesson for Turnbull, we arrive at the old stockyourds.

The place is huge. I could have looked for days and never found the right suite. Turnbull had the map in the paper memorized. He leads me right to the front door.

It's a nondescript one story building with minimal landscaping and a faux-stucco finish to the exterior. The door is locked, so I knock and wait. My third try gets us buzzed in by an old guy who looks more like somebody's grand dad than a brainwashed nutcase.

"Good evening, gentlemen. Welcome to the Church of the Final Harvest. I am Brother Henry. What are you seeking?"

"Mr. Henry. I'm Detective Vecchio, Chicago PD. This is Constable Turnbull, RCMP. We'd like to ask you some questions concerning a kidnapping."

Judging from old Henry's reaction, I'd say this was a touchy subject.

"All of our family are here of their own choosing. They are free to leave at any time. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me..."

I'm ready to throw down on the old geezer when Turnbull comes to the rescue.

"That is what it said in the Tribune article, Brother Henry. It also said that your organization was well know for it's involvement in community projects."

Henry's ears perked right up at that bit.

"That is correct. We use our many charitable concerns to contact those who are lost."

"That is why we are here now, Brother Henry. We know of your organization's desire to help, especially where families are concerned. We read about your Church's views on parenthood and the importance of the father acting as head of the household. We are working on a child abduction case where a woman has stolen her son from his father. I'm sure you see the problem with this situation."

My eyes narrow as I listen to what Turnbull is saying. I watch Henry closely, waiting for him to contradict the Mountie, but he doesn't. Something is not right here. Something beyond all of the messed up religious crap this groups prints in its literature. How can a woman be in a position of power in a group that thinks men are naturally superior?

I file that thought away for later and go back to watching Turnbull in action.

He's standing close to Henry, looking him right in the eye. He has his hand on the old guy's shoulder and is speaking to him like they are long lost family. Who is this guy and what has he done with my Constable?

"Oh yes, Constable. It is well known that too much of a feminine influence on young boys leads to schizophrenia, homosexuality and other mental problems."

"I knew we could count on your help, Henry. Now, if you could just tell us where we could locate Susan Bennett, you could help us avert a horrible tragedy."

When Turnbull mentions Susan Bennett, Henry gets that rabbit look in his eyes.

"Just a moment and I'll go locate her in our files."

He almost runs out of the room.

"Come on, Turnbull. This guy isn't going to tell us anything. Let's head back to the station and see what Stanley has to say."

I turn my back to the door Henry just left through. So I see what happens next reflected in the tinted glass of the storefront's windows.

Some guy who looks like a greasy, overweight biker ninja bursts out of the door and rushes me. Just before his switchblade buries itself in my back, Turnbull tosses his Stetson on the desk and clothes-lines the guy.

Biker dude goes flying in the air and lands flat on his back. Turnbull grabs the hand that's holding the knife and rolls the guy over onto his stomach. He twists the guy's arm up into the air and puts his knee into the biker's back. Turnbull slams his free hand down on the biker dude's knife hand -- hard.

I hear the guy's wrist snap and watch the switchblade as it falls. Turnbull snatches the knife out of the air and flips it closed. He tucks it into his Sam Browne and uses his lanyourd to tie up the guy's wrists.

All of this takes less than five seconds.

I whip around, and Turnbull is standing there looking a me with his usual blank expression. He picks his Stetson up off of the desk and walks outside.

I take biker ninja out to the Riv. Turnbull is standing next to the car looking a little green around the gills. He isn't the first person to feel the effects of an adrenaline dump. I stick my moaning prisoner into the back seat and motion for Turnbull to get in.

"Listen, Turnbull. Thanks for everything."

He looks at me like he has no idea what I'm referring to.

"You're very welcome, Detective. Shall we go have that meal now?"

Five minutes ago he's Counseling Man. Thirty seconds ago he's SuperMountie. Now he's just Turnbull.

I think it might be time to call Inspector Allen.

***********

I call Frannie at the station and tell her that we're going to need an ambulance and backup. Lots of backup.

When everyone arrives, I pass my prisoner off to the Emergency Techs. They take one look at his blue and purple shattered wrist and insist on transporting him to Chicago General. A couple of uniforms climb into the ambulance with him and off they go.

Officers get all of the exits to the "Church" covered and Air One hovers just overhead. It's about twenty degrees out here and it looks like it might snow, but no one is complaining. Frannie tells me later that the dispatcher had to order officers to stay away. So many wanted to show up to help, that the 911 calls were starting to stack up.

Lieutenant Welsh shows up with a search warrant from Judge Palmer, a devout free-thinker and devoted mother of three.

We do a really thorough, systematic search of the building. We even send the dog men in to check for Jackson. Of course, we don't find anyone inside. They had plenty of time to slip out the back.

Welsh and Jack want to discuss our next move. I'm too busy kicking myself for not bringing backup in the first place to be of much help. Jackson might have been in the building the whole time. Now we'll never know. If anyone but Turnbull had suggested we come here, I would have requested at least six officers right away.

This train of thought brings me back to what happened here earlier. I haven't told anyone about Turnbull's actions. Who would believe me? I look around for the dope and find him standing next to the Riv, staring off into space. He seems lost in thought, with a decidedly un-Turnbull-like expression on his face.

I guess he feels me looking at him, because his head turns and his piercing gaze meets mine. I get this sick feeling in my gut and reach out and grab the side of a patrol car to keep from falling. I know those eyes. I know the look in those eyes. The last time I saw them looking at me like that, they were staring down the sights of a semi-auto pistol that was pointed at my head.

He was trying to kill me and he was trying to kill Benny and he was trying to kill our prisoner. Benny and I arrested him. I had to blow up the Riv to do it, but we stopped him from killing us, and we took him back to Canada -- to prison.

A uniform walks by him and accidentally bumps him with the baton that is swinging from her belt. She whips around to make some smart crack, and her eyes settle on his gorgeous face. She puts on an inviting smile and apologizes. He stammers out that it was all his fault and looks around desperately. The eyes that return to mine are nervous and somehow empty. They are begging for my help.

I free him from the officer's clutches by sending her to check on my prisoner's status at the hospital.

Turnbull gives me a big dopey grateful grin. If I hadn't seen his SuperMountie act earlier, I could almost convince myself that he wasn't the mobster who had hunted me and Benny like dogs. But I saw his act and I saw his eyes.

I don't fully understand, yet, but I'm beginning to see what Inspector Allen meant by 'problems'. I don't like being kept in the dark, and I don't like being used. Right now I'm feeling like a two-bit whore who has been thrown in a black hole.

I decide not to call the Good Inspector after all. He wants me to use Turnbull's talents? Fine. I can do that. I'll use him. I'll use him up, if that's what it takes to get Jackson Bennett back.

*

Officer Friendly comes back and informs Turnbull that my prisoner has been treated and released from the ER. He is, even as we speak, in the back seat of a patrol car, being transported to the twenty-seventh.

Turnbull stutters. I thank her and pile him into the Riv. Her engine whines in protest against the cold, before settling in to a satisfying purr. I rev her up a few times to get the heater going, and we head back to the station.

"So, Turnbull, what's your first name?"

"Renfield."

"No, your first name."

"Renfield."

"Geez. What is with you Canadians? Do any of you have first names?"

***********

I'm pacing up and down in the station hallway trying not to think. because the more I think, the more pissed I get. Who the hell does Vecchio think he is, anyway? I may not be the real Ray Vecchio, but I am a real police detective, goddammit.

He goes to question a shrink and ends up pulling a major bust on one of the cult-freaks' offices. He doesn't even bother to call me to let me know. So I didn't tell him about Wallace's mom. So what? Freaking primadonna asshole. There's a big difference between talking to a fifty year old librarian and raiding a den of psychos.

When Mr. Too Big For His Britches walks through that door, I'm going to treat him to an extra helping of whoop ass.

*

Turnbull and I make it back to the station before my prisoner. I sit down at Bauman's desk and Frannie brings me a folder on the guy. She stands there like she's waiting for something. So I tell her to order some sandwiches from Schneider's. She stalks off and throws a, "You're welcome," over her shoulder. Oh well, no time to wonder what's wrong with her today.

I lean back in Bauman's chair and open the file on Kermit Adams. I catch some movement out of the corner of my eye and swivel around to see Turnbull sitting in the chair at the side of the desk. I allow myself a moment of regret that he's not Benny. For a second, I berate myself for what I am willing to do to him. I almost send him home. But then he gives me one of his stupid smiles and hatred, overwhelming and white hot, surges through my veins. He tried to kill me. Worse, he tried to kill my Benny. I cover the rush of my emotions with a weak smile and send him to the bathroom. I tell him the interrogation could take a while and he's better relieve himself while he has the chance.

He rises gracefully from the chair and smiles down at me from some serious altitude. His size suddenly dawns on me. The guy is huge. He could bring one of those pan-sized hands down on my head and crush me like a daisy.

He obediently heads toward the men's room. As my eyes follow his ass, I realize that his thinking is very literal. So far he's done everything I've told him, without question. The idea of all of that strength at my command is a big turn on. I can use him all right. I can think of a thousand and one uses for him.

*

I'm pacing, and I'm punching my left palm with my right fist. I'm trying not to think. But for once, I can't stop.

Dewey comes walking by on his way to the John and tells me Vecchio's back. I whip around to head down the hallway. I'm trying to decide whether I should yell at him first and then kick him in the head or kick him in the head first and then yell at him.

I take exactly three steps and walk right into a wall. A warm, muscular wall. I jump back, all ready to jump Bogart on the unlucky schmuck who got in my way. Before I can smart off, a big, strong hand is pressed against my left pec. I'm shoved up against a wall and held there by that familiar palm.

I look up into blue eyes -- Renfield's eyes. His pupils are real big and the blue is so dark it's almost black. His breathing is rough and heavy, like he's just run a mile in the snow. He's leaning over me, smelling my hair. His thumb is rubbing small circles over my nipple and he's whispering something in my ear. It's my name.

"Ray."

His warm breath is like a caress to my love starved skin. A shudder runs through my body, and I can't stop a whimper from escaping my throat.

This is crazy. This is insane. We're in the middle of the hallway at the precinct house, and anyone could walk by any second. I should be worried. I should be terrified. I should push him away. I should do something. But he's touching me. I've waited for so long. I've wanted for so long. He's touching me, and he feels so good.

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the wall, and I just feel. I feel his warm breath on my neck and his trembling hand on my chest and his granite thigh as it slides between my own. My knees give out, and he grabs my belt with his free hand and forces me to stay on my feet.

I hear footsteps and a loud gasp. My eyes fly open, and Frannie is standing there looking like she just caught Santa Claus with his pants down. Renfield lets go of me and walks into the John.

I turn away from Frannie and make for the break room. I snag a chair and stick my head between my knees. I'm breathing like a freight train. I'm feeling faint and I have a boner the size of Canada.

Just when I think I'm going to lose it, somebody puts a cold towel on my neck and a glass of ice water in my hand. I suck the water down like I've been in the Sahara for a year and take the towel and press it to my eyes.

When I move the towel and look around, I see Frannie staring at me. She doesn't look angry or grossed out or anything, just worried.

She starts to say something a couple times, but stops herself. Finally, she decides to stick to a safe topic.

"Ray's back. He has the prop that jumped his bones in room three. He wants you to watch, see if you pick up anything."

"That's perp, Frannie."

"Prop, perp, whatever."

She kisses me on the forehead and heads out to give me a few minutes to get my shit together.

I feel like hell, but I can't resist.

"Hey, Frannie, If I wasn't -- you know -- you would be so mine."

She smiles and puts a little extra wiggle in her walk as she moves away. That Vecchio is one lucky bastard.

***********

Jack and I are standing at Bauman's desk, discussing our interrogation strategies when Dewey comes walking up.

"Hey, Vecchio, what's up with the Mountie? You been feeding him out of the vending machines or what?

"There I am, just sitting on the John doing a little light reading. Somebody comes in and starts donating last weeks lunch. I look down and see Turnbull's legs sticking out from under the stall.

"Whatever he's got better not be catching or I'm going to kick your ass, Vecchio."

Huey answers for me.

"It must have been someone else. Mounties don't get sick. Everybody knows that."

Turnbull comes walking up looking fresh as a Mountie on display. I head for the Questioning Room, look around and realize I'm alone.

The Duck Boys are arguing about what Dewey saw and heard in the men's room. Turnbull is just standing between them, wearing his usual vacant expression.

"Hustle up boys. Quack, quack. Come on. Wouldn't want to keep Kermit waiting, would we?"

Jack and Dewey don't stop arguing, but they head down the hall, after shooting me dirty looks. Turnbull doesn't move.

"Come on, Rennie. Let's get cracking."

I resume my walk, not even bothering to look back. I know Turnbull is following me, like a puppy on a leash.

*

The four of us file into the Questioning Room - the box. I sit across from Kermit. Turnbull and the Duck Boys stand behind me, trying to intimidate biker ninja and protecting my back from the door.

I go through the motions of conducting an interview, but I can tell within thirty seconds that I'm not going to get anything out of Mr. Adams tonight. His pupils are so big you could drive a truck through them and he's drooling, just a bit. Leave it to our wonderful public hospital to fry my only lead.

I get through the obligatory "What is your name? Where do you live?" crap and I turn to Jack. He shakes his head no.

No new information for us tonight. No leads. No Jackson Bennett.

I make a small signal toward the large mirror on the wall just to the left of the door. Moments later, two uniforms appear and lead Kermit to a holding cell.

Jack, Dewey and I agree to be back here at six in the morning. We figure the pain meds should have worn off by then. I have a feeling the nurse won't be able to find his pills when it's time for his next dosage.

I send Turnbull to get my coat and my file on Kermit. I lean back in my chair, intending to rest my eyes for a minute. Suddenly, the door flies open and I'm pulled out of my chair. Before I can react, I'm slammed into the wall and my head bounces off of the mirror's safety glass.

When I can focus again, I'm looking one hundred sixty pounds of pissed off Polack in the eyes. I try to push him away, but he shoves me back into the mirror, harder this time. His face is inches from mine and he's screaming at me.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, Vecchio? What the fuck do you think you're doing? Who died and made you king of the fricking universe?"

He's so mad he's shaking and there's a vein on his forehead that looks like it's about to burst.

"Don't get your panties in a bind, Stanley. I'm not the one who left the station without notifying my partner about where I could be found.

"If you're so concerned about solving this case, you should take more care with how you conduct your skinny ass."

His face turns bright red and he starts shaking me.

"Fuck the fucking case, you Dago ass-lick! I don't give a flying fuck about your fucking stunt at the warehouse!"

For a second, I think he's going to hit me. But he doesn't. He lets go of me and starts pacing around the little room. I can hear him counting to ten, over and over.

Finally he gets back in my face, but this time he doesn't lay a hand on me.

"What I do care about is Renfield. Why the fuck did you bring him here? He can't handle something like this, and you know it."

He stops talking and looks me in the eye. He's searching for something. I don't know what it is, but he obviously sees it, and he doesn't like it one bit.

"You listen to me, you son of a bitch. You can put him in your car, you can drag him around behind you, you can dress him in flannel and you can call him 'Rennie'. Hell, you can even send off to Mounties R US and get him his very own genuine Arctic wolf. But the one thing you can't do is you cannot make him Fraser.

"You fucking bastard. He's a human being, not some snot rag you use up and throw away. So he's not all there in the mental department, that doesn't mean he's not a person. You stay the fuck away from him. You had your chance and you fucked it up -- twice.

"I ain't as smart at the famous Ray Vecchio, but I'm smart enough to know a good thing when I see it. He's my chance. If I fuck it up that's my business. But I'll kill anybody that fucks it up for me."

Who does this little Bo-hunk think he is anyway. Nobody talks to Armando Langostini like that and lives.

"That's a very touching speech, Stanley. But I don't have any idea what you're talking about."

"Oh I get it, Vecchio. I had a piece of your Mountie, so you want a slice of mine."

Reality fades. I see red and can't hear anything but the beating of my black heart. My fist takes control of my disjointed mind. I swing blindly and feel my punch land with a satisfying crack against his unshaven jaw. The bastard just smiles at me. He rubs at his jaw and his tongue darts out to taste the blood pooling in the corner of his lip.

I bow up. My muscles tense and my body dumps a gallon of adrenaline into my already overworked veins. I take a step toward him. He drops into a trained fighter's stance and his fists come up. He's still smiling.

The doorknob turns and we both drop back. Turnbull steps inside. He's carrying my coat, my file and his Stetson. He takes one look at the blood on Kowalski's face and drops his bundle on the table.

He pulls out a pristine handkerchief and presses it to Kowalski's lip, not even bothering to ask permission.

"Stanley, you're bleeding. What ever happened?"

Kowalski looks at Turnbull like he's hoping for something more. He doesn't find it. He pulls away from the Mountie's ministrations. He picks up the Stetson and hands it to Turnbull.

"I'm okay, Renfield. I tripped and hit my face on the table. Why don't I take you home and you can clean me up there."

He hustles Turnbull out the door. Before he leaves, he turns to me.

"Benny is supposed to be calling me tonight, Vecchio. Is there anything you want I should tell him?

"I didn't think so."

He leaves. Thankfully, he shuts the door.

God damned bastard. How dare he use that name.

All of the unused energy from our fight is still working its way through my body -- fight or flight. But now I have no one to swing at and no where to run. My body doesn't care about that. All it cares about is getting rid of this adrenaline.

I start shaking. My pores open and sweat oozes from my skin. The tears and the snot flow freely. I know I must look like a Heroin junkie coming down from a three day high, but I can't do anything about it. It has to run its course.

I'm not new to this. No cop is. But it's always been over something work related, a foot chase or a shooting or getting in a ground fight with a suspect. It's never been personal. It's never been this bad.

Time slows down when you get the adrenaline DT's. It's one of the body's ways of giving you enough time to react to a life threatening situation. All it does now is give me time to think, to wallow in self-pity.

When you're caught in the moment. When it's do or die, you can actually see the bullet coming at you. I know. I've been there -- twice. I never saw this coming. I didn't have time to prepare for it. Kowalski sucker punched me. I'm sure he thinks I'm down for the count. All that shows is that he doesn't have any idea what it really means to be a Vecchio.

The shaking and the tears slow and then finally, they stop. I pull out a wrinkled handkerchief and clean myself up as best I can. I grab my coat and file from off the table and head out.

I'm going to pick up something to eat and then go home and straight to bed. I'm going to need a good night's sleep, if I'm going to have time to pick up Turnbull before I head into work in the morning.

***********

I show up at Turnbull's door at a few minutes past five. It's not even light out yet, but I can hear him moving around inside. When he opens the door in response to my beleaguered knocking, I almost lose it. At the last second, I manage to turn my laugh into a smile.

He's got a serious case of bedhead, his navy pajamas are rumpled and he's wearing an apron -- a real honest to God chintz apron, just like the one hanging in Ma's kitchen.

He looks flustered to find me on his doorstep.

"Morning, Rennie, you mind if I come in?"

I step over the threshold before he can answer and make myself at home on one of his two mismatched breakfast chairs. The place is spotless, but it's a design nightmare. He obviously uses the same interior decorator as Benny.

He's still standing at the door. It's clear that no one has bothered to program this situation into his "How to behave properly" Mountie manual. He's looking around like he's waiting for someone to tell him what to do. If there's anything I'm good at, it's giving orders.

"Shut the door, Rennie. You need to get changed. We have to be at the station at six."

He obeys immediately. He shuts the door and turns the bolts -- all four of them.

"Of course, Detective. I was just washing my breakfast dishes. It won't take a moment for me to finish."

"There's no time, Rennie. Leave them for tonight. Oh, and put on some street clothes. I talked to Inspector Allen last night and he thinks it wouldn't be appropriate for you to participate in questioning a suspect while you're in uniform. You do have street clothes, don't you?"

For the first time, he balks at one of my commands.

"I have to wash the dishes, Detective. I always wash them before I leave for work.

"I get up and go to the bathroom. I wash my hands and make oatmeal, bacon and eggs for breakfast. I drink one glass of orange juice and two glasses of milk. Then I wash the dishes before I change for work. I have to wash the dishes before I change for work."

Like Kowalski said, the guy isn't all there in the mental department. But I know when to pick my battles. This one isn't worth the risk of angering the Titan.

"Sure thing, Rennie. Just make it quick, will you?"

*

We walk into the station at three to six and everything stops. It's like one of those movies where the guy finds a device that freezes time for everyone but himself.

All the women are staring. Hell, all of the men are staring. I can't say I blame them. After all, it isn't every day that six and a half feet of Greek God comes sauntering into this shithole.

Turnbull is perfect, from the top of his flawlessly coiffed hair to the tip of his freshly shined black Doc Martin's.

He's wearing a white T-shirt that is stretched tightly across the continent of his chest. You can see just the barest hint of his nipples as the thick fabric worries at them, making them harden slightly. Blackwork from some sort of tribal looking tattoo peeks out from the hem of his right sleeve. The brown leather band of his wristwatch draws attention to the corded muscles of his forearm.

His Levi's are worn almost white from age, but they're freshly washed and pressed. They hug his form so snugly that not even the sleeves of the red flannel shirt that is tied around his waist can hide the impressive package that they're swaying loosely in front of.

*

Even Turnbull isn't too dense to notice the reaction his presence is generating.

"Is something wrong, Detective? Perhaps I should go home and change. My attire would appear to be too casual. You did say street wear, but I think people are staring at my jeans."

"No, you look fine, Rennie. They aren't staring at your jeans."

They're staring at what's in your jeans.

"They're just glad to see us. It means we can get started questioning our suspect.

"Listen, I'm going to get a coffee. Why don't you go wait in the observation room. I want you to watch the interview, but I want to keep you in reserve -- bring you in if it looks like Kermit wants to cause trouble."

He strides across the floor toward the observation room. The only sounds that surround him are the whining hum of the precinct's heaters and the gentle "whisk, whisk" of his jeans as his thighs slide past one another.

*

Welsh comes up to me in the breakroom. He says Stanley won't be into the station this morning. He's going to follow up on some information he got from Boytoy's mother.

I don't buy it. I know why Stan the Man is playing hide-n-seek. I don't say anything to Lieu, though. It suits me just fine. This way, he won't have to explain his split lip to Welsh, and I can have Turnbull all to myself.

*

Huey, Dewey and I spend the next ten hours taking turns with Kermit Thetford Adams. He's one hell of a dancer, that's for sure. He's very open and helpful until we get to the important questions. Then he does a verbal tapdance that would leave Fred Astaire breathless.

I'm on my fifth round with Kermit. My jacket is thrown over my chair and my tie is in Bauman's top right desk drawer. I've got sweat stains under my arms and down my back. I'm sure I stink like yesterday's fish dinner. My back aches, my head is pounding and my voice is almost gone. I'm just about to throw down on Kermit when Huey comes in and makes the tag.

I walk down the hall, straight to the water fountain. I press the button and miraculously water comes pouring out. I don't even bother with trying to drink. I just stick my face into the blessedly cold stream.

I straighten up and someone thrusts a wad of napkins from Schneider's Deli in my hand. I dry off and thank Turnbull. He's doesn't say "you're welcome" or "it's no trouble" or any of that other Mountie stuff. He just starts in on one of his weird monologues.

"It's twelve minutes past sixteen hundred hours, Detective. I need to be going. It's time for you to take me to the Consulate. I need to shower and change. Stanley is going to be picking me up at exactly eighteen hundred hours. We're going to a Hockey game tonight. It's the Leafs against the Hawks."

"Listen, Rennie, I don't think Stanley is going to make your date. He's working on some leads. In fact, he's probably forgotten all about tonight."

He looks at me like I'm the idiot.

"Oh no, Detective, today is Thursday. Stanley always picks me up on Thursday. He's always there at exactly eighteen hundred hours, and I always wait for him in the lobby of the Consulate.

"Well, he was late once, but that was months ago. He promised he'd never be late again, and he hasn't. So, you see, it's time for you to drive me there."

I valiantly resist the urge to deck him in that blabbering mouth of his. I decide to lay it all out on the table and hope that some light makes its way into the tar pit that he uses for a brain.

"Rennie, we've been pounding away at this guy for hours now. He's finally getting tired. He's about to break. I can sense it. When he does break, he's going to give us information that could end this case.

"I'm not psychic. So I can't tell you exactly when he's going to start spilling his guts. But it's going to be soon. And I promise that as soon as we have the information, I will drive you straight to the consulate. I will even use lights and sirens, if you want."

I can see the buttons in his head being pressed, but I'm not sure if the thrusters are firing. When he finally speaks, I offer up a prayer to the Madonna for allowing the two brain cells he has to bump off of one another.

"You will take me to the Consulate as soon as Mr. Adams gives you the information you need to locate Jackson Bennett and his mother?"

"I promise."

"Very well, Detective."

I walk into the observation room and flop into the seat next to Dewey.

*

Huey's working the room like a pro. He's using all of that sophisticated charm of his to wheedle the information out of Adams.

He's offering the scumbag something to drink when the door opens. Jack looks up and can't hide his surprise at it being Turnbull that enters.

Adams swings his head around to see who the intruder is. His eyes get really big and he licks his lips nervously.

Jack is too busy looking at Turnbull to notice Kermit's reaction.

Turnbull smiles at Jack, but when he speaks, he's looking at Kermit.

"Excuse me, Detective Huey, I was wondering if it would be possible for me to speak with Mr. Adams for a few moments."

Dewey leans forward in his seat.

"Oooh, this is going to be good. I wonder if I have time to get popcorn and a pop."

Jack is too surprised to do anything but agree.

"Um, sure, Turnbull."

"Thank you, Detective."

Turnbull reaches out with one of those enormous hands of his and palms the back of Adams' head like a basketball.

He drags the guy across the room and mashes his face into the two way mirror.

"Mr. Adams, I have this problem and I think you might be able to help me.

"Do you see this mirror? Detective Huey tells me that this mirror is bullet resistant. Theoretically, that means it is unbreakable. Now, being a man of faith, you are probably willing to take the Detective at his word. Am I right?

Kermit doesn't respond, so Turnbull flexes the muscles in his hand, nodding Kermit's head for him.

"I thought so. I envy your faith. I envy it, but I don't share it. I've always been more of a man of science myself. And being a man of science, I find that the only way I can accept a theory is to test it.

"This is where you come in. You are going to help me test Detective Huey's theory.

"Detective Huey also tells me that you have an uncommonly hard head. So I have devised a little test that you and I can perform together.

"I'm going to smash your face into this supposedly unbreakable mirror until one of you cracks. Shall we begin?"

Adams comes out of shock and starts struggling to free himself. He grabs desperately at Turnbull's hand, trying to pry it from his head.

"You can't do this to me! I know my rights! You're a lunatic!"

Turnbull smiles at Adams, but his eyes are cold.

"That is what my last psychological evaluation said. I believe it likened my mental state to a block of Swiss cheese."

Turnbull grinds Adams' face across the glass and blood starts to leak from his nose.

"I'll sue your whole department! I'm going to own the Chicago PD!"

Turnbull's eyes are blue ice. He puts his lips to Adams ear and whispers, "I imagine that would be a highly effective deterrent, if I was a member of the Chicago Police Department, but I'm not."

Turnbull digs his fingers into Adams' hair and draws his arm back like he's going to let loose with a fastball. Adams throws his hands up to protect his face from the blow and starts squealing like a girl.

"The Copper Tank! The Copper Tank! She's hid out in a room over that brew pub on Coolidge Street."

Turnbull lets go of Kermit's hair. The shell of a man drops to the floor like a rock. Turnbull smooths his T-shirt and looks down at the weeping mass of goo on the floor.

"Thank you, kindly."

He nods at Huey and walks out of the room. Jack turns and looks toward Dewey and me, trying to see us through the mirror. Dewey looks at me. I smile.

"You were right, Dewey. That was good. I have to get Turnbull home now. You boys see to the search warrant."

Before I walk out of the observation room, I take one last look in the box. Kermit hasn't moved, neither has Jack.

***********

I step into the hallway and see Turnbull waiting for me by the water fountain. Unexpectedly, Stanley comes slinking around the corner. He sees Turnbull and pulls up short. Before he can say anything, Turnbull grabs him by one skinny arm and drags him into questioning room four.

I glance around, but there isn't anyone else in the hallway. I don't hesitate. I step into observation room four to watch.

They don't speak. Turnbull is brutally efficient as he pulls Stanley out of his coat and throws it to the ground. He forces the smaller man back until he is pinned against the far wall.

Turnbull yanks Stan's shirt out of his pants and pulls it up, exposing a slim muscular chest and small flat brown nipples. The Mountie sucks on one nipple and twists the other cruelly between large calloused fingers.

Stan yells and grabs the larger man's head, but he doesn't try to stop him. Turnbull takes Stan's hands in his and curls the Polack's slender fingers around the edge of the table before he returns his own hands to his willing victim's body.

Stan gets the picture -- looky no touchy. And he is looking. He's watching as Turnbull's nails drag down his chest, leaving angry red welts in their wake. He's watching as the Mountie sucks his stomach just above the waistband of his painted on jeans. He's watching as the buttons on his pants are undone and the pants are pulled down, exposing a bony hip. He's watching as his hip bone is sucked and bitten.

Then he is turned around and he can't see anything but the wall's peeling paint. So I watch for both of us.

I reach out and lock the door to the observation room. Then I reach for the zipper on my slacks and I free my erection. My cock is rock hard and leaking. It's heat burns my my fingers as I begin stroking myself.

Turnbull has one hand between Kowalski's shoulder blades, holding him in place. His other hand has Stan's hip in a grip that must be leaving bruises.

Turnbull's hand snakes around and I don't have to wonder what it's got a hold of. I can tell by the way Kowalski jerks and groans. Turnbull's arm starts pumping back and forth and Kowalski starts moaning and sweating.

The big man finally speaks. His voice is too low for me to hear, at first. But, as the speed of his arm increases, so does his volume. He's repeating the same word endlessly. It bursts from his mouth in perfect time with pumping of his arm, with the stroking of my hand.

He is repeating my name.

"Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray"

I know he isn't thinking of me, but it doesn't matter. I shudder. My hand grips my cock convulsively. I cry out softly, as I come into a napkin from Schneider's Deli that I found sitting on a chair.

Someone pounds on the questioning room door, demanding entry.

"Hey! Who the Hell is in there? I got this room reserved for four thirty!"

Turnbull jumps back like he's been struck. He turns away from Stanley and fights to calm his breathing.

Stan pushes himself away from the wall and struggles with his tight jeans and shaking hands. He retrieves his jacket from the floor. As Kowalski is putting the jacket on, Turnbull opens the door and leaves, without once looking at Stan.

Two uniforms push past the Mountie. They keep bitching until they see Stanley.

"Detective Kowalski. Sorry we interrupted. If you need this room for your stolen kid case, we can come back later."

Stanley doesn't say anything. He leaves without acknowledging their presence.

One uniform turns to the other.

"Poor guy. I wouldn't want to be in his boots right now."

The other agrees. They begin discussing exactly how they are going to get their suspect, a ninety year old man they believe tried to kill his twenty-four year old wife so he and his sixty year old mistress could have the insurance money, to confess.

I slip the napkin into my coat pocket. I'll throw it out later. I wouldn't want to have to explain that little bit of evidence to anyone. I tuck my cock back into my pants and close the zipper. I unlock the door and head out to find Huey and Dewey.

I find them standing next to the coffee machine, arguing.

"I'm telling you, Turnbull's got something nasty. I go outside to get some fresh air and he's out there, hurling chunks behind the dumpster."

"I thought you said he was throwing up in the men's room."

"That was yesterday. I'm talking about two minutes ago."

"It must have been someone else."

"Oh yeah, some other eight foot tall buffed boy in jeans and Doc Martin's."

"Exactly."

"You are unbelievable."

I interrupt them before my brain turns to mush.

"I'm sure this is all very intellectually stimulating, boys, and I wouldn't want to ruin one of the great philosophical discussions of the century, but do you think you could spare a minute and get to work on that search warrant?"

*

If Turnbull was a normal human, he'd be in the back seat of Kowalski's piece of shit car with his dick up the guy's tight little ass right about now. But he isn't normal. He may not even be human.

Stanley always picks him up at the consulate at six. So that's what he's planning on.

By now he's outside in the parking lot, ready for the Vecchio Taxi Service to make its last run of the day. I'm sure of it.

I walk out to the Riv and Turnbull is standing there waiting for me. I open the passenger door and he slides inside. I jump in and off we head to the consulate.

***********

I was about five seconds from getting my rocks off, when those jokers interrupted. First time since my divorce that I wasn't going to be alone when I shot my load, and they had to ruin it for me. So, excuse the hell out of me if I don't feel like making small talk.

I walk past them, straight to the locker room. I grab my lock, but I can't remember the combination. I press my face to the door of my locker and let the metal drain some of the heat from my face.

Some uniform who's so new he's still polishing his shoes comes up and says, "Don't worry, Detective, you'll get your guy."

I decide to take this as a sign. I smile at the kid and thank him. This gives him some courage and he speaks again.

"It's almost five, Detective. You'd better hurry. You don't want to be late for -- you know -- your Thursday."

I laugh and punch him lightly in the arm. He looks real happy with himself. It's nice to know someone is.

"Right you are. Now if I could just find a pair of bolt cutters for this damned lock."

The kid, DeMarquis "call me D" Dunn, saves me the trouble. He sneaks into Welsh's office and gets the combination out of my file.

We all have to list our combination, dry cleaners, priest, stuff like that, in case something happens and we aren't around to clean out our own stuff and turn our equipment back into the city. It's real creepy when you're writing it all down, but I was glad for it right now.

I strip real quick. I don't want to think about the last time these pants were around my ankles. I sure don't want to be walking around to the station shower with Big Ray standing at attention.

I throw my stuff in a pile on the floor next to my locker, toss a towel over my shoulder, slip on the old handy dandy shower shoes and head out to perform the traditional "locker room shower dance".

You get the temperature of the water just right. Then, you listen for the music. Some guy yells out "flushing!" and you jump out of the way before you get your ass boiled. If you time things just right, you step back under the stream just as it returns to where you set it.

I've just finished soaping up my hair. I'm letting it set for a minute. That stuff I use to style it is pretty shampoo resistant. I'm standing with my back to the water, letting it hit me right between my shoulder blades -- in the exact spot where Renfield had his hand pressing me into the wall.

I hear someone walk up to the shower. Welsh's voice calls out to me.

"Kowalski."

I face him and his eyes get real big for a second. Then they're back to normal.

"Listen, Kowalski, about the Hockey game,"

"Aww, come on, Lieu, I know we usually go together, but you said two weeks ago that you couldn't go tonight. Besides, It's Thursday."

"Flushing!"

"I know it's Thursday. I'm not trying to ruin your love life. Vecchio got Susan Bennett's last known location out of that scumbag. We're trying to get a search warrant. Judge Palmer left on vacation this morning, so we're having a little trouble locating a friendly magistrate.

"Flushing!"

"We're hoping we can raid the place tonight. I'm going to need you there. Now, I can keep you here . . ."

He holds up a hand when he sees I'm about to interrupt.

". . . or, I can . . ."

"Flushing!"

". . . or I can put you on standby."

I grin with relief.

"Standby means that you do not turn off your cell phone and you take one of the station's pagers."

"Standby sounds good."

"Flushing!"

"Flushing!"

"Flushing!"

"When I get the warrant in my hands, I want this thing to go immediately. I don't want the press getting word of this before it happens. So it's probably best if you watch the game at home."

"Can do, Lieu."

"Flushing!"

"Oh, and one more thing, Kowalski, just for my peace of mind, she has had her rabies shots, hasn't she?"

He nods his chin toward my chest. I look down and see a couple long red scratch marks on my stomach and a big purple hickey on my hip.

I groan and step under the shower.

"Flushing!"

Just before Welsh walks out of the locker room door, he yells back into the room.

"What is this anyway, a police station or a pregnant women's convention? If you people can't hold it better than this, I'm going to start rationing the coffee!"

*

I'm real worried about telling Renfield there's been a change in plans. So I practice this speech in my head, all the way to the consulate. At least, I try to. I suck at this speech stuff. Now if I could just jump his bones, I could convince him -- in about three seconds -- that going to my place for tonsil hockey would be lots better than sitting with twenty thousand people watching ice hockey.

But he's making the rules here, and his rules say I'm the jumpee, not the jumper -- works for me. I'll be the obedient little bottom boy, if that's what turns his crank. Hell, I'll wear a pink tutu and a crash helmet, if he asks.

I pull up in front of the consulate and Renfield is standing on the front steps. I'm so surprised by his change in routine that I start to get out of the car without putting it in park. That's a sure way to get in his pants, run over myself with my own car. I slam the breaks. The GTO jumps and black smoke and that gross burning-rubber smell come from the tires.

Before I can get out of the car, Renfield opens the passenger door and climbs inside. He looks like everybody's All-American or All-Canadian, I guess.

He's still wearing his black Doc Martin's, but he's now got on matching black jeans. The sleeves on his white turtleneck are pushed up almost to his elbows and it's topped off by a Mapleleafs white and blue home jersey.

He looks like the poster boy for clean living. Next to him, I look like the poster boy for birth control.

Oh, I got on black boots and jeans just like him. But my t-shirt shows how skinny my arms are and my red and black Hawks jersey kinda hangs off my bony shoulders.

I'm feeling sick to my stomach and I forgot my speech as soon as I saw him. I'm just sitting behind the wheel, not knowing what to do.

Wonder of wonders, Renfield comes to the rescue.

"Stanley, I've been thinking."

This is it. I know it. He's been thinking about what a loser I am. He's found something else or someone else to do on Thursdays. I brace myself. I'm already making plans.

I'll say I understand and wish him the best. Then I'm going follow him. If it's Vecchio, I'm going to tie that prick down and starting at his designer shoes, I'm going to cut him down to size -- one inch at a time. Then I'll turn myself into Welsh and confess the whole thing. I'll spend the rest of my life as Bubba's blushing bride, but it will be worth it.

"What about, Renfield?"

"Detective Vecchio tells me that he believes they will be able to obtain a search warrant tonight to act on the information that I learned from Mr. Adams."

I catch the "I learned" part and turn to stare at him. He's waiting for me to say something. I decide to play it safe.

"That's what Welsh tells me."

"Yes, well, Detective Vecchio says he feel I should be there to assist. I'm sure you have been ordered to attend as well."

He looks at me to see if he's right. I nod once.

"So I was considering the matter, and I believe it would be best for us to not attend the Hockey game.

"Perhaps we could pick up some dinner and watch the game at your apartment. I would invite you to my residence, but I don't own a television."

I turn to the steering wheel and just take a few to let it all sink in. He's not breaking up with me. He's not giving me the old push off so I'll stop calling him. He wants to come to my place.

My place. My place is a shithole.

Come up with a plan, Stan. This may be your one and only chance to get him into the Kowalski Love Grotto.

*

I drop him off at Wong Foo's, the slowest Chinese take-out restaurant in the western hemisphere.

It's run by a Pakistani family that doesn't speak English. It will take him half an hour just to order. I got to remember to write my Congressman and thank him for easing up on those immigration laws.

The Wong is five blocks from my place, but the walk won't hurt those Mountie-fit legs of his. I give him some American money and directions to my place and tell him to order whatever sounds good.

I lie like a Persian rug and tell him I can't wait because my TV takes a long time to warm up and if I don't turn it on now, we'll miss the first period.

I set a new land speed record getting home and tear up the stairs like my ass is on fire.

I run through the whole place and open all of the windows to get the smell out. Then I start on the living room. I grab a trash bag and just toss out everything that isn't nailed down. I can always buy new dishes.

The kitchen is next. It doesn't take long. I've got lots of practice from cleaning up after all of those parties I threw when Mom and Dad would go out of town while I was in High School.

I cram all of my dirty clothes in the bedroom closet and change the sheets on the bed. A guy can hope, can't he?

I do a job on the bathroom that would make Fraser proud. Hell, I even scrub the toilet.

I make a couple trips across the hall and toss five very full trash bags down the garbage chute.

I go back in and close all of the windows. I remember to turn on the TV. I grab my industrial-sized bottle of all-purpose stink-be-gone and spray it everywhere, even on my jeans, just to make sure.

I stow the bottle under the kitchen sink just as there's a polite knock at my front door.

I take a second to catch my breath. I open the door casually and say, "Hey, Renfield, welcome to 'Casa de Kowalski'. What took you so long?"

***********

When I told Renfield to order us whatever looked good, I didn't mean get everything that looked good. I don't think I ate this much that Thanksgiving I spent with the Vecchios.

That milk he got sure didn't help any. I haven't had whole milk in years. Stella wouldn't buy it. I guess I got used to the way skim tastes. Never did get used to it being kind of blue though.

Anyway, Renfield comes into my place carrying so much stuff, he looks like a pile of bags with legs, great legs -- really great legs. He goes straight to my breakfast table and lays out enough food for ten normal guys or three of him.

Then he says, "I didn't know what you had to drink, so I took the liberty of purchasing something."

I'm thinking that's great because I don't have any beer in the house and what's a hockey game without beer? Even if it's one of those Canadian moose piss blends, it's better than nothing.

He reaches into a bag and pulls out a gallon of milk. I'm thinking who the H-E-double-hockey-sticks drinks milk with Chinese food. He's going on about it like it's Guiness in a twenty-ounce.

"This is our lucky day, Stanley. I stopped at a small store just around the corner. The owner's wife is Canadian. He stocks this particular brand of milk just for her. It's pure Jersey milk. The milk you American's drink is really woefully thin."

I grab a couple glasses from the kitchen and put them on the table. He opens the milk and pours a glass. He hands it to me and stands there waiting. I take a big gulp and almost choke. It's like drinking butter or cooking oil, maybe Vaseline.

I manage to swallow. He's still watching me, waiting.

"That's good stuff, Renfield."

He looks so happy, I don't even feel bad about lying. He tops off my glass and pours one for himself.

*

It's twelve minutes into the second period. The score's tied one all. We should be doing a little arm-chair coaching, but we're both too worn out from work and too bloated from dinner.

At least I'm still following the game. Renfield's Mountie-perfect posture started to slip about half way through the first period. He's sprawled out, taking up more than his half of the sofa. His eyes are closed and the only thing moving is his chest as he breathes. He isn't snoring yet. I give him five minutes.

I turn my body toward his and just watch him sleep. His chest catches for a second and then he breathes out. I can't help smiling. It's that same little sigh my Vecchio nieces and nephews make. The secret sign that they've just slipped into dreamland.

He mumbles something. I'd give anything to know what he's seeing right now. He's so beautiful, I can't help myself. Well I could, but I don't. I schooch up real close to him. I'm kneeling on the sofa cushion so our faces are even. I stroke his cheek with the back of one of my bony hands and kiss his forehead.

I want this so much. More than that other stuff we were doing in the station even. I just stay like that for awhile. My lips pressed to his warm skin. He doesn't move, so I get brave. I kiss his nose, his cheek, his jaw.

I'm hoping he'll feel what I'm doing and wake up, even if it's just enough so he reaches out to hold me while he sleeps.

He's down for the count. I sit back on my butt and take his hand. I lay it palm down on my thigh and trace each knuckle with my fingertip. Then I turn his hand palm up, to look at the lines. I had an old gypsy woman read my palm once. She pointed out my love line. I can't remember where it was. I wish I could. I'd like to see if ours match.

When I turn his hand to look at his fate, his fingers curl up just a bit. The light from the TV hits his fingers and makes long shadows up his arm. That's why I don't see it at first. The line on his wrist.

There are two ways to cut your wrists.

You can slash across the tendons. Most people who do it that way use a razor blade and make four or five shallow cuts. It looks pretty impressive, real Hollywood. In police work, you see that a lot. You see it when you drive up on the scene and the Med Techs are putting the person in the ambulance. That person is some poor schmoe who really wants help or just doesn't know the right way to do himself in.

Or you can cut between the tendons, one long line up your arm. When you see this kind of cut, you usually find a box cutter at the scene. You don't see it near as much. You see it when you drive up on the scene and the Medical Examiner is putting the body in the hearse. That body was someone who wanted to die.

Whoever sewed up Renfield's cut did a bang-up job. The scar is so thin, it almost disappears between the cords of his tendons. It's is long and straight, like he was real careful to get it just right. The little puckers at the the edges tell me it was deep.

A person who slashes their wrists like that can bleed to death in less than five minutes. The only way someone could live after cutting themselves like that is if they are stitched up right away.

I've thought about it. Most people have. After Stella left me that last time, I went to a hardware store and reached out to take a box cutter and stick it in my basket. That was as far as I got. It was farther than most people. It was far enough to freak me out and send me running to the station shrink.

It was the the worst thing I've ever done, but it was the best goddamn thing that ever happened to me. If I hadn't done that, I never would have talked to anyone about all that stuff in my head. I never would've admitted to myself that I'm gay. I wouldn't have come out to Fraser, and I sure as hell wouldn't be sitting here now, holding Renfield's hand.

Real men don't cry. When I was going through all of that crap, even when I was talking to the shrink, ripping my own guts out and putting them up on a stake, I never once cried for myself.

I cry for him. I don't even try to stop the tears that pour out of my eyes. They run down my face, into the creases of my nose and over my lips. I taste the salt as I press my lips to the scar that I'd do anything to make disappear.

His whole body goes tense. He's awake. I should stop kissing his wrist, but I don't. I've tried to tell him a million times how I feel. I just can't do it. I know I'm a coward and I suck. But maybe I can show him.

He hasn't pulled away and he hasn't decked me. I figure that's as good a start as any. I open my lips a little, just enough to trace the scar with my tongue. He jerks his arm out of my hands like my tongue is a branding iron.

He's pressed back into the sofa, as far from me as it will let him get. His eyes are huge and I don't think he's blinked yet. He's shaking all over. He's terrified. He looks like he wants to rabbit out of here, but he's paralyzed.

I take his arm again and kiss the scar one last time. Then I put his hand between us on the sofa. I take his other hand and lay it across my lap. I undo the strap on his watch and set it aside. Then I run my fingers over the scar I knew I would find.

I take his hand in one of mine and look into his frightened eyes as I bring his forearm to my lips. I kiss his scarred wrist for all I'm worth. I want him to feel what I feel. I want him to open up, to give in.

I give his wrist a final slow kiss and rub my face into his open palm. I move his hand to my chest, right over my heart. The same spot where he stroked me while he had me pinned to the wall in the station hallway.

He finally moves. He shifts just a bit, not to me but not away neither.

He asks everything he wants to know with one word.

"Ray?"

"You can tell me anything, Rennie. You know that, right? You don't have to tell me anything. I just want you to know that you can, if you want."

He doesn't speak, but his thumb makes one tiny circle over my nipple. It isn't what I was hoping for, but it's enough. I use my hand that's still resting over his to pull his arm around me. I raise up on my knees and lean in to kiss him.

He doesn't try to stop me, but just before I can get my lips to his he whispers, "Please, don't. I'll hurt you."

"You couldn't do that. You love me."

I don't mean to say it, but as soon as I do, I know it's the truth.

I try to start off slow. He's got other ideas.

That hand I wrapped around me slides down and his fingers dig into my ass. He wraps his other hand into my hair and crushes his mouth to mine. His tongue pushes its way past my lips and glides over my teeth. It goes deeper. It drags across the roof of my mouth, and then it's gone. He sucks on my tongue and bites my lower lip.

The hand that's in my hair pulls my face away from his. He's breathing like a freight train. His face is red and his eyes are wild.

He grabs my shirt and my jersey and younks both of them off of me. As the collar of my T-shirt goes over my face, it catches on my nose. I yell and grab my face to see if I'm bleeding. Before I can check my hand for blood, he pushes me back on to the sofa and climbs on top of me.

He grabs hold of my hair with one hand and holds me down by my shoulder with the other. He leans in and sucks on my neck and bites down, hard.

I scream and push him away. He lands on the floor, on his ass. We just look at each other for a minute. I don't think either of us knows what just happened. He reaches out to touch me and I jerk back, but he just brushes the spot on my neck that's throbbing. When he brings his hand back, I can see the blood on his fingers. It isn't a lot, but it's there.

He jumps up and runs to the bathroom. I can hear him throwing up.

I go to the kitchen and grab a clean dishrag. I use it to stop the bleeding. I should put something on it, but the first-aid stuff is in the bathroom and I can still hear Rennie in there, hurling.

I take the only turtleneck I own out of the dresser drawer in my bedroom. I throw it on and go back to the sofa. I sit there until I hear the toilet flush.

I head for the bathroom. Rennie might need some help cleaning himself up.

Before I make it to the John, someone starts banging on my front door.

***********

I stand in the middle of the living room floor for a minute, not knowing which way to walk. Do I ignore the knocking at the door and go help Rennie, or do I answer the Call of the Rude?

I hear the water running in the bathroom sink. It sounds like Rennie's using my toothbrush. That decides it for me. As long as he's okay for now, I'd better get the door. The walls in this place are pervert thin. Somebody might have heard me scream and called the cops. I hope I know the uniform.

Whoever it is, he's knocking again, harder this time.

"All right! Give me a minute, will you?"

While I'm walking to the door, I'm inventing some fairy tale about getting all hyper from watching the game and screaming at the goalie.

I open the door and wonder exactly how many dogs I murdered in a past life.

"Vecchio."

"Stanley, don't you look like shit this evening."

There's nothing I want to say to him, so I just stand there eye-fucking him.

"Aren't you going to invite me into your lovely abode?"

"Not a chance StyleBoy."

I'm about to do a little reconstructive surgery on his nose with the door, when Rennie walks up behind me.

"Ah, Detective Vecchio, have you come to watch the game with us?"

I turn to look at Rennie, to make sure he's okay. He's giving Vecchio that 'Welcome to the Canadian Consulate" smile. He looks like he's just had a full night's sleep and doesn't have a care in the world.

Vecchio slides past me. He starts talking to Rennie like I'm not in the room.

"Welsh has the search warrant. He called me first. I told him I'd get in touch with you -- and Stan."

He sticks my name on at the end, like he almost forgot me or something.

"That's very thoughtful of you, Detective. Isn't it, Stanley?"

I feel like somebody just reached into my chest and squeezed all the blood out of my heart. So that's how it's going to be? I'm "Stanley" again. Sure, I can play along with that.

"Oh, yeah, Renfield, that's Vecchio, all right, thoughtful to the end."

I throw his full name back into his face. It tastes bitter in my mouth. He doesn't seem to mind at all. He doesn't seem to notice.

Vecchio looks at me like I'm something he just scraped off the bottom of his pansy-assed designer loafers.

"Hey, Stanley, this thing could go all night. Any chance I could use your bathroom. You do have a bathroom in here, don't you?"

Christ on a rubber crutch. That's all I need. Him getting a good look at what "Renfield" did in the John.

"Sure, Vecchio, just a minute, okay? I was on my way to take a leak when you busted in. Give me a sec' and then you can do whatever you want."

As I head to the John, praying I got a bottle of stink-be-gone under the bathroom sink, I hear Renfield telling Detective Vecchio he's going to clean up our dinner mess. Vecchio offers to help, goddamn, interrupting, Dago, Fashion Pig, brown-nosing, fucknut.

The bathroom is spotless. It's like that stuff earlier tonight never happened. Maybe it didn't. Maybe Fraser isn't the only guy whose uncle died wrapped in cabbage leaves.

My body wants to cry, but I don't let it. I take a couple of deep breaths and psych myself up, enough to go back and face Vecchio and Renfield.

*

Kowalski stumbles off to the John, looking like something the cat refused to drag in. I guess things weren't going too well for him when I busted in. More's the better for me.

I help Braindead clean up their dinner mess. They must have had the entire Chicago Bear's lineup over earlier. There are enough empty take-out packages for them to have fed a pro-football team.

We get all of the disposable stuff into a garbage bag and Turnbull takes it out to the trash chute.

While he's gone, I nose around.

The cabinet to the left of the kitchen sink has three small hooks on the inside of its door. On each hook there is a key. Each key has a label. One says "GTO", one "Mom and Dad", and the last one says "front door". I take the last one and slip it into my right pants' pocket.

That done, I take off my jacket and hang it over the back of one of Stan's Salvation Army-reject chairs. I roll up the sleeves on my five hundred dollar moss green silk shirt and get to work, scrubbing Stanley's Target-special dishes. I whistle while I work.

Turnbull returns and takes each dish from me as I finish rinsing. He places them in the dishwasher, almost reverently like they're Spode china. He whistles with me.

When Stan returns, I head to the John to shake the old lizard. I have to walk through his bedroom to get there.

The bed is huge -- good. It looks freshly made up -- even better.

*

Vecchio comes strolling back through my living room like he owns the place and starts up a conversation with Renfield.

"I think we just might get lucky tonight. We've got two suits in the pub. They think they might have seen Susan Bennett enter and go upstairs about an hour ago."

"Do we know if Jackson is also at the location?"

"We're not sure, just yet. Jack and Dewey are going through the dumpster behind the place right now. They're looking for anything that might indicate someone is taking care of a ten year old boy."

"That's an excellent idea, Detective. Who thought of it?"

"Welsh did. You should have seen Jack and Dewey's faces when he told them they had the job. He's got them dressed like bums to do it. The way Jack was whining, you'd think the L.T. had told him to put on a hula skirt and dance the Mambo Italiano with Jeffrey Dahmer. You would not believe how vain that man is, when it comes to clothes."

They're being all buddy buddy. I feel like a third foot, dragging behind and not doing anyone any good. They start down the hall, without ever looking at me.

I get my shoulder holster and my long coat out of the entry closet. I put them on and walk out the front door. I lock up and trail behind them. My legs weigh a thousand pounds each, and I'm ankle deep in molasses.

By the time I reach the lobby, I feel like I've walked to Canada and back.

I step outside, just in time to see Vecchio open the passenger door of his Bratmobile for Renfield.

I watch from the sidewalk as they drive away.

***********

I kinda half-walk half-stumble around to the side of the building where they keep the dumpster. I make a fist and pound it into the brick wall until my knuckles hurt almost as much as the rest of me. I'm a real pro. I don't hit hard enough to break anything except skin.

I walk around in circles, shaking out my hand and cursing Vecchio in Polish. Violence and foul language -- Pop would be proud.

Once I've run through my entire Polish vocab list, I go get into the GTO. I find a dirty T-shirt on the back floor of the car. I use it to wipe the blood off my hand. Part of me is glad the shirt isn't clean.

If my hand gets infected, and I get sick and die, it would all be Vecchio's fault. He'd be a murderer. I think they got a special level of Hell just for murderers.

I get a picture of Vecchio in a smoking jacket. He's got horns and a tail, and he's sucking on one of those long cigarette holders. He tries to look real cool, but he coughs and the smoke comes out of his nose. It makes him sneeze and cough again.

That's what he gets for trying to act cool. Vecchio doesn't know cool from Jack. If there's anything I know, it's cool. Jack and me are best buddies.

Cool. That's how I'm going to play this. I'm not going to kick LoaferBoy in the head. I'm going to make him wonder when I'm going to kick him in the head.

*

Once I got my brain made up, I make a quick call to Frannie. I need to find out where our MCP is going to be set up.

In the academy, they told us MCP stood for Mobile Command Post -- a temporary center of operations where different departments and agencies could interface to share knowledge and resources. Thus enabling the department to resolve situations quickly and safely blah, blah, blah, barf.

On the street I learned MCP really stands for Mass of Camera Pigs. It's where the brass hangs out. If things go good, they're close enough to the scene to get there before the reporters show up. If things go bad, they're far enough from the scene to get away before the reporters show up.

They have everything set up two blocks east of the pub, in an old warehouse that used to store fertilizer. I wonder if the owner would be glad to know his place was going to be full of shit again?

By the time I get through the outer MCP perimeter, the inner MCP perimeter, and the MCP staging area to the MCP briefing room, the hot air's already started blowing.

I slip in the back. Some prettyboy SWAT rat is standing on a temporary MCP briefing platform, talking about readiness levels, contingency plans and Armored Personnel Carriers and shit like that.

I slide into a seat next to my locker room buddy.

"Hey, D, what did I miss?"

He looks happy that I remember him. Some detectives think they're too good to mingle with the masses. Not me. I've made some of my best cases from info I got off of beat cops.

"Whole lot of nothing."

I make a real shocked face and mouth the word "No" at him.

He grins, and we go back to pretending we're paying attention.

Finally, we break up into our cliques. D heads off to get a refresher on the wonderful world of crowd control. I make for Welsh. He's standing in a corner, drinking what's probably his eighth or ninth coffee of the day.

The L.T.'s from the other departments are shouting orders and running around like someone's got them by the short curlies. Not Welsh. He sits on the edge of a table and finishes his coffee while his guys circle up.

*

Vecchio is standing just to the left of Welsh, like the prodigal detective or something. Renfield is with Vecchio. Vecchio is whispering in his ear and Renfield's nodding like he agrees with everything Vecchio is saying.

Renfield catches my eye and tries to wave me over. I turn my head away from him and stand to Welsh's right, as far from the Wonder Twins as I can get and still be in the group. Be cool.

When Welsh finally speaks up, everything he says makes sense. No surprise there.

"Listen up, people. Huey and Dewey found enough empty toy packages and Ring Ding boxes to supply a small third world nation for a year. This means one of two things. Either the patrons in this bar have some unusual hobbies or Jackson Bennett is somewhere inside.

"Now, this is our case. Don't forget that, and don't let anyone else forget it either.

"If anyone asks, I'll deny it to their face, but I pulled rank on Lieutenant Connor in SWAT. We have a chance to control how this ends, but we've only got one chance. If we fuck up, the Glory Boys will get the go ahead to turn it into one of their famous triple major cluster fucks.

"Remember, our first priority is Jackson Bennett. If we snag the mom too, great. If we don't, we'll get her another day. Got that? I don't want any heroics in there.

"Now intelligence has had their guys in and out of the pub all day. But, before we bust in there, I want you guys to get a feel for the place. I'm going to send you in to look around. We'll split up into two's and three's.

"Go in, order one beer each. Do not, do not drink it. All of you have worked TABC stings before. You know how to palm a drink. I smell booze on anybody, they're going to be enjoying the view at the auto pound for a long time to come.

"Order your beer, nose around and leave. When you drive away, head out the direction you'd go to get to your own home. Drive at least five blocks before you circle back here.

"Once we've had a good look at the place, we'll discuss strategy."

He starts sizing us up.

"Lets see. The first two lucky victims will be Kowalski and, and, and . . ."

He takes another look at his choices, dragging things out. He's loving this.

". . . and Turnbull. Nice pants boys. Did the two of you plan that?"

Most everybody snickers. I just stand there, being cool. Renfield walks over to me. He gives me one of his public smiles. I put on my sunglasses and stare past him, looking real cool.

*

I do my James Dean Special to the GTO and start her up. Let Renfield get his own damned door. He climbs in and turns to me. I put my sunglasses on the dash. Wrecking out because I was wearing my sunglasses at night would not be cool.

I just stare out the front window. He's sitting so close, I'm warm. I can't help it.

"Well, Stanley, what do you think we should talk about?"

I'm hot. I want to punch his beautiful face. What the fuck does he think I think we should talk about?

How about, who the fuck do you think you are tearing me apart like this? Playing fucking mind games. Making like a vampire on my neck. Running hot and cold more often than the shower I took in the locker room, earlier tonight. I could list a bazillion things, if I could count that high.

"I was thinking, perhaps, the game or your car. Of course, we could always talk about ornithology, if you prefer."

I'm boiling. We didn't finish watching the game. He doesn't know dick about cars, and I don't feel like talking about the study of horny anything with him.

He's giving me one of those sincere, I really care, looks. The same look he gives everyone that asks for his help. There's no hint of a secret smile on his face or in his eyes.

I'm all steamed out. If all he wants is a fuck-buddy, there's nothing I can do about it. It's not like we made any promises or anything. At least if he screws around on me, he won't be breaking any vows, not like Stella did those times.

I try to be real professional, real cool.

"Welsh didn't say anything about talking."

So much for professional. So much for cool.

I don't feel bad about saying it, though. Well, not too much anyway. He can't just expect me to be able to turn it off and on like that. It's not like I have room in this skinny physique of mine to hold two different people. Nobody does. You are who you are. If you don't like yourself, you'd better change what you like.

While we're circling around so we can double back to the pub from a different direction , I, Stanley Raymond Kowalski, make an actual decisive decision. He can pull this Stanley/Ray stuff all he likes, but I don't have to play his reindeer games. For once in my sorry life, I know where I stand. Fuck-buddies is not going to cut the old Goulden's mustard. He's my Rennie. If he won't be my Rennie, he won't be my anything.

I'm using so much energy thinking deep thoughts, I almost drive past the pub. Rennie younks me back to reality.

"Look, Stanley, I believe we're here."

I find a parking spot that's not close enough for anyone inside the pub to be able to see the GTO. Wouldn't want them to remember it, if they ever came around with revenge on the brain.

I shut the engine off pretty quick. I jump out and walk around to his door. I open it for him and hold it while he steps out. I shut the door and put my hand on his arm. I don't want him to have any lame-assed reason to say he didn't hear what I'm going to tell him.

I'm warm. I squeeze him arm and say, "Call me Ray."

Then I chicken out. I head for the pub like there's a pissed off dad with a thirty aught six, gunning for my ass.

I make it to the entrance. It's a big double door job. Probably costs more than I make in a month of Sundays. Both doors are covered with copper that's been twisted and bent to make a picture of two fat guys cutting down wheat with big metal blades, like the one the Grim Reaper carries.

A big hand reaches past me and pulls one of the doors open. The hand is shaking just a bit.

I look up, way up. All the way into Rennie's eyes. They're cloudy, like a storm is brewing somewhere inside of him.

He swallows and whispers, "After you, Ray."

I'm hot, but in a good way. I walk into the pub, feeling ten feet tall and bulletproof, because I know he's got my back.

***********

The Copper Tank is not my kinda hangout. It's one of those post-yuppie brew pubs where they fuck with beer like those West Coast joints that fuck with coffee.

Rennie and me cop a squat in a booth near the back. Our waitress comes over.

She's something else, as far as androids go. A real testament to modern technology. There's nothing natural left on her, from the top of her bleach blonde hair, down the lines of her rhinoplasted sandblasted nose, to the tips of her silicone enhanced tits.

Her ass is shaped like a perfect upside down heart, and it's poured into a pair of black bike shorts. Her cups are running over from what a porn star might consider to be a decent sized v-neck.

She looks familiar, but I can't say from where. Like one of those movie-of-the-week actresses that gets hired for having two amazing talents.

She gives Rennie the once over and both of us a menu and leaves to give us a moment to decide. La-di-da.

It's a beer menu.

"Raspberry beer? Chocolate beer? Coffee beer?!? What the fuck is this, a bar or a bakery? Why not bagel beer or carrot cake beer? How about cream cheese and lox beer? I swear to God, Rennie, you ever bring me to a joint like this, I'll kick your ass."

Rennie laughs, loud and long. It's stupid, but I feel real pleased with myself, like maybe I don't suck so bad after all. It's the first time I've ever heard him laugh. I promise myself that it won't be the last.

"You think if I asked real nice, they might put some whipped cream and nuts on my Banana beer? I'd really like a sundae about now. Heck, maybe even a cherry to top it off."

"I don't see why not, Ray. You can be most persuasive, when it suits you. Of course, you realize your cherry is mine."

He didn't say that. He did not just say that. Mounties just do not say stuff like that, especially in public and to another guy to boot.

I look at him real quick. He gives me this innocent smile. He almost has me fooled. Then he looks down at the menu, and his boot slides up my leg.

Parts of me are standing at attention. My brain ain't one of those parts, so I don't hear the waitress come up. Of course, her radar is set for Rennie.

She rests her arm across the back of his seat and pretends like she's reading the menu over his shoulder, making sure he gets a good shot of her boobs. Hey, they're hers. She paid for them.

"What have you boys decided on?"

Rennie gives her this amazing I-know-you-want-to-fuck-me smile and asks, "What would you suggest?"

Jesus God. He's not even shooting it my way and that smile is tying knots in my libido. I can't believe she hasn't burst into flames.

She leans even farther over him and points to something on the menu.

"It's brand new this week, but I'm already addicted to the Cherry beer."

His boot goes back to the floor, but his calf presses against mine like we're superglued together. He stares right at her chest then into her hazel eyes.

"That sounds perfect."

She's got it so bad, he has to remind her I'm in the building.

"And my friend has a craving for a Banana, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, large please."

I'm in Hell. I know I'm in Hell, because someone has taken my sweet, innocent Mountie and replaced him with some evil demon sent to give me ideas, really bad ideas and a killer case of blue balls.

Cherry?

Banana?

It should be funny. It should, but it ain't. I've been going solo so long, I've been thinking of changing my name to Saint Ray of the Rosy Palms. Now, I'm just one table and one bar raid away from getting a great big slice of some nasty, sweaty, hickey-making, ass-pounding, sheet-ripping Mountie sex.

Of course, we still haven't dealt with that whole vampire thing. Now there's nothing wrong with a little chomping here and there, but anything that leaves scars is right out. I wonder if he'd mind being handcuffed to my bed?

Smooth move, Ray. That was the wrong thing to think in a public place.

As soon as I think it, I see it.

He's stretched out on his back on top of my covers. He's wearing nothing but those black jeans; they're half unbuttoned. My cuffs run behind one of the posts on the headboard of my big brass bed; they're wrapped around his wrists, holding his arms hostage. His face and his chest and his arms have a light coat of clean Mountie sweat. His eyes are closed and his fists are clenched and he's panting, because of what I'm doing to that spot on his stomach, right below the open waistband of his jeans.

Rennie finishes flirting with the waitress. She writes our order on her little pad and repeats it back to us.

"One large Banana and one Cherry, coming right up."

Lady, you have no idea.

*

Our waitress walks off to get our order, and I hightail it for the John. I lock myself in a stall and have a long mental one-on-two with my hands, convincing them to stay out of my pants. It's a close call, but I win. Not that I've never jerked off in a public stall before, but Welsh is going to want a complete run down on what we did, and I know if I do the deed, I'll blush like a tomato when he's looking at me.

Once I've got Big Ray and the twins under control, I start checking out the bar. I stay away from Rennie. That man is too dangerous to be out in public.

I see the waitress bring the drinks to our table. She sits in my spot and shoots the breeze with Rennie. She thinks he's flirting with her. I know better. He's putting on a show for me.

*

We stay for fifteen minutes. I have the biggest baddest boner of my life, hidden under my coat. Rennie has our waitress's phone number in his pocket.

We get in the GTO and do our little five block drive and circle back.

When we get back to the MCP, Rennie walk over to a trash can that's standing next to one of the Armored Personnel Carriers. He takes the waitress's phone number out of his pocket. He makes sure I'm looking at him, then he throws the piece of paper in the trash.

Welsh sends Huey and Vecchio out. He gives Rennie and me a quick debrief. I almost crap my pants when Rennie tells Welsh that Susan Bennett was our waitress. The hair color was different and the boobs were bigger than in the picture Mr. Bennett gave us, but as soon as Rennie says it, I realize he's right. Welsh looks at me, and I nod my head in agreement.

It takes about two hours, but finally, everyone has been inside the place. Welsh gathers us up and gives us the general rundown on the raid.

"All of you have Susan Bennett's updated description, right? Good.

"The most difficult part of the operation will be securing the first floor. It's a large open space with narrow hallways leading to the kitchen, storage and restroom areas. If someone decides to open fire in there, we could be cut down like corn standing in a row.

"Move fast. Get everyone proned out. If they don't lie down immediately, you lay them out.

"I'm stealing some uniforms from traffic control. We make the initial assault. They follow immediately and retain custody and control of everyone on the first floor.

"The boys from the Zoning Department have been kind enough to get us blueprints. So, we know that the only staircase to the upper floor is located in the kitchen. It leads to a central hallway that has two offices on either side. Once we get the first floor secured, time is going to be of the essence.

"We will proceed to the second floor. We don't know which office they're keeping Jackson in. So, we're going to hit all four of them at once.

"Remember, our initial objective will be to secure everyone inside of the location. Load your pockets up with flexicuffs. We'll sort out the good, the bad and the stupid later.

"Once we have obtained our first objective, we can worry about the details.

"Now in my infinite wisdom, I have included a little something special in the wording of the warrant.

"Should we be unable to locate Jackson inside, we are authorized to take custody of, and go through, all paperwork and computers to determine if they contain any references to Jackson's location or other possible criminal activities which might lead to his location. So please, people, refrain from wanton acts of destruction, and remember to kiss Judge Halpern's ass the next time you see him.

"Any questions? Any comments?"

Welsh doesn't expect any. None of us do. When Rennie raises his hand, everyone turns to look at him.

"Yes, Constable?"

"Lieutenant, if I may?"

He actually waits for Welsh to give him permission. Welsh nods. He always was a sucker for Mountie manners.

"This is just a suggestion, and it may be completely inappropriate, however, I couldn't help but notice a total lack of security at the location. It's an upscale establishment and like most businesses of its level, it would seem to consider itself above problem situations, namely physical altercations.

"Perhaps it would be possible for us to use this situation to our advantage."

Welsh is looking at Rennie like he just turned orange and blew smoke out of his ass. But he's a good man, so he gives Rennie a chance.

"Go on."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. I was thinking that perhaps a few of us could return to the bar and start a fist fight. Since the pub has no internal security, they will be forced to call for police assistance. This will gain the responding officers the immediate obedience of all employees and most of the patrons. We will be able to complete the initial steps of the operation with less difficulty and less danger to all involved.

"On the downside, it calls for uniformed officers to be the initial responders. On the upside, we can cloak our handcuffing everyone under the umbrella of 'Officer Safety'.

"Our presence having been expected, even desired, by the employees of the establishment would also lessen the likelihood of one of them attempting to notify anyone who is upstairs of our true purpose."

Now, everyone is looking at Rennie like he just turned orange and blew smoke out of his ass.

Welsh is the first one to recover.

"That's, that's a good idea, Turnbull."

He says Turnbull like he ain't quite sure that's who he's talking to.

"Any objections to Constable Turnbull's little plan?"

Silence.

"Well, Constable, since it was your idea, you think you can handle yourself in a bar fight?"

Rennie cracks his knuckles and smiles like a wolf.

***********

Our new and improved plan is pretty much the same as Welsh's, except Rennie and me are supposed to liven things up by slamming each other around, just a bit. First drinks and now a floor show, sounds like a fun date to me.

I thought that was the plan, anyway. Rennie had other ideas.

He goes striding into the Copper Tank with me behind him, hustling to keep up. He walks up to the table Susan Bennett's waiting on. She's flirting with some overfed overpaid football wanna be. Rennie smiles at Susan and grabs the guy by the front of his Cubs letterman jacket. He younks the guy off of his stool and slugs him in the face. Blood and spit and snot go flying, and the guy just stands there for a second, holding his big old paw to what used to be his nose.

The guy's slow in the mental department, thank God he's slow slinging that beer gut of his around too. He's huge, bigger than Rennie even. But not in that buffed Mountie way, more like the 'pass me another plate of Kielbasa, would you?' way.

Like I said, he's slow, but his survival instinct kicks in. Rennie's circling him like a shark, and the guy realizes it's pretty much do or die. He bulls up and swings at Rennie's jaw. Rennie doesn't even try to dodge it. He takes the hit. It's a solid punch, lots of follow through. The guy's fist connects with Rennie's jaw and keeps traveling. It forces Rennie's face to rock to the side.

The guy finishes his swing and stands there, waiting to see what happens. It's pretty clear he's a one-trick brawler, used to laying guys out with the first hit.

Rennie shakes his head like a wet dog. When he looks at the guy, he smiles. There's blood between his teeth.

I freak. I see his eyes and his blood, and all I can think about is that's how he would've looked if I hadn't pushed him away when he bit me.

I start yelling for somebody to call the cops, but this ain't fun and games anymore. It's for real. If I don't stop Rennie, he's going to kill this guy. I get around behind him and put a bear hug on him. I'm small, but I'm strong for my size, and I never was smart enough to know when to give up.

I get my arms all the way around Rennie's chest and his arms, and I lock my hands around each other. I think I've got him pinned pretty good. He goes nuts. Like one of those Viking guys who used to foam at the mouth and stuff when they fought. He yells, "No!" and breaks my hold on him like my arms are dry spaghetti.

All shit breaks loose. The post-yuppies are rushing the front door and the waitresses are rushing the kitchen door. Most of the waitresses, anyway. The calm detective part of my brain sees Susan Bennett sit at a side table and light a cigarette. She's loving the floor show, thinks it's over her.

Some dumb sap of a bartender tries to get between Rennie and the wanna be. Mr. Flat Nose thinks he's being bum rushed and starts chasing the bartender around the room. The bartender stakes out a safety zone behind a pool table that's set up in the corner. He holds the guy off by throwing pool balls at him.

Rennie zones in on me. He grabs me by my coat collar and starts pushing me back, toward the bar. I trip on something under my feet and almost fall, but Rennie won't let me. He tightens his grip on my collar and keeps walking. He doesn't stop until the sharp edge of the bar is digging into my back.

He's still got me by the collar. He pulls me up so we're even. I'm on my toes, barely. One little jerk from him and my feet would be swinging in the air.

He shakes me once, really rough and yells, "Don't ever hold me! No one holds me!"

I look deep in his eyes, praying I find some sign that he's funning me. What I see scares the crap out of me.

This stuff he's been doing, running hot and cold, being all Boy Scout one minute and Bad Boy the next, loving up on me and cutting out on me; it ain't him playing games. It's just him.

I mean, I've been with Stella my whole life. She's the only one I've ever been with. Stella's the queen of mind games. She can tie me in so many knots, I can't tell my asshole from my elbow. So, when Rennie started pulling stuff, I figured that's just how it goes. You let someone know you got it bad for them, and they fuck with you, see how much you'll put up with before you cut and run.

Rennie's not fucking with me. He's fucked in the head.

It's like when we first started going out, and I thought he had an off switch. He does. He has this switch and it flips between the dippy guy I fell for, the stud that was flirting with Susan Bennett and this guy. This guy that wants to pound me into putty.

All of this hits me at once, like a flash of lightning. It hits me, and I freak all over again. One of those Defensive Tactics moves comes back to me, from my Academy days. I bring my arms up between his, and I break his hold on my coat.

He swings at me. They're good tight swings, but I'm quick. I manage to move out of the way the first few times. I can give as good as I get, but I can't make myself hit him. I just can't.

I'm dancing away from him and angling for the exit. I'm getting close to the door, thinking I'm going to make it. He catches me in the ribs with a right hook. I feel something crack, and a hot surge of blood rushes to the spot. I turn my cracked ribs away from him, to protect them from getting hit again. That's how you get a hole in your lung. He follows up with a left jab to my open side. It lands right on my kidney.

Fire shoots out of my kidney and burns through me. It steals all the air out of my lungs. I drop to my knees and end up rolled in a ball on the floor.

I've been in enough fights to know I'm hurt pretty bad, but I can't get enough air into my lungs to complain about it. I just lie there, on the floor, with my eyes squeezed shut and my jaw clenched real tight. I'm working so hard on trying to breathe, I got no idea what else is going on.

I feel big calloused fingers touch my cheek and look up into Rennie's face. He's my Rennie again. He's on his knees, leaning over me. He takes a hold of my shoulders. He won't let me move away from him, but he's being real gentle.

Rennie rolls me onto my back. He takes off his jersey, balls it up and puts it under my head. He takes my face in his hands and presses his forehead to mine. He's talking real sweet to me the whole time.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Ray. I love you. I love you so much. Please, be okay. Please, be okay. I love you, baby. I tried. I just can't. I tried so hard. I just can't do it. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

I try to reach out to hold him, but my arms refuse to let go of my chest. I try to tell him it's going to be okay, that I love him too, and I'm going to make everything okay, but I still can't get my breath. The room's spinning and things are getting kinda blurry. Just before I blackout, I see a blue wave burst through the door and come rolling into the room. The cavalry's here.

***********

Our thin blue line bursts through the door, looking for a fight. Dewey and some of the other guys are right behind them. Welsh, Jack and I know better. The uniforms all know us, but when fists are flying and that adrenaline is pumping, all you're looking for is guys in blue and guys not in blue. And Welsh, Jack and I are definitely not in blue.

We love a good bar brawl as much as any cop. But most cops who are injured on the job are hurt by other officers when they're in a knockdown dragout with some suspect.

I got my first on duty injury from my trainer. I hadn't been out on the street three weeks when it happened. We answered a call concerning a domestic disturbance at a residence. It was in a decent working class part of town. This older guy, must have been about sixty, opens the door. He tells us his thirty year old daughter called for us. So, we start talking to her, and she's telling us this wild story about how everyone in the place is abusing her. She pulls up her shirt and points to her stomach, telling us to look at the bruises and burns. There's not a mark on her. Dad says us she smokes crack and she's MHMR - Mental Health Mental Retardation - but won't take her medicine.

It's pretty obvious, even to me, that she's a danger to herself and her family. My trainer, Corporal Sharon Whitmore, the loudest, meanest, fightingest, kindest, fairest officer it's ever been my privilege to know, decides the daughter has to go to Chicago Gen's psych ward for evaluation.

Sharon's a bottle redhead with a dirty sense of humor and the foulest mouth of any uniform on the department. She's five foot four, on a good day, but she's one hundred thirty pounds of attitude, and she's isn't afraid to mix it up. So, Sharon lays hands on the daughter.

She takes the woman by the wrist and gently torques her arm up behind her back. I take her by the other arm. We have her bent over at the waist, with her elbows straight out and her hands pointing toward the sky. It's a move my Defensive Tactics instructor guaranteed would subdue the most physical aggressor. Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell this woman. We're holding her and talking to her, explaining that she's not going to jail, but she's still fighting us.

She's not big, but "exceptional" people are amazingly strong. She's starting to fling us around pretty good. Sharon is pulling up on the daughter's arm so hard, we feel her shoulder pop out of, and back into, joint. We're grossed out. The daughter doesn't feel it. That's bad. When they're so far gone they're not feeling any pain, they can kill you without even thinking about it.

Sharon lets go with one hand and pulls out her cuffs. I'm thinking, "what the Hell is she doing? We can't subdue the woman as it is, and my all-knowing trainer wants to risk taking a hand off of her". But, Sharon has a plan. She holds her cuffs by making a fist around the chain, with a ring sticking out from each end. Then, because it's totally against regulations, Sharon does not attempt to Brown Betty the daughter. If you know what I mean. She does not give the woman a pretty good whack upside the head with one of the rings and stun her just enough for us to get the cuffs on her. It's a good thing she didn't do that, because I was getting pretty tired by that time. I don't know how long I could have held on, if Sharon hadn't done that.

Oh, and while she wasn't doing that, she didn't hit me on the temple about half an inch from my eye, causing a cut that bled like the Dickens.

We get the daughter cuffed and down on the ground. Sharon turns to me and says, "I've got her. You go get the dad's information."

I'm shaking and there's blood streaming into my eye and down my face. I look at Sharon and yell, "I'm bleeding here! You go get his information!"

Trainers have total say so over whether or not you make it on the street. You do not talk to a trainer like that, ever. But she goes and talks to the dad. We put the daughter in the back of the patrol car. The only thing Sharon says to me the whole way down to the hospital is, "Don't do that," when I start to rub the dry blood off of my face.

We get to the hospital. We're about the tenth set of officers in line to see the shrink, but I'm injured. So, we cut to the head of the line. We get the daughter checked in, and Sharon turns to the duty nurse and asks her for the camera. The nurse knows just what Sharon's talking about. She pulls out a Polaroid and takes a picture of my face.

Sharon starts telling the other officers a greatly embellished story about my bravery in the line of duty. She does all of the driving for the rest of the night and handles all of the paperwork. Oh, and she didn't let me wash my face until the end of our shift. All of my years on the street, none of the hooks and crooks we dealt with that night ever tried to fight me.

Sharon's still a beat cop, and she's still got that picture stuck to the inside roof of her patrol car. I love her like my own family, but she's one of the officers rushing into the Copper Tank, so I hang back with Jack and Welsh.

*

Less that three minutes later, Dewey comes trotting out. He skids to a stop in front of Welsh. He's got what's going to be a decent shiner, but he's not smiling.

"First floor's subdued. Kowalski's down."

The two words no cop wants to hear 'officer down'. It doesn't matter who they are, or how you feel about them. When they're blue, they're family. You might want to kill them, but no one else had better touch them.

We go rushing into the place. Kowalski's laying on the ground. He's hugging his ribs and he's pale as a fish's underbelly, but there's no blood, thank God. He's trying to stand up, but Sharon's holding him down by the shoulder and talking to him. He's shaking his head.

Welsh gets to them first.

"What the Hell happened?"

He means "who do we 'show a little love' to on the way to jail?"

"It was nothing, sir. Turnbull and me were getting things rolling and we just got kind of carried away."

Sharon fronts Kowalski out.

"Lying rat bastard was out cold when I got to him."

"I'm fine. Can I sit up now, please, Corporal ma'am?"

"Stanley Raymond Kowalski, you ass maggot, you may be a big-shot detective now, but I remember cleaning up your shit storms when you were a rookie. If you even try to stand up, I'm going to put your nuts in a vice. Now I love your tight little ass, so I'm going to give you a choice. You can lay here like a good boy, until the Med Tech come and take you away in an ambulance, complete with stretcher and neck brace or you can let me and my new rookie drive you to the hospital. "

Kowalski looks at us for help.

Welsh says, "Don't look at me, Kowalski. She was my class president."

Dewey pipes up, "My first partner."

It's my turn.

"She was my trainer too, Kowalski. Three strikes, you're out."

Sharon yells, "D!" and her rookie comes running.

He's a nice looking black kid, darker than Jack, with a longish face and a quick flashing smile. He's about my height, but built like a running back, all lean muscle and quick reflexes. He's graceful, even weighed down by forty pounds of equipment and ballistic vest.

"The kid looks at Dewey and says, "Sorry about your eye, detective."

Sharon speaks up before Dewey can open mouth and insert foot.

"D, Stan here needs a lift to our car."

"Sure thing, Sherry."

He squats down and gives me a great shot of his ass. He wraps one of Kowalski's arms over his broad shoulders and helps him to his feet. Kowalski tries to lean down to pick something up from the floor. He makes it about halfway. Sharon bends over and gets it. She hands it to him. It's Turnbull's Leaf's jersey. He throws it over his shoulder and lets D help him limp out of the bar.

*

That little bit of nastiness taken care of, it's back to business.

Welsh calls Dewey over to us.

"What's the situation?"

"It's just like Turnbull said. No injuries, except for Kowalski and some guy who had his face flattened before we got here. Everybody down here is proned out and flexicuffed, including one guy in the meat locker who has his pants around his ankles because he was getting a little 'something something' from one of the waitresses when we busted in. I swear to God that girl has a hole in the back of her head. You wouldn't believe how far...."

Welsh clears his throat and motions his head toward Sharon.

"Uh, never mind, anyway, we've got most of the employees, including Susan Bennett. It's too bad she's a nut. She is one hot chic.

We all shoot him death looks.

"What?

"According to the Intelligence guys' count, there shouldn't be more that five or six people upstairs, besides the kid. Nobody's seen Turnbull, but everybody else's ready to go, whenever you are."

I'm dying to know just what happened between Kowalski and Turnbull, but right now, the case takes precedence. Besides, I have a feeling about where I can find Turnbull when this is all over with.

Before Sharon leaves to take Kowalski to get checked out, she pulls Dewey aside. I hear her asking him which girl was the one in the meat locker and does he think she'd be willing to give Sharon some tips. Dewey turns beet red. Sharon laughs, claps him on the ass and walks out. It's nice to know some things never change.

*

We're all just a little too old and out of shape to rush the stairs. So, we take things slowly and quietly. We draw our weapons, make sure there's a round in the chamber and position ourselves around the four doors. Welsh makes the 'go' signal and all four doors are busted open and all four offices are rushed.

We locate nine people upstairs, four women and five men, no Jackson Bennett. All of them are office types, so it doesn't matter that Intelligence was so far off on their count. We get everyone cuffed and hustle them downstairs.

Welsh has someone bring Susan Bennett up to the first office, for questioning.

She walks in like she's Queen of the World and sits in a chair, without even asking.

Welsh can read people. He takes one look at the way Susie-Q's eyeing Jack and leaves the two of them alone.

He sends Dewey and me to start collecting paperwork. We've got a lot of stuff to go through. We might find some clue about Jackson's whereabouts, but I doubt it. We're just not that lucky.

We go into one of the back offices. I open a drawer on one of four unlocked file cabinets and start stacking papers on a chair. Dewey sits at the only desk and boots up the computer.

He types away for ten minutes or more. He's mumbling to himself the whole time. He's really starting to piss me off. I'm doing manual labor and he's playing Solitaire. I'm just about to go off on him when he cuts loose with a victory cry and starts pounding on the desk with his fists.

"WOOHOO!! Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit! I don't Goddamm believe it!"

He jumps up out of the chair and starts doing some weird white guy end zone dance.

Welsh and Jack come running in to see who's dying. Dewey starts flexing his muscles like he's actually got some.

"I am the man! Bow down before me!"

Welsh, Jack and I give him a golf clap. He bows and sits back in front of the computer.

He points to the screen and tells us to look at what he's found.

There's a menu on the screen. Dewey's pointing to a file titled 'Fundraising Activities'. It contains ten documents. They have titles like 'flower sales', 'picnics' and 'raffles'.

Welsh pats him on the back.

"That's very exciting, detective. Now, perhaps you could help Vecchio with the paperwork."

"Sir, don't you see? Flower sales, picnics!"

"Yes, detective, they're excellent moneymaking ideas. Perhaps we could convince the retirement fund boys to start some of them for our benefit."

"No, sir, not flower sales, FLOWER SALES."

"Detective, maybe you could explain yourself, in English, this time?"

"I spent four years in financial crimes before I came here, right?"

"Yes, detective that is correct. I'm glad to see you haven't lost all of your mental faculties."

Jack joins in.

"Are you telling us you want to audit their books? They're a religious institution, remember? They are exempt from paying taxes."

"They shouldn't be. They're not a cult. I mean, they are a cult, kind of, but not that kind of a cult.

"This is code, or slang maybe. Nobody's ever seen it, but we heard rumors about it all the time. 'Flower sales' means prostitution, 'Picnic' is drug sales and 'Raffles' is for gambling. They're not a cult. They're the mob, and these are their books."

We give his little announcement the moment of silence it deserves.

Holy shit. If Dewey's right, we've just made the biggest bust in Chicago since Elliot Ness took out Capone. We've done more damage to them in twenty minutes, than I did my whole eight months undercover.

Welsh tells Dewey to call Captain Cransfield, the head of Financial Crimes Division, at her house. Dewey dials the number and hands the phone to Welsh.

"Janice, Harding Welsh here. Yes, I know what time it is. No, I don't think I could fit a fire extinguisher up my ass, now that you mention it.

"Listen, how would you like a promotion, a commendation and a blow job from the Mayor? Yeah, I know you don't have a Johnson. For this, the Mayor will have the Quartermaster issue you one, I promise."

He starts filling her in on all the details. Dewey takes off his jacket, loosens his tie, rolls up his sleeves and goes back to working on the computer. He's humming to himself. Jack motions for me to follow him. We tell a uniform to have the SWAT boys tighten up perimeter security and head back to talk to Susie-Q.

***********

You have to hand it to Suze. She gets bonus points for looking casual and comfortable while she's got her hands cuffed behind her. It's not easy to look cool when your wrists are wrapped up in giant trashbag twist ties, but she manages.

Jack walks up to her like he's going to pick up where he left off. He pulls up a chair and motions for me to have a seat. I do.

Jack starts nosing around the room.

Suze and I are so close, our knees are touching. I lean in and gently tuck a loose section of her suicide blonde hair behind her ear.

"You know, Susan, you really are a very beautiful woman."

She smiles.

"I don't have a soft spot in my heart for many things, but beautiful women definitely rate one."

She preens.

As I talk to her, I lightly trace a single finger over each body part I speak of.

"It truly would be a pity to see your beautiful face and exquisite body laid out on a cold metal slab in the precinct basement. I don't know if I'd be able to watch, while our Medical Examiner shaved your head and made an incision right here, just above your stunning hazel eyes. I know I couldn't look as he sawed the top of your lovely skull open, so he could take out your devious little brain and weigh it.

She isn't preening anymore.

"I'd probably have to leave the room before he sliced your elegant torso open, right here between your superb breasts, so he could crack your sternum and remove all of your internal organs."

She isn't smiling.

She's angry. She isn't used to anyone talking to her like this. She leans back into her high backed wooden office chair. This new position causes her breasts to jut out like two defiant soldiers standing at attention.

"Don't bother, Susan. Even those won't save you now."

"You can't hurt me. If anything happens to me, you'll never find Jackson."

"Jackson? Oh, right. Jackson. I'd forgotten all about Jackson.

"We'll find Jackson, all right. But that's not what I was talking about, Susan. I was referring to your boss's reaction when our Lieutenant goes on television and announces that the Chicago Police Department is now in possession of the Cosa Nostra's accounting ledgers. When he goes on to state that Federal Prosecutors will be taking appropriate actions to shut them down and punish all involved parties to the fullest extent of the law, thanks to one Susan Anne Friedmont Bennett."

She starts to speak. I stop her by placing a finger over her full, pouting, silicone injected lips.

"No, Susan, no thanks are necessary, really. And don't worry, I'll personally see to it that the press spells your name correctly."

I've thrown the bait out there. I'm just about to start reeling her in, when I see Jack out of the corner of my eye. He's directly behind Susan. He's right next to the back wall, staring at the floor. He bends down and presses his index finger to something on the floor. He looks up at me.

I know the look on his face. Whatever he's found, it's more important than Susan Bennett. I stand up and walk over to him. His finger hasn't moved. It's touching a small piece of paper. We can only see half of it, because it's sticking out from under the wall. Jack drags his finger along the floor. The paper slides out. He draws his finger back, and we look at the paper. It's a purple and yellow sticker. It says 'Star Student'.

Jack and I look at each other. We look at the wall. We look at each other again.

Jack goes wild. He starts pulling everything away from the wall. Bookcases, desks and everything they hold go flying. I run into the hallway and scream for Welsh and Dewey to come help us.

They come in just as a computer sails through the air and lands at their feet. Susan Bennett jumps out of her chair and tries to push past them. Dewey grabs her and they fall to the floor. Welsh screams at us, wanting to know what the Hell is going on. I don't think Jack knows anyone else is in the room. I answer as I rush back to help.

"False wall!"

That's all Welsh and Dewey need to hear. Dewey holds Susan on the floor. He's got her face down, with one hand on the back of her neck and his knee digging into her spine. She's screaming and cursing, but she's not going anywhere, until we decide she is.

Welsh helps us clear everything away from the wall. We move the last bookcase away from the far corner, and there it is, a panel door. Jack reaches for it, but Welsh stops him. He turns to Dewey.

"Get that bitch out of here. Have someone take her to the station. Someone you trust."

Dewey helps Susan up, by her neck. She tries to pull away from him. He tightens his grip on her.

"Give me one reason. Give me half a reason."

She shoots him a dirty look. He stares her down. Her eyes drop to the floor and she lets him lead her out of the office and down the stairs.

Welsh waits until we can't hear their footsteps anymore. Then, he nods to Jack. Huey, the only guy I know who loves kids more than my Ma, takes a deep breath and pushes the door. It's spring loaded. When he pushes it, it depresses about an inch and then swings out. We draw our weapons. Jack looks at Welsh and gets the go ahead. He steps inside. We follow.

It's a small room, lit only by a cheap plastic night light. But, it's clean and almost filled with toys and a big screen television. Against the far wall, there's an OD green army issue cot. On the cot, Jackson Bennett is sprawled out on his back, fast asleep.

We holster our weapons.

Jack walks over and kneels by the side of the cot. He ruffles Jackson's hair. When the boy opens his eyes, Jack smiles.

"Hey, Buddy, vacation's over. You ready to go home?"

The kid's ten years old, and probably too big for such things, but Jack doesn't care. He hugs Jackson and picks him up. He wraps a blanket around the boy and heads for the stairs.

When Jack walked by us, he must have kicked up some dust, because Welsh and I have to blink and sniffle a bit to get it out of our eyes and throats.

Welsh makes a path through our redecorating efforts and goes downstairs to make a phone call and one very lucky father's day. I sit down on the cot and spend a while thinking about loss and hope and reunions and betrayoul.

The room is just a little too cold for my taste. When I stand, I put my hands in my pants pockets, to warm them. My right hand comes into contact with a small cold metal object, the key to Stanley's front door.

I head out to find Turnbull.

***********

When I get to the street, I see some uniform has claimed Jackson from Huey. The kid is sitting on a motorjock's lap, on his bike. Someone has given Jackson their hat and jacket, and he's giving a play by play of a 'chase' he's in with 'the bad guys'. He's the center of attention and everybody's hero. Hell, they'd probably give him a service revolver, if he asked.

On the way back to the MCP, I stop off to clear myself with Welsh. He's in a pow wow with Jack and Dewey and some guys with stars on their shoulders. When I join the little group, Dewey's busy putting his foot in his mouth, as usual.

"Man, I am so glad I'm not with FCD any more. I mean, I got to be in on the bust, and I'm going to get credit for finding that stuff, but I don't have to do any of the drudge work. You know what I'm saying? Twenty minutes on a computer is fine, but those guys are going to be going through that hard drive with a fine toothed comb for months. It's going to be about as exciting as a John Denver CD on infinite loop."

Leave it to Dewey. Of all the easy listening white guys he could have picked, he had to say John Denver. He had to say it in front of Huey. Welsh takes a step back. I try to fade into the background.

"What do you mean by that?"

"What do I mean by what?"

"Don't play stupid with me, Dewey. What did you mean by that crack about John Denver?"

"What do you think I meant? The guy puts me to sleep. Come on, Jack, the guy is boring. 'You fill up my senses'. What the Hell does that mean, anyway? You fill up my senses with what? A tuna sandwich and a glass of milk? You cannot tell me that you actually like John Denver."

"What are you saying? That a black man can't like John Denver? The man is a musical genius. He took the yearning every man feels to return to a more natural, simplified lifestyle and translated it into song. He speaks for all of us."

"Well, he isn't doing a whole lot of speaking now, is he? In fact, the only thing he is doing a lot of is decomposing. Get it? De-composing."

"You're a dead man."

They go walking off to finish their verbal rendition of Plato's Republic, and I claim Welsh's ear for a second.

"Sir, things are pretty much in the mopping-up stage here. I'm more in the way than anything else, and I've been in this suit since six this morning. Would it be possible for me to shove off?"

"Have you done anything to piss me off in the last twenty-four hours, detective?"

"Not that I am aware of, sir."

He looks at his watch.

"All right. I have a feeling the Feds are going to be taking this over, shortly. It's just after midnight. Call in to the station at ten to see if we're going to need you. If we don't, be back first thing Monday, ready to work."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

A uniform with the greenest eyes and biggest tits I've ever seen gives me a ride for the two blocks to the MCP. I must have fallen asleep on the way there, because I wake up just as she pulls up to the site.

I thank her and force my body to get out of her car. God bless her, she dropped me off not ten feet from the Riv.

I walk over to the passenger door and unlock it. I open it and Turnbull slips meekly inside.

I slide into the driver's side and pull away from the curb.

I stare past the window at the dark road that stretches out in front of us.

"We need to have a little talk about your actions tonight, Rennie."

He stares down at his boots.

*

As we walk up the dark narrow stairs, I slip the golden key out of my pocket. I put it in the deadbolt and with a half turn of one wrist, I release the lock. With an identical half turn of my other wrist I twist the doorknob. One small push on the hollow core door, and it's done.

I stand in the hallway and motion for Turnbull to step inside. He obeys. I never doubted that he would.

I take the key out of the deadbolt and place it on a small table just to the right of the door. I won't be needing it after tonight. I shut the door quietly, but don't bother with the lock.

I remove my coat and jacket and throw them over the back of the worn, lumpy sofa.

I stop at the entrance to the bedroom and look at Turnbull.

"Well, what are you waiting for?"

His eyes firmly planted on his Doc Martin's, he shuffles across the small room. He comes to a halt, just before he passes me.

"Did I tell you to stop? Get in there."

Again, he obeys. Someone trained him well.

He's standing next to the room's small single window. The bluish ever-changing light from the television in the living room reflects off of the white walls, casting strange shadows across his long angular face.

His eyes flicker to the bed for a moment, before returning to his boots. He's shaking. He wants this as badly as I do.

There aren't any chairs, so I make myself comfortable on a low blanket chest that's sitting against the far wall.

I keep my voice calm. There's no reason to yell at such an obedient subject.

"You know what you did was wrong, don't you, Rennie?"

A small nod.

"You jeopardized the entire operation by losing control like that. I'm the one who brought you in on the case. I'm the one who had everything to lose. But you weren't thinking about that, were you?"

He shakes his head.

"You were being selfish, and you almost cost me my reputation, possibly even my job. You know that, don't you?"

Another small nod.

"Up until this point, you've been helpful to me. Therefore, I'm going to risk everything and cover for you. But you owe me, big. So what I want to know is, how are you going to make it up to me?"

For long moments, nothing happens. We're at a standstill. Finally, one of his large feet takes a step. The other follows. He walks slowly, reluctantly across the room. He comes to a stop directly in front of me.

"Well?"

His legs are shaking, as he kneels in front of me. He places his hands between my knees and spreads my legs. He starts to lean forward, to put his face into my lap.

I stop him by hooking a finger under his chin. I force him to look at me.

"That's a good idea, Rennie. But not good enough."

My finger drops away from his chin, and his eyes drop away from mine. He stands and makes his way to the bed. His thighs brush the mattress, and he stops, not knowing what to do next.

"Strip. Make it good."

He does and it is. He's still shaking, but there is no awkwardness, only smooth practiced motion, as though he has done this a thousand times. He peels away the layers of cloth revealing a magnificent living statue.

His shoulders are as broad as an axe handle, and they taper to slender, masculine hips. The light from the television casts his hairless muscular chest in stark relief. A large blackwork tattoo starts on his right shoulder. It swirls and twists its way down and around his biceps, ending mere inches above his elbow. His thighs and calves are just the slightest bit too developed to be called elegant, but they are wonderfully long and they balance the rest of him perfectly.

A thin line of brown hair that's barely darker than that on his head, starts just below his navel and widens then narrows again, to form a perfect triangle that frames his cock. His cock is beautiful. It's uncircumcised and almost as large as I had imagined. It's still hanging flaccidly between his thighs. No matter, I'll take care of that soon enough.

My breathing is shallow and quick. We're both shaking.

"That's good. That's a good start."

I motion with my chin, toward the bed.

He turns away from me and kneels on the bed. He takes a pillow from the head of the bed. He stretches out on his stomach, making sure the pillow is securely beneath his hips. He spreads his legs and buries his face in his arms.

He's still shaking, but it isn't from lust. It's fear. I see that now, as clearly as I can see the scars that riddle his back.

Without realizing I've moved, I find myself standing beside the bed. I reach out and trace the lines that crisscross his back. He flinches, but doesn't try to move away. He unfolds his arms and reaches out to grasp two of the headboard's brass posts, in anticipation of the pain, no doubt.

The lines have turned to silver. They're old, but some are older than others. There are scars on top of scars on top of scars. They weren't inflicted all at once. If the difference in their colors is any indication, the torture went on for months, perhaps longer.

Can I use him? Is it possible for me to use him, when he's already been used up?

He isn't what I thought. He hasn't been playing with me, getting some sort of sick satisfaction from helping a man he tried to kill. He's not like me, a bent and twisted version of my former self.

He's broken. He's so far from his true self that he becomes whatever those around him expect him to be.

I close my eyes and see two men standing before me, to my right is Armando Langostini, to my left Ray Vecchio.

I have spent the last months of my life in limbo, stretched between the two of them, leaning first toward one and then the other. It has been incredibly painful, but far more bearable than making a decision. I have lied and cheated and run to avoid making this one decision, all because of the fear of what that decision might be.

I can be me or I can be him, but there is no black and white, only shades of grey. No matter who I pick, I must admit to myself that each contains shades of the other. And to admit that I have within me the things that Armando Langostini has done, will be the hardest thing I have ever done.

I've been able to hide for so long, but I can't do that any longer. It isn't just my fate that lies in my hands, but the future of the man who lies before me.

I make my decision. I choose our future. I step to the left and look into Ray Vecchio's troubled face.

I open my eyes and reach for Rennie's hip. I turn him to face me. I pull the pillow from under his groin and put it on the floor. I take the pillow from the far side of the bed and hold it out to him. He looks at me uncomprehendingly. I take one of his hands from the bed post and wrap his fingers around the pillow. I tell him to put it under his head. He does and I take his other hand from the post and lay it down at his side. I reach across his broken body. I take the covers in my hand and fold them over his poor abused skin. I gently tuck the soft cloth around him. I lean down and whisper in his ear.

"Everything is all right. You're safe now. No one will hurt you anymore. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you. I promise. Sleep now. I'll keep watch until Stanley gets home."

A single tear escapes his eye and runs across his nose. He nods once and obeys.

I take his clothes to the washing machine that's tucked into the pantry in the corner of the tiny kitchen. He's going to need fresh clothes for a fresh start.

Once his clothes are dried and folded, I settle back on the blanket chest with some cushions liberated from the sofa and try to get comfortable. It's going to be a long night.

***********

D's a good kid. He makes it look like I'm leaning on him a lot less than I really am -- like I could walk without limping, if I wanted to.

He shuffles me to Sharon's car. I'd have know it was hers, even if D hadn't been there to lead me. It's the patrol car with the most dings and scratches. I love Sharon like family, but the woman thinks every day is demolition derby tryouts.

D helps me into the back seat and then slides behind the wheel. Thank God for small favors. He starts the engine and cranks the heater. I sit as still as I can. Every movement I make sends pain through my kidney, and I swear my heart has moved down about six inches. Every time it beats, it pounds into my cracked ribs.

By the time Sharon gets in the passenger seat, the engine is humming and the heater is working full blast. D pulls away from the curb like a new dad driving home from the hospital.

I'm warm and almost comfortable, and I guess I fell asleep somehow. I wake up to Sharon nudging my knee, telling me we're at the hospital.

I make like an eighty year old man and pull myself out of the cruiser. I head for the Emergency Department doors, but only make it one step.

Some orderlies come rushing out with a gurney and try to make me lie down. Somebody must have made an 'officer down' call to the ED. I tell the orderlies to fuck off and limp to the door.

A nurse meets me at the door with a wheelchair. I'm about to tell her to kiss my ass when Sharon comes up and gives me one of her 'cross me and I'll cut your dick off' looks. She pushes me into the wheelchair and tells the nurse to let Doctor Samuells know that his favorite nephew has a boo-boo.

The nurse heads off without a word. No one disobeys Sharon when she's in full Bitch Goddess mode.

"You know, Share, I really don't think Uncle Matt's going to be able to help me out."

"Oh, sure, haul my ass down here, just when the bust was getting interesting and then deny me the pleasure of staring at that babe of an uncle of yours, you selfish bastard."

"He's a Gynecologist, Sherry."

"Who cares? He's a sex toy with legs."

"He's gay, Sherry."

"Who the fuck cares? Like I could get him if he was straight."

She's just trying to keep my brain busy, but I'm too tired to play verbal judo with her. I yawn real big and feel the corner of my lip, where Vecchio hit it, split open again. I can't stop the stretch that comes with the yawn, or the gasp I make when my kidney and ribs send me a little thank you note.

She's about to ask about earlier, when the Marlboro Man turns a corner and comes riding to the rescue. My Uncle Matt is probably the only guy on this planet who can wear full cowboy gear under his lab coat and still look like the almost-genius that he is.

He gives me a quick Medical once over with his eyes. He can tell I ain't low sick or anything close so he hones in on Sharon.

"Sharon, you Sex Kitten. I've told you a hundred times, you're too much woman for my skinny-assed nephew."

"Hey, Matt, you gorgeous hunk of man you. You still gay?"

"Last time I checked, Sherry. Does that bother you?"

"Depends."

"On what, Sherry?"

"Can I watch?"

"Anything for you, ma'am."

"Goddam, I love my life."

Seeing as I'm not the smartest guy in the universe, I laugh -- just a bit, but it's enough to make somebody stick a big old blow torch into my kidney. I make one of those "Dear God, I swear I'll never drink again" noises they teach you in college, and I'm the center of attention.

Uncle Matt squats down next to me. He's got the same look in his eyes he had when I was ten and Mitch Rader beat the crap out of me, because I wouldn't give him my new baseball glove.

"Hey, Champ, still tilting at windmills?"

He's said that for as long as I can remember. I don't know what it means, but I know what he's trying to say.

He wheels me over to one of about twenty open bays. It has a gurney and a cart with some medical stuff on it. The only thing separating it from all of the other bays is a faded yellow plastic curtain.

"Tell me your glorious tale of derring do, Buddy."

I never could lie to Matt, so I look to Sharon for help.

"We were running a warrant on a bar in the ritzy part of town. Ray took a couple of hits. He was doing a pretty good imitation of Sleeping Beauty when I found him."

"OK, Champ, let's get your jersey off, check the lay of the land."

I can't say no to Uncle Matt. So I don't, but I don't move either. He gets the hint.

"Listen, Sherry, why don't you go move that police car of yours out of the ED port. Wouldn't want the city to have to pay for tow fees."

She's not fooled for a second, but she gives me the easy out.

"Sure thing, Matty, but I expect the sexual favor of my choice for this one."

"I wouldn't have it any other way, darlin'."

Sharon leaves and Uncle Matt closes the curtain. He makes me climb up on the gurney. He just stands there, waiting for me to strip down. I start to pull my jersey over my head about ten times. I start, but I can't make myself finish. Finally I just give up and sit there, looking at the cheap cracked tiles on the floor.

"You're not getting shy on me now, are you, RayRay? I used to change your diapers when you were a baby."

I don't know how, but I do it. I take off my jersey and my shirt. I drop them onto the gurney, next to Rennie's jersey, and look everywhere but at Uncle Matt.

Uncle Matt stares at me. He sees everything, the split lip and the bite mark on my neck, the scratches on my chest and the bruises over my cracked ribs and the knuckle marks over my kidney.

He touches the bite mark and asks, "Was it rape?"

I shake my head no and try to laugh it off, but all I can do is cry. Uncle Matt is the best. He wraps his big old muscular cowboy arms around me and holds me to his chest. He smells like rubbing alcohol and coffee and cinnamon gum and Chaps cologne. He smells like home.

I cry harder, and he holds me tighter. He rocks me and tells me it's going to be okay. He doesn't know what the Hell is wrong, but it doesn't matter. He's going to do everything he can to make it okay.

I finally stop crying. I'm not cried out, more like dried out. I need more tears; I've just used up my quota for today. Uncle Matt takes some tissues off of the cart, he soaks them in the water pitcher and cleans me up, just like when I was ten.

The whole time he's working, he's talking to me.

"You know, RayRay, you look just like your Uncle Freddy. He's been dead for four years now, but every time you walk into a room, my heart stops for a second.

"It's not just the way you look, your eyes that are never the same color two days in a row, and your hair that was cut in a blender. It's the way you carry yourself, the way you smile, even the way you get those snot bubbles when you cry.

"We used to laugh about that when you were a baby. Freddy used to accuse me of making you cry, just to see your nose bubble up.

"I remember when he died. I was sitting in the front bench of that horrible funeral home, next to your mom. Your poor mom didn't know what to do. On her left was her husband, who had just lost his only brother, and on her right was her best friend, who had just lost his lover.

"We didn't think you would make the service. You and Stella were off trying to work things out -- again.

"I told your mom to look after your dad. I moved away, just a little, to give them some time together. I was feeling so alone. It was the first time I had been at a social gathering without Freddy in almost thirty years. I was about to make a run for it. Just run into the street and, if I was lucky, maybe I'd get hit by a big truck.

"Before I could stand, you were there, sitting next to me. You put your arm around my shoulder and held my hand in yours. You stayed with me that day and all that night.

"You made me eat and sleep and take a shower. You made me get dressed and brush my teeth and go to work the next day. You saved my life as surely as if you had taken a bullet for me. You aren't my blood, but you're my family, and I'll kill anyone who says differently.

"You can tell me anything and I will still love you. Please, tell me."

He cops a squat in the wheelchair that's still sitting by the gurney and just waits for me to talk.

I pick up Rennie's jersey and twist it in my hands. It makes me feel close to him.

I hug Rennie's jersey to my chest and tell Uncle Matt everything. I start with the day I took another man's name and end with how I came to be sitting on a lumpy mattress on a hard gurney in a semi-private bay of Chicago General's Emergency Room, bawling like I was two and had just lost my favorite blankey.

Uncle Matt doesn't say anything right away. He takes his time, sifting through all of the crap I dumped on his head, deciding what's important and what isn't. He's putting a lot of thought into his answer, like when I was thirteen and asked him exactly what it was he and Uncle Freddy did in bed -- exactly.

"RayRay, I'm not going to tell you any tales. This life you've picked for yourself is a tough row to hoe under the best of circumstances."

He stops me when he sees I'm about to interrupt.

"I know, I know. You didn't choose to be gay. What I mean is you've decided to pursue a gay lifestyle, whatever the Hell that means, and it would be difficult even for two well-adjusted men to have a successful relationship.

"I haven't met him, and I hate to play pop psychologist, but it sounds like your Rennie. . . Rennie was it? Rennie has some serious emotional problems. He may just be a crazy psychotic bastard that needs to be locked up, but a lot of what you're describing, the apparent fugues and disassociation especially, sounds like the result of some pretty serious abuse, either physical or emotional.

"I was as bad at the Psychiatry portion of medical school as your Uncle Freddy was good at it. So I'm not going to go any farther with my talk show diagnosis than that.

"Are you still seeing that counselor that works for the Police Department?"

I shrug and mumble my answer.

"Not since I started seeing Rennie. Everything was going so good."

"I think you should start going again. Drag that young man of yours along with you, if he'll go. If he's truly crazy, you'll have to cut him loose eventually. A nice clean break and you'll be free.

"But if I'm right about the abuse, it's going to be much harder. It's going to be a long messy painful road for both of you.

"You're used to being taken care of. You were the baby of the family. We couldn't do enough for you. You went straight from living with your parents to living with Freddy and me while you were in college to being married. Even then, Stella wouldn't trust you to do so much as the laundry. Every time she'd leave you, you'd end up dyeing your underwear pink.

"If you decide to stay with this young man and help him get through whatever it is he's facing, you're going to have to be the strong one. You've always been a stand up guy. But you have to decide if you can be a man. I mean a real man.

"Can you see yourself putting up with all of the emotional upheaval you've been through and worse for maybe years to come?

"You don't have to decide this minute, but you have to decide soon. And this is one decision you can't go back on. Because if you start to help your young man and then run out on him, it could damage him and you beyond repair."

The weight of his words is like a big old mountain sitting on my bony shoulders, threatening to crush me into the floor. All I was looking for was a little romance and a lot of sex. Suddenly, I'm supposed to be Dr. Freud and Florence Nightingale with Betty Crocker and Mister Clean to boot.

I'm wondering if Sharon loves me enough to put me out of my misery when Uncle Matt starts talking again.

"But on the plus side, you have a good support network of friends at work, you already have a counselor that you trust, you have a brilliant sexy loyal gay cowboy for an uncle, and you have two parents who just don't seem to understand what all of the fuss over homosexuality is about. That's a lot more that most people in your situation could dream of having.

"I'm going to work on your physical problems now, RayRay. I want you to keep your ribs taped up for at least a week, and none of those wild adventures you were always getting into in college. Go home, get a good night sleep, and take the pain pills I prescribe. You'll heal faster if you're comfortable. If you don't think you can make work on Monday, call me. I'll give you a note for some "I" time.

"Let me know what you decide about everything else.

"Now, I'm going to tape your ribs and give you the first dosage of your pain meds. You think your kidney hurts now? Just wait until you try to take a piss."

He laughs and I laugh. All isn't right with the world, but it's as close as it's going to get for now.

Uncle Matt calls a nurse over and tells her to get started on the paperwork. I give her my information and let him fix me up. He does a good job on my ribs and puts a bandage over the bite mark. He makes me put on a clean scrub top and hands me my shirts.

He hugs me and that enormous belt buckle of his digs into my stomach.

"Have you ever even ridden a horse, Uncle Matty?"

"Not the four legged kind, Champ. What's it to you?"

He hugs me again and tucks me back in that goddam wheelchair. He pushes me to the non-emergency entrance and hands me off to Sharon. She helps me get into the passenger seat. D's resting his eyes in the back seat. That means Sharon's doing the driving. God help us all.

***********

Sharon uses the cell phone in her car to let Welsh know I'm okay, but I'm not going to be in fighting trim for a while. She hangs up the phone after a lot of "sure's", "okay's" and some healthy sexual innuendo.

Maybe I'll go in to work tomorrow, just long enough to ask Welsh for that vacation time I've got coming. A big bust and some dirty talk -- he's going to be in a great mood in the morning.

Sharon tells me I've been ordered to stay home tomorrow and the whole weekend. I say it's no problem. That's exactly what I'm planning on doing.

I don't tell her I've got to find Rennie and have a talk with him first.

I think Sharon's driving me back to the bust to get my car. But she takes a right where she should have turned left, and I realize she's taking me home. I need my car to get to Rennie's place. I tell Sharon to take me to the Copper Tank, but she's never listened to me before and she ain't about to start now.

I tear into her but good, and she goes all Mary Poppins on me. I can't even get her to motherfuck me once. D wakes up in the middle of this mess and I can hear him in the back, trying not to laugh.

Sharon pulls up in front of my building and tells me to get out. I motherfuck her. She tells D to get me out. He jumps to. He gets out of the car and comes around to my door. He opens it up and motions for me to get out, like he's some kind of overpaid doorman.

Sharon grins at me.

"Last chance, Sweet Cheeks."

She starts counting, just like my mom did when I was five and wouldn't do what she said.

"One. Two."

I never did find out what would have happened if mom had gotten to three, and old habits are hard to break. So I don't find out now. Sharon says two and a half and I slip out of the car. The happy pills Uncle Matt gave me must be working, because the way I stand up, I can't look a day over sixty-five.

They say goodnight and I say a lot of stuff that shouldn't come out of the mouth I kiss my mother with.

Sharon doesn't pull away until I'm inside my apartment building. For a couple of minutes, I'm real glad that I'm Mountieless, because it means I can use the elevator instead of the stairs.

I'm only four floors up, but I've got the elevator to myself. I punch the magic button and lean against the back wall to get a couple seconds of shut eye. My apartment is on the other side of the building from the elevator and I'm going to need all the help I can get to make it there.

It's the first time I've ridden in the elevator. The stairs are just part of my plan to keep the old pins in dancing condition. Not that I've had much worth dancing over lately, and the Single Man's Mambo is getting a little old.

The elevator's old, like my building, but it's still in great condition. The doors slide shut with a quiet whoosh, and the soft rocking of the box as it lifts me steadily to my floor works it's magic on my tired bones. A gentle ding of the warning bell tells me the box has brought me home.

I open my eyes and yawn. The pills are really kicking in now, so I make the yawn a good one. I put my hands over my head and reach for the sky. When I'm stretched out like a slinky, I bend over at the waist -- hoping to take a little tension out of my snap, crackle, pop spine. I grab my ankles and pull, just to see if I can still touch my nose to my knees. I can. Never know when a skill like that could come in handy.

The doors start to slide shut. I reach out to my sides and push the doors back open. When I drop my hands back to the floor, one of them hits a brass plate screwed into the floor. It's the elevator company's trademark. It says 'Turnbull - made in Canada'.

I manfully resist the urge to lick the plate like a lollipop and stand up. I get vertical too quick and have to shake some of those little black spots out of my eyes. I make for my front door and do a fast personal pat down, looking for my keys. I find them in the inside right pocket of my coat, just as I make it to my door.

The meds are playing tricks on my fine motor skills. I get the key in the lock okay, if the fifth try counts as okay. I try to turn the key and the knob at the same time, but that's not going to happen. I decide to let go of the knob and just turn the key, but that order gets mixed up somewhere between my brain and my hands. I end up letting go of the key and turning the knob. At least that's what I thought I did. I must be more messed up than I thought, because the door opens -- short term memory has left the building. I guess I got the door unlocked after all.

I stumble inside and shut the door. I'm half way to the bedroom when I remember to go back and get the key out of the deadbolt. Wouldn't want anyone to make off with the Kowalski estate.

I take the keys and toss them on the table by the door. I lock the door and make for the kitchen. I strip in front of the washer and throw everything inside. I add my dirty shirts and pour some liquid detergent on top. I can't seem to focus on the writing on my Whirlpool, so I don't bother to check the temperature settings. I pull the "on" dial and shuffle away. I set Rennie's jersey on the kitchen table, so I'll remember to take it to the laundry in the morning. I wouldn't want to dye it pink.

I'm feeling really good, so I float past my TV. I do a little pirouette and turn the television off with a decisive flick of my wrist. I like the way my dick feels when it slaps my thigh as I finish my little spin. I stand there for a minute and wave my hips back and forth, amusing myself and Big Ray at the same time. When my attention span has exceeded its own speed limit, I continue on my trek. I pass through my bedroom and make it safely to the bathroom.

I start the water in the shower and set it to nuclear hot. Then I realize I haven't drained my main vein since before I left work.

Vecchio was the last one to use the head. Thank God he's enough of a pig to leave the seat up. Because by the time I get there, I'm peepee dancing to keep from doing my take on a Chihuahua.

My arms are like noodles. So I don't even try to hold Big Ray. I just lean over the John and rest my head on the back wall. This gives me the perfect angle to hit the center of the water. I close my eyes and relax and take my first piss in about ten hours.

The gold starts flowing and I howl like a Banshee. I grab the back of the toilet tank for support and make real sure I haven't forgotten each and every curse word I've ever heard, or thought I'd heard, in my short misspent life.

I don't end up on the floor or nothing like that, but I must have passed out standing up. Because the next thing I know, I'm in the middle of a really bizarre dream.

I'm hanging on to the toilet tank for dear life. Suddenly, two really warm hands are helping me stand all the way up. They ease me across the bathroom floor. They lean me up against the counter and go to work on my bandage, unwrapping it from around my ribs. When they're done with that, the hands take off the bandage covering the bite mark. They're really talented hands. It doesn't even hurt when they pull the tape away from the tender skin on my neck.

Whoever owns the helping hands, I can feel their breath on my neck as they're peeling the tape off. I open my eyes to get a look at my nurse and smile.

It's Vecchio.

There's something really kinky about having a dream where somebody I hate so much is taking care of me. But I like kinky, so I decide to go with the flow.

He walks me to the shower. He opens the stall door and helps me inside. I pull him in with me. He's still got his shirt and pants on, but busy hands are happy hands. I go to work on his shirt buttons. He pushes my hands away and reaches for the soap. My hands go right back to his shirt buttons. He pushes them away again. So I go to work on his pants.

He pulls my hands away and turns me to face the wall. He puts my hands on the wall and tells me to keep them there. I spread my legs and brace myself and tell him to do his worst.

His idea of foreplay is soaping me up from head to toe. It's different, but his hands feel great on my skin and I tell him so. I don't use words too much, but I moan -- a lot. He soaps me everywhere. And I mean everywhere. When he gets to my dick, I start begging.

He doesn't listen to me. His hands are gone from my dick and my balls so fast, it's like it hurt him to touch them. I don't care. I want more. I grab his hand and wrap it around my hard on. I stroke his hand over the slick skin, up and down, with a little quarter twist when his fingers get near the head, just the way I like it.

For a second he gives in and I feel his hand start to take over. Then his other hand grabs my fingers and peels them away. He turns me to face him and shoves me into the cold tiles on the back wall. He's shaking and I can tell he wants it bad. But he hold me at arms length and stares me in the eye.

"You're taken, remember? You're taken and so am I."

Well doesn't this just suck rocks? Now I'm even supposed to be responsible in my dreams. Uncle Matt is going to hear about this one.

If it ain't going to happen, it ain't going to happen. And judging from the state of my former boner, it ain't going to happen. I tell him okay and ask, "Can I rinse off now?"

I do, real quick, and I step out of the shower. I grab a towel and start to dry off. He stays in the shower. He strips his clothes off and cleans himself up. He did kind of smell like old socks, now that I think of it. Now I'm even smelling laundry in my dreams. Next thing you know, I'll be scrubbing toilets every time I grab some shuteye.

I finish drying off and toss the towel on the floor. Vecchio steps out of the shower and wraps a towel around his waist. He takes one look at me in all my naked glory and hightails it for my bedroom.

I feel around under the sink and find the economy-sized box of toothbrushes I put there months ago, just in case Rennie ever actually spent the night. I open one up and go to work. I love Rennie and all, but I wouldn't want to use the toothbrush he used after he yakked, even if this is a dream. I freely admit to being a total slob, except for my teeth. I've always had this thing about dental hygiene.

I'm scrubbing away at my pearly whites and Vecchio comes back in. He looks completely edible in a pair of my navy blue sweat pants and my favorite T-shirt. It's white and on the front it says "Give Blood. Play Hockey."

I give him a "you look good enough to eat" smile. He throws a green T-shirt and some plaid boxers on the counter. He grabs my Ace bandage and wraps up my ribs. He's a real pro. He does almost as good a job as Uncle Matt. When he's done, he points to the shirt and boxers.

"Put those on."

I'm feeling really happy and really naughty. I take the shirt and put it on -- slowly. I grab the boxers and turn my back to him. I bend over so my nose is not quite at my knees and I slip the shorts on. I stand up and turn to look at him. He's staring all right. I take a step toward him.

"Don't touch me."

I reach out and offer him a purple toothbrush, still in the box. He looks at me like it's a trick. He grabs the toothbrush. I make room for him at the sink. He opens his box and we brush our teeth, standing side by side.

We finish at the same time and we walk out to my bedroom. I've lulled him into a thoroughly false sense of security. He makes the mistake of leading the way.

We're almost exactly the same height. This means when I grab him and pull his back to my chest, his neck is just inches below my lips. I take advantage of that fact and suck on the skin just below his hairline, while I'm grinding my crotch into his ass.

He jerks away from me and spins me around to face my bed. Nobody told me it was Christmas. That's the only explanation I can think of for what I see -- six feet two inches of totally buffed, totally naked tattooed Mountie, lying on his back, spread eagle, with the covers down around his ankles and nothing left to my extremely active imagination.

I say the only thing I can think of.

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"Wow."

"Yeah. Are your tired?"

I shake my head no.

"Are you ready for bed?"

I nod.

Vecchio leads me to the bed and helps me into it. He tells me to be careful and not wake Rennie. Then he pulls the covers over Rennie and me. He says to sleep tight and he'll be on the sofa if we need anything.

I think Vecchio goes over to Stella's hope chest and grabs the sofa cushions, but I'm not sure. The only things I'm sure of are that Rennie is in my bed and this is one dream I don't want to wake up from, responsibility or not.

I curl myself carefully around his body, the way dolphins do when they're ready to mate. I'm already asleep, so I can't do that. Instead, I close my eyes and drift.

***********

I'm getting old, old and soft. I've never been a sex magnet, no matter how much I've tried to fool myself and everyone else. I've had to fight for every piece of ass I've ever been inside of, and now I turn it down -- twice in the same night.

I thought resisting Turnbull and that perfect ass of his was hard, no matter the state of his mind. It's been a hell of a long time since I was able to get a hard on while there was someone else in the room with me. He knelt in front of me and I was rock hard before his knees hit the floor. Then when he turned his back to me, my dick deflated like a balloon that someone had popped with a needle. Thank God I'm still human enough to care for someone else, no matter how little.

How fucking pitiful can you get? My life has come down to being grateful that I didn't get laid.

I put him to bed like he's one of my nephews, and I camp out on the only piece of furniture in the world that's more uncomfortable than Benny's old bed. I don't mean to sleep too deeply, because I have a feeling that if I do Kowalski will see to it that I don't wake up again. Of course, I close my eyes and I'm out -- completely out. I'm so far gone I don't even hear Kowalski come into his apartment and walk right past me to his bathroom.

I don't know he's there until I hear this howl. It jolts me awake and I jump up and run for the bed, before I'm even aware of what's going on. I shake my head and try to rub the goop out of my eyes. After I blink about a hundred times, I can see well enough to tell Turnbull isn't in the middle of a nightmare. I'm thinking that maybe the nightmare was mine, or maybe I'm just hearing things. Then I realize there are sounds coming from the John. The shower is running and someone is moving around.

I almost sneak out of the apartment, but the detective in me takes over and makes me investigate that scream just a little more. What I see puts a lump in my throat and a matching ache in my heart.

God Damn, but Stanley Kowalski is a beautiful man. His back is to me. He's naked and leaning over the toilet, using the wall for support. Even battered and bruised with his ribs taped up and pale from exhaustion and pain, he's beautiful.

Before, I could fool myself into thinking nothing had happened between him and Benny. I could hide my fears behind his slovenly clothes and ghetto vocabulary. There couldn't be any possibility that my educated, reserved, neat freak lover could have been attracted to such a man, no matter what Kowalski had said.

Now I know different. Kowalski isn't a pretty boy by any stretch of the imagination. He's much too thin and he carries himself like a pickpocket, doing his best to fade into the crowd, so no one will figure out he doesn't belong and kick him out. His hands are bony and his face is a mix of features that would look ridiculous on anyone else. The parts are like someone threw a bunch of mismatched jigsaw puzzle pieces into a box and tried to make them fit. But somehow, on him it works. Somehow, a guy who people's eyes should just slide past, only half noticing him, ended up being the kind of man that makes women, and men, take a second or even third look.

He's not a classic beauty. He's a classic underdog, anti-hero, bad boy with a heart. The exact kind of person Benny could never resist. I had to fight tooth and nail for two years to get him into bed. Kowalski is the kind of guy who would win him over in ten seconds flat. I wonder how long Benny resisted or if he resisted at all. God knows I wouldn't have.

It's pretty clear he needs help if he's going to make it into the shower before all of the hot water is gone. I know he won't give me permission, so I don't ask. I take a hold of him and steer him to the tiny bathroom's tinier counter. I prop him up against the counter and go to work on his bandages. His eyes are closed and I'm thinking that's good, that maybe I can get him in the shower and leave before he realizes who I am.

I peel the tape covering the bandage on his neck really slowly and carefully. I never did like it when Ma used to rip band-aids off of me. I don't know what I was expecting to find under the bandage, but a big oozing bite mark wasn't it. I gasp out loud, before I can stop myself.

Kowalski's eyes slide open and meet mine. I stand there frozen waiting for what I know is coming. But he doesn't curse me or take a swing at me or anything else I could handle.

He smiles at me, damn him. His mouth opens just enough to give me a flash of those perfect teeth of his and the ends of his lips curl up in invitation. While my mind is still getting used to the idea that I'm not going to have to duke it out with him, my body is reacting to what he is doing. My heart is pounding like a freight train and my breath is rough and ragged, like I've just been kissed within an inch of passing out. I cover my attraction by steering him to the shower.

He pulls me in with him, and I spend the next minutes in a purgatory of my own making. I tell myself that I'm only doing this because he needs my help. That he isn't in any shape to shower, to soap his body or wash his hair on his own. I tell myself that I'm not enjoying it. I try to ignore him and my body, even when he starts moaning and begging me to fuck him hard, to ride him, to use him like a two dollar whore.

I'm able to stay in control, until he wraps my hand around his dick. His hand is wrapped around mine, guiding it, showing me what he likes. I want to say that I did what I did without realizing it, that it just happened. But that would be lying, and I promised that I wouldn't lie anymore -- at least not to myself.

He's so open, so unashamed about doing what he needs, getting what he needs. It makes me want him. I want to be inside of him more than I can remember wanting anything. It's not love. It's not like. It's not even close. It's just the driving need to possess him, to pound my cock into him, his ass or his mouth, it doesn't matter, one hole will do just as well as the other. I want to spill my seed so far inside of him that it will stay there forever. I want to make him come, to hear him scream and know that I forced those sounds from his throat.

I tighten my fingers around his cock and pump him; the way I like it. If he's going to come, he's going to earn it. I slide easily into the familiar rhythm and close my eyes to enjoy the feel and the sound of him.

He moans, "Oh, yes," with just the right tone of voice and a picture of Benny pops into my head. Benny stretched out on top of me, sweating and shaking. His forehead is pressed to mine as we're coming down from what had to be the hottest round of almost-fucking since the beginning of time.

I tear my hand away from Kowalski and whip him around. I shake him and try to make the both of us come to our senses.

"You're taken, remember? You're taken and so am I."

He's not wearing a ring or anything, but he knows what I'm talking about. He belongs to Turnbull as surely as I belong to Benny.

Oh, God, help me. We're hundreds of miles apart. I don't know where he is or how he's doing. He could be married with a kid by now. I'll never see him again, because he doesn't want anything to do with me. I know all of that and I deserve it, but I can't help it. I belong to him.

Kowalski gets out and dries off. I strip and try to clean some of the filth from my body and my life. I leave my clothes on the shower floor. I'll see to them later.

When I get out of the shower, Kowalski is still naked. Suddenly, I can't bear to see him without his clothes. I go to his bedroom and find something, anything to cover him and me. There's only one pair of clean sweats, and I need to feel as covered as possible. So I put them on. I pray for a sweat shirt, but there isn't one. I have to settle for an extra large T-shirt.

That leave Kowalski with a pair of boxers and a T-shirt. Not what I wanted, but it will do.

God decides he isn't done tempting me. Turnbull has kicked off his covers and is lying in the middle of the bed, spread eagle on his back. With his scars hidden, it isn't so easy to remember why I let him off the hook earlier.

I rush back into the bathroom. I rewrap Kowalski's ribs, letting the steady rhythm calm me as much as it can. He offers me a toothbrush and I think I'm safe. He teases me some while he puts on the clothes I found, but he doesn't try anything.

I take him to his bedroom and the bastard has to try one more time. He wraps his arms around me, like a lover and goes to work on my neck. I could have gone my entire life without knowing just how talented his tongue is.

Stella told me he was a dancer and, Sweet Mary, Mother of God, does the way he's moving his groin against my ass prove it. I didn't know men could move their hips like that.

While he's doing this, Turnbull stretches in his sleep and rubs one of his hands down his chest.

I've just descended to a deeper level of hell. I'm feeling and smelling Kowalski and watching Turnbull and knowing whatever they do in that bed tonight is not going to include me.

I break free from Kowalski and spin him around to get a good look at who he's supposed to be doing. He's no poet but what he says, well, it says it all.

"Wow."

I have to agree with him. I convince him to get into bed. Of course, considering what's already there, I don't have to do a lot of talking. I tuck him in with Turnbull and tell him to yell if he needs anything.

I'm too damned tired to drive home, and I figure we need to have a little talk in the morning.

I take the sofa cushions and head to the living room. Just as I'm about to lie down, I hear the washing machine clunk to a stop. That reminds me of my clothes. They aren't washable, so I find a garbage bag in the kitchen, under the sink. I sneak into the bathroom and put my clothes in the bag.

As I'm walking back through the bedroom I can't help but look at Kowalski and Turnbull. Kowalski is wrapped around the bigger man like he's his favorite Teddy bear. Turnbull has twisted around and thrown a leg over both of the smaller man's. He has one enormous hand on the center of Kowalski's back, right over the bandage, and the other hand is cradling Kowalski's head, like it's the most precious thing in the entire world.

I drag myself back to the kitchen. I put the bag with my clothes in it on the kitchen table, so I won't forget it in the morning. I put Kowalski's freshly washed clothes into the dryer. When I shut the dryer door, I see a small brown bottle with a white plastic lid lying on the floor. I don't recognize the name of the meds, but the instructions I know all too well -- take one pill every six hours, as needed for pain.

I laugh and seriously think about it for a second. If I'm not feeling pain, I don't know who is. But it has Kowalski's name on the label not mine, and given my luck, the department would call a piss test in the morning. Taking someone else's prescription medication is a federal offense and I don't need to lose my job. It's all I have left.

I set the dryer to medium heat for thirty minutes and hit the "on" button.

I make it back to the living room and fall asleep before my body hits the sofa.

***********

I'm twisted like a pretzel, trying to fool my body into thinking I'm comfortable, so it will let me sleep for a few more minutes. I'm beginning to think that Ma's house is the only place in Chicago with good furniture.

I don't know how, but my brain is winning the fight with my body, until a single ray of late morning sunshine comes through Kowalski's living room window and shoots like a laser beam directly into my left eye.

I groan and throw a skinny arm over my face, but that sends a jolt of pain through my neck -- just a little reminder that I'm not as young as I used to be and camping out on couches after a long night is something only the young should even think about doing.

Once you're past you early thirties, getting up in the morning is something best done slowly, like tearing off bandages. I slide my feet to the floor and grab onto the back of the sofa and pull myself up. I take a couple of minutes more to rub my hands over my face and the stubble on my head that I laughingly call hair.

When I've put it off for as long as I can stand, I stand. I weave my way through the small apartment. In the bright light of day, I can't believe how clean the place is. It must have been this way last night, but I was so tuned into Turnbull, I didn't notice anything else. I would've made book that Kowalski was a "pile your stuff in the corners" kind of guy. Just goes to show how my luck has been running lately, can't even read the people I work with.

I make it to the kitchen and turn the dryer on low for a few minutes, just enough time to get the wrinkles out of Kowalski's clothes, so I can fold them.

I grab the handle on the refrigerator and pull, expecting to find the culinary equivalent of Armageddon. Wrong again. His name may be Kowalski, but he must be at least part Italian. No one else keeps that much food in their kitchen. Come to think of it, the cabinets I nosed through last night were pretty well stocked too.

I take a mental inventory of everything the kitchen has to offer and plan a meal in my head. While I'm thinking, I rifle through the drawers looking for a box of paper coffee filters. Because, as they say, Coffee is the most important meal of the day.

With the stuff Kowalski has in house, I could make a gourmet meal, but I settle for the basics -- coffee, bacon, eggs, sausage, orange juice, milk and my personal favorite, muffins. A nice balanced meal with something from each of the police officer's four food groups -- caffeine, cholesterol, salt and sugar. Just what a growing boy like Turnbull is going to need to face the day, and Kowalski is going to need to stomach his pain meds.

I heat up the oven and start on the muffins. They're from a mix, but it's one of those really expensive ones. I stir up the batter. I throw out the tin of blueberries and toss some diced up fresh strawberries in instead. Blueberries make me horny -- always have.

I'm just finishing the bacon when I hear the water running in the bathroom. Taking that as a cue, I break four eggs into a bowl, add some milk and whip them up to a nice froth. I melt a big hunk of butter in a pan and pour the eggs on top. I chop up some vegetables and throw them into the pan. Talk about timing, I fold the omelette in half and slide it onto a plate just as Turnbull comes shuffling into the kitchen.

He's fully dressed and freshly showered and shaved. He's looking around, doing a complete survey of the floor, anything to keep from looking me in the eye is my guess. I'm the one that got him in this mess, so I let him off the hook, nice and easy. I move his jersey and the bag with my clothes off of the table and onto the floor.

"Hey, Turnbull, perfect timing. Breakfast's up. Have a seat. Wouldn't want it to get cold."

He takes a seat. The one farthest from me. I can't say I blame him in the least.

I add a pile of sausage and bacon to his plate. I pour him a glass of milk and one of juice. I put everything in front of him and hand him a fork and a bunch of paper towels. I guess Kowalski doesn't believe in napkins.

Turnbull doesn't move at first. For a long minute, I'm thinking that the whole situation is hopeless. But as I turn to take the muffins out of the oven, I hear his fork hit the plate and the sounds of him eating.

I turn the muffins out of their tins onto a plate and put them in front of him. I take a stick of butter out of the fridge and place it next to the muffins. Real butter, not that whipped vegetable oil crap.

I pour myself a cup of joe and take a seat at the table.

Amazing amounts of food are disappearing at what has to be a record rate. I'm not sure if it's a testament to my cooking or Kowalski's athletic abilities.

Turnbull stops in the middle of buttering his third strawberry muffin and looks at me, not shyly or questioningly, but full on, right in the eye. He seems to be looking for something. I guess he finds whatever it is.

He speaks for the first time this morning.

"Thank you."

He isn't talking about breakfast. I put my coffee down and take a few seconds to steady myself. The last person to say those words to me was Benny after I made love to him. And now it's Turnbull after I didn't. All I've done to him, and he's thanking me. He's thanking me and he really means it. It's the first time I've heard those words spoken truthfully in months. It's the first time I've felt like a human being in months.

"Hey, no problem. That's what friends are for, right?"

I call him my friend, and he smiles at me, one of those open honest Mountie smiles. I never could resist those from Benny, and this dog is way too old to learn new tricks. I return his smile and that seals the bargain. He's my friend.

I don't make friends easily. I could count them on one bony hand. But those I make, I keep. At least I'm going to from now on. And Kowalski? As they say, the friend of my friend . . .

Turnbull slides the muffins to me. I drench one in butter and take a bite, just as the buzzer on the dryer goes off.

***********

I set the muffin down and go to the dryer. I pull Kowalski's clothes out, while I'm still chewing. Damn, I'm a good cook.

I sit back at the table and fold the clothes. It doesn't take long. There are only two shirts, a pair of black jeans, a Hawks jersey, one sock -- I guess the other one was a sacrifice to the God of Laundry -- and a pair of tighty whiteys that could only fit Stan's firm little ass. Funny, I had him figured for more of a Captain Commando guy.

I carry the clothes to Stan's bedroom and set them on the blanket chest. I chance a look at that enormous bed of his. I guess I've done my penance, because Stan is safely covered by his clothes and his covers. He's still asleep, hugging Turnbull's pillow like it's the man himself. I'm no expert, but it doesn't look like he's going to be able to stay out much longer. He starts to stretch. It turns into a moan and he settles for wrapping himself even tighter around the pillow. The meds must be wearing off by now.

On the way back to the kitchen, I grab a cordless phone and the Yellow Pages. I find a laundry that delivers and let my fingers do the walking. While I'm waiting for the laundry guy to show up and take my suit away, I clean my mess in the kitchen. Not that I'm vain or anything, but I have no intention of appearing in public while wearing sweat pants and dress shoes.

Turnbull tries to help me with the dishes, but I wave a knife at his half finished breakfast, and he obediently goes to work on the, now slightly less than enormous pile of food.

The laundry guy is a girl. She's a cute little co-ed with red curls and big brown eyes. I hand her Turnbull's Leafs jersey and the bag with my clothes. She actually takes the time to write my instructions down, so I tip her. She takes the money, with a cheery, "Thank you, sir," and tucks it into her bra, completely oblivious to the effect this might have on an old hard-up pervert like myself. Ah, youth.

I return to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of milk to wash down the five muffins I fully intend to eat. I take my seat and wolf down the half-eaten muffin that the dryer so rudely interrupted my enjoying. I take a big gulp of the milk and almost choke. It's so thick, it's like drinking that stuff the Exxon Valdez spilled off the coast of Alaska. Kowalski's taste in milk is as bad as his taste in clothes. With a sigh, I push the milk aside and settle for my blessedly black coffee.

Like getting off the sofa, I've put off what I know is coming next for as long as I can. It's time for us to have a little talk about his problem, about my problem, about our problem. Because I have a feeling that they are one and the same.

I never did have Benny's gift for story telling and "There was once a young Inuit boy" isn't going to work for this particular tale. I don't know how to start this speech with a graceful, insightful lead in to hook my audience. So I start it the only way I know how. I start in the middle.

*

"Benny was leaving for one of his rare Mountie holidays. Hellidays, I always called them. Who the Hell would call roaming through the wilds of the Yukon with only a knife, a compass, and pemmican a good time? Well, who besides Benny?

"Anyway, he was leaving in the morning. So I was helping him pack. Actually, I was teasing and bitching while he was packing. The next thing I know, it's happening. You know, IT. We're naked and we're down and dirty, going at it like a couple of dogs in heat. It's hard and it's fast and there's nothing romantic about it. But when it's over, instead of rolling over like guys are supposed to do, we end up wrapped around each other like eels.

"We sleep like that. And wake up the next morning stuck together with dried spooge, smelling like a locker room. Somehow, instead of it being embarrassing and awkward, it's funny and sweet and romantic.

"We laugh and kiss and tease each other about who has the worst morning breath. It's so early, we don't have to worry about anyone else in the building being up. So we wrap ourselves in towels and walk that way, down the hall to the bathroom. We shower together. We don't make love again. We just kiss a lot and rub up against each other a lot and drop the soap -- a lot.

"When we get back to his room, it's almost time for me to drive him to the airport. He takes his bag and just throws his clothes inside. He doesn't fold anything. It's so unlike him, we end up laughing and kissing again. We hold hands in the Riv all the way to the airport. We stand at his gate, not touching, just looking at one another until the stewardess comes and tells him he really does have to get on the plane.

"He starts to go, but I grab him and hug him, right in front of God and everybody. I hold him to me, and he whispers, 'Thank you.' He peels himself out of my arms and walks down the ramp to his plane. He doesn't look back -- not once.

"I stand at the window and watch as his plane disappears into the sunrise.

"I had plans for how I was going to spend my time while he was gone, starting with finding a more comfortable mattress for that torture device he called a bed.

"All of that was shot to Hell within hours of his leaving. I go sauntering into work -- late of course -- because Benny isn't there to keep time for me. Well, that and I had to sneak home to change clothes.

"I walk in and Welsh calls me to his office. I get ready to suffer through one of his legendary speeches about punctuality, but that's not what he wants me for.

"The minute I walk in, I know it's going to be bad. There are two suits standing at attention in front of Welsh's ratty sofa, Feds by the cut of their cloth. They're standing, but Welsh tells me to sit. I do. I sit and I start thinking about what horrible thing that could have happened to earn me such special treatment -- Benny. Oh, God. The first thing I think of is Benny's plane. It's been bombed or hijacked or just disappeared.

"Welsh sees the look on my face and doesn't wait for the suits to build up to one of their dramatic power plays. He lets me down easy. He tells me the two stiffs are there to ask me to take a very special, very sensitive, undercover assignment.

"One of the feds places a file on Welsh's desk in front of me. I open it and see a picture of me. Me in a really sleazy looking Halloween costume. Me dressed as a Mafioso, complete with five thousand dollar Italian wool suit and slimy little caterpillar moustache. Me in a costume I've never worn before.

"The head suit starts talking about the Mob and me. He's using really big words like 'doppleganger' and 'serendipity'. At first I think he's accusing me of leading a double life or something. I start to bull up. But then he mentions the guy in the picture just went to the big cement boot party in the sky. I get the picture. The whole ugly, messy, taking-me-away-from-Benny picture, and I say no way, no how, am I going to get mixed up in something like this. I'm a small time flatfoot and I like it that way. If I'd wanted the glamour and excitement of Federal service, I'd have applied long ago.

"The feds hold a sidebar and ask Welsh to step out of the room for a minute. Being the stand up guy he is, he refuses. I tell him it's okay and go ahead. There's nothing they can say to change my mind.

"He leaves and the head suit sits on the corner of Welsh's desk. He fiddles with Welsh's name plate for a minute. Finally, he starts talking. He starts talking about Benny and our 'special relationship'. He doesn't come right out and make any threats. He's too smart for that. But he makes it very clear that he knows all about last night. That he's had me followed for weeks, ever since he saw my picture in the paper. The picture and the article talking about my amazing arrest record and skills as an investigator. The picture that looked amazingly like that of one Armando Langostini, aka The Bookman.

"He's telling me his little tale, and he lets it slip. The Bookman isn't dead, close, but not quite yet. But he will be soon, as soon as I am ready to take his place.

"I can't breathe. My face is numb and I'm shaking all over. I recognize the signs. I'm in the first stages of shock. All I can do is stare at the picture on the desk and think furiously.

"His life or Benny's? The life of this man who has probably killed more men than all of the bad guys I've put away or Benny's wonderful, kind, generous life doing the only thing he knows how to do, the only thing he's ever wanted to be?

"I know they won't kill my Benny, not literally, but they'll take his life away, just the same. His and mine. With a phone call to any reporter in town and a copy of the photos the suit assures me they have, our lives will be over -- no more Constable Fraser, no more Detective Vecchio, no more friends, no more family.

"I take a shaky breath and make my decision. My first of many horrible, irrevocable decisions. I choose life.

***********

I've just started my story, and my throat is as dry as one of those sandwiches they sell in the station vending machine.

I pour myself a large glass of juice and drink it without stopping to take a breath.

I extend my reprieve by washing the glass carefully, drying it and returning it to its place.

Turnbull is watching me closely. This morning is the longest period of time I've seen him be so lucid. But like life, I don't know how long his present mental state is going to last. So I bite the bullet and get to the really nasty part of my story.

"They gave me two weeks to get my life in order. Two weeks to prepare myself and my family for what was to come. I did the best I could. I signed the house and the land it's on over to Frannie, without her knowing, and updated my will. I left everything to my family, everything except my car. That I left to Benny. God only knows why. It isn't like he'd ever drive it, or like he could even take it with him when he went home for good. I guess I just wanted him to have something, something as loud and obnoxious as me, to remember me by. That and I just couldn't think of another God Damned thing of mine that he could possibly want.

"So I made my plans and I made a phone call. I made one last pitiful phone call to Benny. There was so much I wanted to say. But I knew they were listening, and I didn't want to cheapen Benny by giving those bastards the thrill of hearing us spill our guts. Besides, I was a murderer now and totally undeserving of anything Benny might want to say to me.

"Did I forget to mention that part? That part about being a murderer? Part of my training was watching tapes of Langostini to learn his body language, habits, the rhythm of his speech. I was watching one of those damned tapes for the thousandth time when I heard it, I heard someone give the order to have his life support terminated. It seems he'd met with some kind of accident while on holiday in Switzerland. How accidental his accident was, I'll never know.

"I hear the order come down, and I tell a suit -- they all look alike after a while -- I tell some suit that I want to see Langostini before they pull the plug. He looks at me like I'm unhinged, but he relays the order to the proper suit with the authority to make this kind of decision. Within minutes, I'm standing in a cold sterile room watching myself hooked up to hundreds of thousands of dollars of equipment, breathing in and out to the steady beat of a mechanical out-of-body lung.

"I watch him/me for I don't know how long. I watch until a doctor comes in and puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. He points to a monitor and tell me the flat line means there's no brain activity and it's really kinder this way. The doctor walks to a master board that is supplying juice to all of the machines in the room. He takes a final look at me lying there on the bed and flips the switch. The man lying on the bed breathes out one final pained time and lies still. I just stand there and let it happen. I stand there like a statue and watch him die. I watch us die.

"A moment ago there were three men in the room, now there are only two. And neither of them is me, not anymore.

"I walk out of the room and have a little talk with the suit du jour. Five minutes alone in a room with me, and he declares Armando Langostini ready for duty.

"So I've finished my training, and I've finished planning for my absence. The last thing I do is make that phone call. When I hang up the phone, I leave everything that makes me Ray Vecchio in the Territories with Benny.

"They fly me to Switzerland and sneak me into Mando's cabin. I spend a few days in solitary luxury and then call for a limo to take me to the airport. I present my passport to the customs agent and my ticket to the stewardess. I board the plane and head home to Vegas.

"I'm met at the plane by my chauffeur, Nunzio, and at the door of my mansion by my butler, Nero, and life is good.

"I eat at all the best restaurants, shop at the most exclusive boutiques, sit in the first row at boxing matches and get blow jobs from some of the most beautiful women in the world, and if it's too late to ring for a whore, well, Nero's just a bell away.

"I live like this for months, and I'm good at it. I'm so God Damned good at playing a scumbag that no one notices a thing. I fit in like I was born to be Armando Langostini, like I was never anyone else.

"Things are running smoothly, I'm filing away lots of useful information to tell my superiors and lots of useful information to keep from them. Things are going so well, it sets me on edge. It's all too easy. Something has to happen to mess it up for me. It's the way of the world. It's the way of my life. Well, Ray Vecchio's life anyway. But this isn't Ray Vecchio's life. It's Armando Langostini's, and Armando Langostini doesn't encounter problems. He encounters opportunities.

"So when it happens, I fade even further into the scenery and let Armando handle the whole thing. I would have run for the hills, but not Mando. He knows just what to do to turn the situation to his advantage, to get me my sweet, bitter revenge.

"I'm sitting in an elegant office, surrounded by security guards and high tech surveillance equipment intended to keep a watchful eye on the untrustworthy masses, who are wending and spending their way through the casino located fourteen floors beneath my fine Italian leather encased feet.

"I hear one of the gorillas I employ for 'personal security' grunt. It's become a familiar sound in the past few months. I don't bother to look at him. I simply ask which monitor he's watching. He tells me number seventeen.

"Someone on monitor seventeen is cheating the house. I ask customer or dealer. He tells me it's the dealer. I break away from my issue of Sports Illustrated, the issue that won't be available to the public until tomorrow, and take a casual glance at the screen.

"My gorilla continues, 'Too bad, Boss, she's a looker.'

"She is indeed. Her wild sable curls are tied into a loose, seemingly careless bun that must have taken long minutes to perfect. Her dark flashing eyes have life and luster, even in the cruel unforgiving monitor. She manages to show off her thin elegant figure that should be hidden by the androgynous uniform worn by all of the casino's employees. She smiles as she congratulates a player on winning the last hand, and palms a chip for herself as she passes the gentleman his winnings.

"She's more than a looker, she's a true rare beauty. She's as beautiful as the last time I saw her, with her arm extended toward Benny, as she begged him to join her on that train.

"I speak, to no one gorilla in particular, they have their own pecking order. I tell them to bring her to me. They look at one another in surprise. It isn't the normal procedure. But they jump to obey. Everyone obeys me.

"The designated gorilla straightens the cuffs of his shirt and heads out purposefully, to fulfill his mission. And, I, Armando Langostini, smile.

***********

"When she arrives at my office, she knows she's been caught, but by now she's a pro. So it doesn't phase her one bit. My face, however, is another matter entirely.

"I'm seated in my handcrafted leather office chair, behind my mahogany and granite desk. I have my back turned when she is escorted in. My heart is tripping with excitement. I can't wait to see her expression when I make my presence known to her. I love drama. We mafioso are like that.

"I ask just what she's done to make her think she deserves such a generous bonus, and she replies that she wouldn't have to dip into the till if she was paid a decent wage.

"I turn my chair so she can see my profile and tell her I agree with her. That a beauty like herself couldn't possibly live on such a pittance. My nose and my hairline throw her completely off guard. She recognizes me all right. There couldn't be two people on this Earth with such patrician features, could there?

"She stutters out some pitiful, half-formed response, and I turn to face her full on. I let the snake in my eyes show, and she relaxes visibly. She doesn't know me after all, but she knows my type all too well.

"I repeat that she is earning far less than she should, far less than her potential, and she agrees. I then continue by telling her that I don't take very kindly to being cheated out of what is rightly mine. I tell her that she didn't earn that bonus. That I decide what compensation is fair for services rendered, and that when I am cheated or lied to or stolen from, I make my own justice.

"While I'm talking, I'm fingering the sleek semi-automatic pistol I keep in a shoulder holster, through the fine wool of my expertly cut jacket. She reaches into her right pants pocket and pulls out her self-claimed bonus. She pours the chips on my desk, fourteen in all. She's good. If it took my boys that long to catch her, she's damned good.

"I smile at her and raise the stakes. I tell her, 'That's a good idea. But, not good enough.'

"I push my chair back and walk around to the front of my desk. I sit on the desk, directly in front of her. My arms are relaxed at my sides. My jacket is hanging open, exposing my pistol, and my legs are spread casually. I don't say anything else, but my meaning is perfectly clear.

"She turns her head and looks at my gorillas, waiting for me to usher them out of the room. I look at them, I look at her, and I shake my head. It's just the slightest motion, but she gets the picture.

"She lowers my zipper slowly and frees my straining cock. She strokes it gently and teasingly tongues the tip with her head. She opens her lips to take in my whole length, and I grab her by the hair. I pull her head back and look into her impossibly dark eyes. Her eyes are glazed. Her lips are redder than a moment before, and her cheeks are flushed. She's not upset, not in the slightest. The power and the danger and the audience are making her hot. She isn't some poor lost soul who got trapped by circumstance and the longings of her bleeding heart. She's just a player and now a whore, an all too willing whore.

"I tighten my fingers in her hair. I thumb my pistol threateningly and give her an order.

"Her lips curl up in a smile of pure delighted wickedness. She likes orders. I file that information away for further use.

"I say, "Take it slow. Make it good."

She does and it is. She licks and bites and strokes and sucks her way around my cock like it is what she was born to do. She takes my entire dick into her mouth and sucks hard, and she slowly draws back, until just the tip is between her full lips. Then she takes all of me in again, quickly. She repeats the process over and over, until I am on the verge of coming. Then without warning, she varies her technique. She tongues circles around the head, until I am somewhat calm. When my cock is no longer pulsing, she resumes with her sucking and pumping.

"She is now in control. I can't have that. So when she tries to draw back to focus her attention on the head of my cock for a fourth time, I dig my fingers into her scalp and force her mouth to stay impaled on my cock. Again, I give her an order, "Suck me, goddammit. Make me come."

"She increases the suction and pulls my come from me forcefully. I clench my teeth to keep from shouting with relief. She drinks all I have to give her, greedily, and continues to suck as though it would be impossible for her to get enough.

"She finally lets my now fully limp, cock slip from between her lips. I pull her to her feet. She tucks my cock back into my charcoal grey trousers and zips the fly, smiling at me all the while.

"I button my jacket and fold my hands over my lap modestly. It's time to get back to business. "What's you name?" I ask her, only moderately interested in her answer.

"Catherine," she lies with another self-satisfied smile.

"Armando," I say, responding to her lie with one of my own.

I return to my chair and open the bottom left desk drawer. I pull out a tray filled with neat rows of chips, thousand dollar chips. Her eyes are huge. I place the tray on my desk and push it toward her.

"Get yourself something nice. You're free to do as you wish until nine," I tell her without even bothering to look at her. She picks up the tray and hugs it to her chest. I tell the gorillas to get her a room -- a suite. I pick up my Sports Illustrated and go back to reading.

***********

I had to nudge him every so often to remind him to eat, but Turnbull's finally done with his breakfast. He takes his dishes to the sink, and we halfheartedly bicker over who should wash them. He wins.

I lean back in my chair and rub shaking hands over my face. The muffins and coffee I downed for breakfast are churning in my stomach and giving me a case of heartburn usually reserved for Frannie's Pasta Vesuvio. My neck is still aching, and I'm so tired it feels like my eyeballs want to slide out of their sockets and down my face.

Turnbull finishes rinsing off his dishes. He puts them in the dishwasher and sets it for a regular cycle. The whooshing and whirring of the machine are so familiar and everyday, they seem at odds with my story. Turnbull dries his hands on a dish towel. He folds the towel precisely and places it over the faucet, making sure that it hangs evenly on both sides.

It's a small act. If I had seen anyone else perform it, I wouldn't have noticed it. But this is Turnbull, and I know what it means. He's showing himself that he is in control of something. He's losing control of the mess in his head. He managed to tuck everything painful into little boxes and stow them somewhere that he didn't have to look at them. Now, thanks to me, those boxes are getting slung around and opened up. So if he can't control the memories, he can at least decide how that dishrag should look.

I figure he must be fighting pretty hard to stay with me. So I decide to hurry things up. I cut to the really nasty part of Armando's story.

I look down at my hands, well, at my left hand. My Florida tan is starting to fade. Soon no one will be able to see the thin line of pale flesh on my ring finger -- the only substantial reminder of my second failed marriage. I worry at the line with my thumb. Yet another habit I don't seem to be able to break.

Turnbull notices what I'm doing. He looks like he wants to ask what I'm thinking about, but he doesn't get the chance. Our cop ears pick up the noise at the same time. Someone is shuffling around the apartment.

The lid on the toilet thunks open, followed closely by the sounds of piss hitting the water and someone moaning in pain.

I was there for the opening act last night. So I know the moaning is an improvement. Turnbull, on the other hand, missed the entire performance. So all he knows is that his man is in pain.

Turnbull makes it across the small apartment in about six strides and two seconds. I open Kowalski's bottle of pain meds and get a glass of water.

*

First thing I know is: I'm sprawled out on my stomach -- hard as one of my Mom's biscuits, dry humping my mattress. Second thing I know is: for some reason my mattress smells like Rennie. Third thing I know is: every time I flex my ass to dig my dick a little deeper into the sheets, some son of a bitch sticks a branding iron to my ribs.

That third thing kinds puts a kink into the first thing. Big Ray wilts like a violet after the first frost. I chalk that second thing up to the meds. It's a drug induced hallucination, but who cares. Clean Rennie is better than Dirty Socks Vecchio any day. I take a big old whiff of my pillow. Big Ray starts to perk up. I seriously think about torquing the trout, but I've never been one for that whole pleasure-pain thing.

I slide my feet to the floor and let my body follow. I make my way slowly to the John -- really slowly. On the way there, I rub the sleep out of my eyes and scratch all of those guy places that always seem to need attention first thing in the morning.

I stand in front of the John and psyche myself up for what I know is coming. I spread my legs and lean over the toilet, just like last night. The pain is worse, but I'm ready for it this time. So I get away with some manly moans and grunts, instead of squealing like a school girl.

Next thing I know, someone is standing behind me, wrapping their arms around my waist, helping me stay on my feet.

"Oh, man, not again."

Just what I need. Another goddam dream where I get all hot and bothered. I'll probably end up dusting knick-knacks or something exciting like that.

The hands holding me are bigger than Vecchio's. The chest is broader and harder than his too. I'm thinking it's going to be Frase this time, but I realize the hot breath in my ear is coming from somewhere above me. Maybe it's Huey.

I check out the hands.

It ain't Huey.

I know those hands. I know them better than my own.

As far as dreams go, this one doesn't suck. I lean back and snuggle against the continent he uses for a chest. I've still got my Johnson in my hand, but not for long. At least, not if I'm luckier than I was in my last dream.

"I still need to shake, unless you want to do it for me."

His thumb and index finger make a ring around the base of my cock, just outside the fly of my boxers. They slide slowly down my dick, forcing my hand to slip over and off of the head. As soon as there is enough room, another finger joins the others; until his entire hand is wrapped around me. He shakes my dick twice. Just like I always do. Just like every other guy on the planet does.

Except this time, it's got me shivering and my ass muscles clenching, and Big Ray is bigger than he's ever been.

My head drops in surrender, but he doesn't want that. His other hand, the one that isn't rubbing it's thumb over the slit in the head of my cock, places itself over my cheek and gently pulls my head back until my face is resting in the curve of his neck.

He leans down to my level.

"Like this, Ray?"

It ain't manly but I do it. I whimper. I whimper and his hand grips my dick just a little tighter. His one hand is jerking me off. His other hand is stroking my cheek and he's breathing into my ear. It's perfect. It's so fucking perfect, there's no way it's going to last.

"Ain't this where you tell me it's time to scrub the toilet with my toothbrush?"

I guess one of us thinks it's a joke, because I can feel him smile against my ear.

"No, Ray, this is where you grab my arms, so you can leave bruises when you come into my hand."

I try to tell him I can work with that. But all of my air is going to fighting to keep the pain in my ribs down, while I fight to keep Big Ray up. So I show him I get the picture. I wrap my skinny hands around a pair of biceps I could chip a tooth on. Every time he pulls just right, I squeeze my fingers into his skin. I'm getting off on what he's doing and he's getting off on what I'm doing. We're feeding off of each other like a couple of vampires in heat.

Pretty soon, he's grunting like a caveman and I'm screaming. I've always been a screamer.

At first, I'm screaming "Oh, God!" and "Oh, fuck!" and other original stuff like that. The closer I get to the edge, the fewer real words I'm using.

He's doing an amazing job on my dick. But It's been almost three years since I got any that felt this real. This may just be a dream, but it's a fucking fantastic one. The closer I am to coming, the more desperate I'm getting. I'm fighting the pain, and I'm so sure he's going to stop and just leave me hanging there or that I'm going to wake up too soon, that I'm more than a little crazy. There are tears rolling down my face, and I know I've got to be making those bruises he asked for.

I feel it happening. Finally, that feeling that I'm at the top of the highest hill on a really fast rollercoaster. All I have to do is let myself relax and I'll fall. But I get to the top, and I stop. The pain is winning. I scream again, but this time it's frustration.

I'm really pissed at my brain for thinking up this whole thing, and at Rennie for hurting me so bad. I try to push his hand away. He fights me.

"Stop touching me, God damn it! It ain't going to happen!"

His hands lets go of my dick and my face. He presses me against the wall and drops to his knees. He doesn't ask permission or nothing. He goes down on me. He puts my whole dick in his mouth. Big Ray isn't Gigantic Ray or nothing, but he's no slouch. But Rennie doesn't gag or struggle at all. One second, my dick is swinging in the breeze. The next thing, it's half way down Rennie's throat, and he's doing really interesting things with his tongue.

He slides both of his hands up inside the legs of my boxers and starts grabbing my ass in time with the stuff his throat muscles are doing to my dick.

One of his thumbs slips between my ass cheeks, and it happens. I scream one last time and grab his head. I grip his hair in my fingers and shoot my wad into his mouth, no chance for him to pull back or anything.

My legs give out and I slide to the ground, but his mouth never leaves my dick. He's down on all fours, leaning over me, giving my dick a cool down, like I've just worked out and he doesn't want me to cramp up or anything. That's great, but it ain't necessary. I don't have any muscles left to cramp.

I lay there on the bathroom floor like a big old squid and let him go to town. He finally lets go of my dick and starts sucking on my thigh. I'm so relaxed, he doesn't get any resistance at all, when his finger finally stops tracing circles around my asshole and sneaks inside.

I moan and he freezes. Somehow, I manage to raise my head up to look at him. He's watching me real close. He ain't sure if that was a good moan or a bad moan. I shoot him a smile -- a just-been-sucked-within-an-inch-of-my-life Kowalski special. The look on his face never changes, but he presses his finger deeper inside of me and starts twisting it around. I moan again and let my head fall back to the floor.

My eyes are closed, but I feel his finger leave me. And then I feel him climb up my body like a big cat. He kisses me real soft and slow and wet. I try to wrap my noodle arms around him, but he takes a hold of my wrists and presses them to the floor on either side of my head.

He lets his knees slide down, and he rests his full weight on my chest. I moan into his mouth, but this time it's pain for sure. He jerks back and looks at me really funny. Then his hands let go of my wrists and start pulling at my shirt. He yanks it up and stares at the bandages.

All of the blood rushes out of his face and his dick at the same time. He lurches around and dives for the toilet.

I jump up as quick as I can and flush the John for him. I know all of this is just a dream, but the only thing worse than spewing corn is spewing corn into a John that ain't clean.

I try to comfort him, but he just gets worse when I touch him. So I tuck my Johnson back into my boxers and settle for keeping a close eye on him.

He recycles enough food to keep a small third world country in style for a year. I start to think that it's never going to end, but finally it does. His guts are empty, and he's just resting his head on the toilet seat, trying to breathe normal.

I get a face towel and wet it. When I kneel in front of him, he tries to turn away from me, but he's too tired. I wipe off his mouth and kiss his forehead. His eyes are dead looking and when he speaks, he sounds like the old me -- the me that hid behind a wife and a job and wanting kids.

"I want to be normal, Ray. I just want to be normal."

He may be my dream, but this is no dream. This is my Rennie, and this is real life.

I hear a throat clear behind me, and I look up into a glass of water -- a glass of water being held by a hand that's attached to an arm that belongs to Ray Vecchio. The real Ray Vecchio.

"You're going to need this."

I take the water and the pill he's holding out to me. I swallow the pill with a small sip of water and hand the glass to Rennie. He gargles and spits into the toilet. I flush the John and Vecchio takes the glass. He disappears for a second and then he's back, without the glass. He crouches down and puts one of Rennie's long arms over his bony shoulders. He pulls Rennie to his feet.

"Come on, Cowboy. Let's get you to bed."

Rennie lets himself be led to my bedroom. But when Vecchio stops walking, Rennie keeps going. We follow along, and Rennie takes a load off at my kitchen table.

He and Vecchio have a stare down.

"Ray needs breakfast, and I need you to finish your story."

I don't have any clue what Rennie is talking about. But Vecchio must, because he looks away first. He opens the dishwasher and steam comes streaming out. He takes out a couple of iron skillets and then starts rummaging through all of that stuff his Ma and my Mom stocked my kitchen with.

***********

"So, Stan, would you prefer the country style orange juice, or is the calcium fortified more to your liking?"

Vecchio asks me something about food. But all I hear in my brain is him asking, "So, Stan, did you tell Rennie how you tried to get me to give you the big one in the shower last night?"

He's got me over a barrel. He knows it. And I ain't no rocket surgeon, but I know it too.

He's standing there with two cartons of juice in his hands. He's got the door of the fridge hanging open, costing me money. But I don't snap at him.

"Give me that kind with the chunky bits in it."

"Country style it is."

He grabs the juice and pours me a glass. He hands it to me and smiles at me like we're battle buddies or something.

"You know, Stan, you really surprised me with what you've got stocked away in your kitchen. Even with a name like Kowalski, you must be at least part Italian."

Vecchio's still smiling, but I can just imagine what he's got to think of me. First, I try to get his dick up my ass, while Rennie's sleeping it off in my bed. Then I let Rennie suck me off while he's in the other room. No mind that I thought the whole shebang was one really twisted, straight-out-of-a-gay-porno-flick dream. If I tell him that, it's going to sound like some lame-assed excuse. I have got to be the biggest fuck up in the whole history of the planet.

He's play-acting for Rennie. I decide to play his reindeer games for now. Rennie's going to find out about that stuff I did, but I don't want it to be just yet.

"I didn't buy it. I had dinner with your family, and your mom sent me home with some food. I sort of mentioned it to my mom, and I guess she took it as a challenge to her turf. Then I made the mistake of telling your mom about the food I got from my mom. Next thing I know, I got a kitchen full of all kinds of stuff I don't know how to cook or pronounce. I been passing most of it off to my landlady."

Vecchio laughs like we're having a real buddy-guy moment.

"Oooh, this could get nasty. I can see it now, Stan. The Battle of the Mom's: Tonight -- Poland versus Italy."

Shows what he knows. My mom ain't even Polish. She's Irish. And he's calling me Stan a lot. It's really starting to get to me -- like when my dad used to do it, just to show me who was really in charge.

I know Vecchio's got all the power. He doesn't have to keep reminding me.

I smile at his joke, and he starts making breakfast for me. Dad used to do that too.

He stops flapping his youp for a minute. So I look at Rennie, really look at him. He's got a good size bruise on his left cheek, from where that yupster decked him. But other than that, he looks good enough to eat.

That thought brings back some memories, real good ones. Big Ray agrees and he starts talking, telling me we got to get some more of that. I tell him to go back to sleep. Rennie can't come out to play.

It hits me that Rennie's hair is still perfect. Not even me grabbing at it while he was making like a Hoover could get it to mess up. That idea makes me smile.

Then I start wondering exactly which Hoover he was making like, the one that cleans carpets or the one that used to catch spies. I try to picture Rennie in a dress, giving some big speech, surrounded by a bunch of CIA types. I snicker. Oh yeah, Rennie in a dress. That's about as like to happen as Fraser in a dress.

I start kind of coughing, because I'm trying to laugh, without really laughing. Pain meds strike again.

Rennie comes and squats in front of me. He's making sure I'm doing okay. He's stroking my face and asking me with his eyes if I'm all right. His thumb passes over the corner of my mouth that got split when Vecchio slugged me. He feels the scab, I guess. He stands up and leans down over me. He kisses the cut. Then he hugs me to his chest.

I like this Renfield Turnbull. I hope he sticks around for a while.

He's big and solid, just like Uncle Matty. And he's holding me like he wants to make it all better, just like Uncle Matty. I grab him and hang on tight, because I feel myself falling all over again.

We stay like that -- me in a chair, him between my scrawny legs -- not doing anything but holding on and breathing, until Vecchio puts a breakfast plate on the table.

*

I hold my Ray in my arms and my heart sings.

If I wish to be honest, and I do for once, I must admit that he did feel pain when I made love with him this morning.

I was the sole cause of that pain. I lashed out against him. Last night, during the bar fight, when he held my arms so tightly against my body, logically I knew that he was attempting to save the man I was attacking. But emotionally, I could only recall the pain and degradation that had so often followed my being restrained in the past.

And as has been the case for far too long, when my logical and emotional selves are at odds, my emotional self inevitably wins -- with often disastrous results.

I hurt my Ray badly. I injured him seriously enough that he had to be taken to hospital. The marks and bandages he bears are all too tangible reminders of the vile acts of which I am capable.

And yet, he gifted me with his forgiveness freely. I approached him this morning fearfully, fully expecting him to reprove my belated offer of apology for my actions last night.

Before I could speak, he offered himself up to me. He allowed me to make love to him.

He fought the pain to get to the pleasure. He isn't used to the warring sensations being associated with one another, necessary to one another, unlike me. I could tell from his reactions. Yet he did enjoy my hands upon his body and my mouth around his manhood. His unexpectedly, delightfully verbal outbursts leave no doubt of that.

His wanton abandon and utter lack of shame at allowing me to do such things to his body, while another man was in the next room, were powerful aphrodisiacs. For the first time since my whole sordid story began in earnest, I was able to achieve an erection without it being beaten out of me. Although I did not orgasm, it was a victory of sorts. One that I shall cherish.

Even if I am never able to do so again, I shall always have the memory of making love with him this morning. I will carry the feel and the sounds and the smells of my Ray with me for all my days.

My control over my actions is tenuous during even the slightest deviation from my normal schedule. And physical affection, or affection of any sort, is so far from the norm for me that I am amazed that I did not lose myself again.

I lost myself purposefully while I was in hospital -- rather like the unfeeling owner of a dog that they have come to consider an inconvenience. I lost my true self so completely that I might never have found him again, without the assistance of the man in my arms and the man at my back.

Ray Vecchio is a good man. Of that, I am certain. He was thrust into a world that I chose. He was forced to make the best of situations that I reveled in. The blackness touched his heart, but it did not consume it. He remains, at his core, all that I wish so desperately to be.

I have yet to tell him the horrible truths of my story, but he has guessed the smallest part. I know that he remembers who I was, that first time we encountered one another. He recalls seeing my face behind the cocked hammer of a semi-automatic handgun, he recalls running from me and he recalls destroying his beloved car, all in an effort to bring me and mine to justice.

He did attempt to enact his all too justified revenge upon me. He must have planned and plotted carefully to set things up so well. My corruptness allows me, in hindsight, to see clearly how he believed events would unfold.

In his mind's eye, he saw himself having sex with me in my Ray's bed. But his true purpose was to have my Ray find us in that sorry state, to ruin my life as absolutely as I tried to end his -- his and Constable Fraser's.

It was a good plan for all its simplicity, worthy of even my Machiavellian mind. But when it came to testing time, he failed miserably and he passed beautifully. He was unable to act in a way that is contrary to his true nature. He sought to behave ruthlessly and he failed.

He saw the story of my shame written in clear relief on the skin upon my back. He did not know the origin of my scars, but his compassionate heart choose to believe that they were the cause of my former actions against him. He did not tell me this. He did not have to. I saw it in his eyes.

In his lovely eyes, I saw forgiveness. It was undeserved and unsought. Nevertheless, it was there. The amnesty he granted me freed a small part of my true self. It allowed me to sleep one night without nightmares; it allowed me to listen to his story; and it allowed me to make love with my Ray.

Ray puts my Ray's breakfast on the table.

I take my Ray's beloved face in my large clumsy hands and kiss him gently upon the lips. He sighs. I reluctantly release my hold upon him and take my seat.

When I look into Ray's eyes, I see no recrimination, only a familiar sad, sweet longing. I know it's source all too well. I make a silent vow to him, to my Ray and to myself.

I can do this. I will do this. I will get better. I will find myself and I will live the life that all of us want for me -- the opinions and disgust of my family be damned.

I will be the constable that won the Medal of Valor. I will deserve Ray Kowalski's love. I will deserve Ray Vecchio's friendship, and more importantly, I will find a way to gain for him the forgiveness he so desperately craves. He cannot ask Fraser. So I will ask for him, for both of us.

Ray clears his throat, ready at last to continue his tale.

***********

"I told her she was free . . .

Stanley interrupts, with a mouth full of bacon.

"Her who?"

Rennie answers for me.

"Victoria Metcalf."

"That tells me a lot."

"The woman Constable Fraser was involved with when Ray shot him, Ray."

That definitely gets Stan's attention. It gets mine too. I flinch when Rennie puts it so bluntly. I also realize something else. We're going to have to settle this Ray-Ray business once and for all, before we get so confused we don't know who anyone is anymore.

I give a "last week on The Life of Ray Vecchio'" recap.

"As I was saying, after I, as Armando Langostini, spotted her working in the casino and called her to my office, she went down on me in front of my personal security gorillas. I gave her some money, set her up in a suite, and told her she was free until nine.

"I stepped onto the elevator that would take me to her suite at nine twenty on the dot. Because I liked the idea of keeping her waiting. And she was waiting all right.

"She was dressed in a conservatively cut, pale lavender dress. It showed no cleavage and came to just below the knee. It set off the color of her dark eyes and hair perfectly. She was beautiful. I told her so. She looked like every other thousand dollar a night whore on the strip. I told her so.

"I took her to Mando's favorite Cosa Nostra friendly Steak house -- to show her off and to stake my claim. The food was excellent. The atmosphere was urbane. The conversation was scintillating. I thoroughly enjoyed the evening. Then I took her back to her suite.

"I threw a condom on the floor at her feet. I told her to open it and put it on me, that God only knew what kind of diseases a whore like her was carrying around. She obeyed like a good little fuck-for-hire. I bent her over the back of the beige leather sofa and screwed her.

"When I was done, I tossed the condom on the floor and left. I told her to just open her door if she needed anything. There would be someone waiting and watching twenty-four seven. I didn't kiss her.

"I never kissed her.

"I'd take her out and treat her like a lady in public. Then I'd fuck her or have her suck me off. The only time she left her room was in my company or that of one of my boys. They were good little foot soldiers. As much as she'd beg them, they never touched her. Unless I told them they could.

"When one of them did something that was above average or called for a little initiative, I'd have her show them my appreciation. I'd send the lucky one into her bedroom while the rest of us played poker in the other room. They would leave the door open. I liked to hear her scream.

"Alfonso was her favorite. He was my head gorilla. He was also the roughest. He tore more than one of her dresses, and she always wore the bruises he left for days. But whenever I'd call Fonso's name and motion toward her bedroom, she'd follow him just a little quicker than any of the others.

"We went on like that for months. Then the unthinkable happened. Some mook in Jimmy Castaneda's family decided to make a name for himself.

"It was past eleven on a Thursday night. I had reservations at the best Italian restaurant in town. Fonso opened the door to the limo, and Victoria stepped out, acting like the lady I allowed her to pretend to be in public. As she stepped past Fonso, I got out. My feet hit the pavement and a black Lincoln Towncar came skidding up onto the sidewalk.

"Some mook, I found out who later, jumped out of the car and started firing.

"Fonso shoved me back in the car. He pushed Victoria in after me and jumped on top of the both of us. My driver took off, as automatic gunfire tore into the trunk of my limo. Fonso was bleeding from a bullet that had passed through his left arm. Victoria was dead in my lap. My tie was wrinkled.

"We drove to a house I kept in the bad part of town, for just such emergencies. Fonso peeled Victoria off of me and laid her on the floorboard. He held a bar towel to his wound.

"I made a quick phone call, and there was a doctor waiting for us when we arrived at the safehouse. He patched up Fonso's arm and signed a death certificate that showed 'Catherine's' cause of death as natural. I changed my clothes.

"I made a few more calls. Someone came and took the car to be destroyed. A hearse came and took Victoria's body away. A clean-up crew arrived. Another gorilla came in a new car and took Fonso to his house and me to the Casino.

I paid for a burial plot next to a beautiful lake, a huge tombstone and for flowers to be delivered every week. I gave way too much money to a bunch of nuns so they would say a mass for her every day for a year. I had The Church give her a full funeral Mass.

The boys and I were the only ones who attended. I don't even know if she was Catholic. Everything I did was for my soul, as much as hers.

"Castaneda found out about the whole thing right away. He contacted me, told me he had nothing to do with it and wanted to avoid a war. He said he'd pay for my losses, offered me his best whore and a box of Cuban cigars.

"I turned down the whore. I hadn't been able to get it up since that night, not even for Nero's talented tongue.

"I accepted the cigars. They arrived the next morning. I opened a large heavy cardboard box and there they were. They were packaged in an antique humidor that was resting under Sammy Pascal's head.

"The only time Fonso ever mentioned the incident was a few weeks later. We were sitting in my office -- he'd saved my life, that earned him his own chair. We were sitting in my office reading the sports page, and he said, out of nowhere, "I miss Cate. She could suck dick like nobody's business."

"I agreed with him, and we went back to reading.

"Three days later, I was back in Chicago, and my cover was blown."

"The Feds thought I wasn't Armando Langostini anymore. They found out different when they came to debrief me.

"It was the same two suits who had come to Welsh's office that day. I spent a week telling them everything I knew. They thanked me and told me how grateful they were. Then they offered me another assignment.

"When I said 'no way', they started in on the same threats they had used the last time. They said they still had the pictures of me and Benny together. That they would send them to the papers, to my Ma, to Thatcher. They said they would ruin Benny's life if I didn't do as they said, for as long as they said.

"They had Ray Vecchio's number all right, but they seriously underestimated Armando Langostini. I pistol whipped the head suit in the face. I broke his jaw. I know because I felt the bone snap.

"While he was rolling around on the ground, I kicked him in the balls. His sidekick made a move for the door. When he got there, he couldn't see the door because he was looking down the barrel of my duty weapon.

"I told them that if Benny got so much as a paper cut or my Ma a case of heartburn, they were dead men. I told them that I would hunt them like dogs until they couldn't take a piss for fear that I was standing behind them, waiting to cut their dicks off.

"I told the head suit that he would have the pictures and the negatives delivered to me by courier, in Florida, within two days. If he didn't, I would spend my entire retirement check on a Cleaner and have them taken out in the nastiest way Armando Langostini could think up.

"I slugged the sidekick in the gut, because I felt like it. Then I holstered my gun and walked out of the room.

"As I stepped off of the plane the next day, a courier handed me a brown envelope."

"Stella and I were married by the Justice of the Peace, and we started our new life.

"I was still impotent. She tried her best. We lasted seven months. She didn't cheat on me for the first four.

"She stopped coming to the bowling alley and started sleeping with a federal prosecutor who worked lots of big drug cases. She didn't even try to hide it. I couldn't hide that I didn't care. When I finally walked in on them going at it in our bed, I shook his hand and introduced myself.

"I called Welsh and packed my bags that same day.

Rennie looks surprised. Stan looks like he wants to puke. I take a sip of my room temperature coffee.

Rennie breaks the spell.

"I need to -- to brush my teeth."

Rennie leaves the room, and Stan turns a lovely shade of red.

When Stan opens his mouth to speak, I don't know what to expect. It certainly isn't what I hear.

"Listen, Vecchio, Ray, about that stuff I did last night. . . You see, I took the pain meds, and I didn't eat anything, and then I got home and didn't even see you here. So when you walked in on me in the bathroom and started being all nice to me and stuff, I figured it was some kind of kinky dream. You look really good in a towel, by the way. I mean, I just went with the flow, because I thought it was a dream. I just want you to know that I ain't like that. . . Well I am like THAT, if you know what I mean, but I'm not like THAT. I'm not a slut or nothing, and I just want you to know that I'm sorry for jumping your bones and all."

"Stan, I have no idea what you're talking about. I was asleep on the sofa when you got in. I didn't see you until I gave you that glass of water this morning."

He can tell I'm lying, but he looks really grateful, and he just nods his head in agreement with what I said.

I walk to the table to get his breakfast plate. He hasn't eaten half of the food that I cooked for him, but it turned cold long ago. I reach out for the plate, and Stan puts his hand on my arm.

"That thing I said the other day. . .about having a piece of your Mountie. . .I lied. Truth be told, I thought about it and all. Especially when we were exploring the North Country together, and then there was, well, The Incident. And we kissed once. But it was a goodbye kiss -- no tongue or nothing.

"There were lots of time we could've, and lots of time when we were tempted, but we never. . .I already had it bad for Rennie, and Fraser was -- is still in love with you. So I just wanted you to know that I lied. I thought you were going to take Rennie from me. So I did it to make you feel shitty. I'm sorry.

"I'm going to go brush my teeth and put some clothes on."

Just before he leaves the kitchen, I whisper, "Thank you."

He nods once, before heading for his bedroom door. I take a seat at his table and let the tears come.

***********

I make it to the John pretty good. I only trip over my own feet once or twice. That great breakfast Vecchio made is helping, but the meds still pack a punch.

When I get there, I figure out real quick that it was worth the effort. Rennie's just finished brushing his teeth and he's bending over the sink, spitting out his toothpaste goop.

If there's one thing I know, it's other men's bodies. I've checked out enough of them. I think I got to be some kind of world authority on ass. Rennie is the proud owner of what has got to be the most perfect ass in the whole history of asses, and boy is he ever giving me a world class shot.

Now most of what I've been picturing us doing involves him tying me to my big old bed and using me like one of them plastic blow up dolls. But I'll try anything once, and right this second I'm wondering what he'd look like face down, wearing nothing but my handcuffs and my tongue.

I ain't about to have an ass buffet, what with Vecchio still sitting in the other room, but I figure there's nothing wrong with a little snack. I clear my throat to make sure he knows I'm behind him. Sneaking up on a cop -- any cop -- is a bad idea.

He looks into the mirror and smiles when he sees it's me. I don't smile back. I raise a hand up to my scrawny chest and let my thumb make little circles over one of my nipples, just like he did those other two times. I figure he's got this thing about nipples.

I figured right. He's staring at my reflection in the mirror. His face is getting kind of pink, but he's not embarrassed. He's got a death grip on my toothbrush, and his chest is pumping up and down pretty good.

"You still got toothpaste in your mouth."

He looks at me like I'm crazy. I'm just funning him. Sex is supposed to be fun. Especially when you're in love.

"You'd better rinse your mouth out now. It's the last chance you're going to have for a while."

I give him a real evil smile. So there ain't no doubt what I mean. He puts some water in the glass Vecchio left on the counter and takes a swig. His hand is shaking. He swirls the water around in his mouth and spits it out.

"You are one strange guy, Rennie. You'll swallow me, but you won't swallow toothpaste water?"

"I'm a man of discriminating tastes, Ray."

His voice ain't too steady, and it sounds like he's might have some rocks in his throat to boot, but he can give as good as he gets. I like that -- a lot. I'm always up for a throw down. Grab me and go all medieval on my ass any time, but there's nothing I like better than some mental gymnastics before the real athletic stuff starts.

I'm an all or nothing kind of guy. So we'd better stop now, or Vecchio's going to get front row seats to something that's going to sound like last week's Wrestling Championships.

I motion toward the kitchen with my head.

"I'd better brush my teeth."

Rennie moves over to make room for me at the sink. I walk up behind him instead. I put a hand on his ass. I'm practical, but I ain't no Saint. So I put a hand on that Hockey player's ass of his and lean in and kiss him on his left shoulder blade. He freezes.

He goes all stiff. He jerks away from me, like I just shoved a cattle prod up his ass.

He's backing away from me. He's trying to get out of the John, but he won't look behind him to see where the door is. I reach out for him.

"Rennie?"

"Don't!"

This morning was great, more than great, but that was all him doing stuff to me. The times he's been okay with sex stuff, they were all him acting and me reacting. The two times he's made like a bruiser on me were both when I touched him first. So I got to admit that I wouldn't have been real shocked if he had slugged me or something or even just walked away. But he looks scared shitless, like I'm the one who's been whipping up on him. He's trying to make himself one with the wall, and he's holding his hands out in front of him to keep me from touching him.

"Don't touch me!"

He's getting real loud, because he's freaking hard about something. Vecchio hears him, I guess. He comes rushing in and looks at me like I'm supposed to know what the dog fuck is going on.

"I just kissed him. I kissed him on the back, and he acts like I'm torturing him or something. I mean, he's hit me before, and he bit me real good once, but I didn't do nothing. I just kissed him."

Rennie's crouching on the floor now. He's still got his hands out in front of him, and he shakes every time we look at him.

"You don't know?"

"Know what? He's fucked in the yeah. Yeah, I figured that on my own, but this . . ."

Vecchio squeezes his eyes shut real tight and pinches the bridge of his nose, like he's thinking hard. He squats in front of Rennie, but he doesn't try to touch him. He doesn't even get close.

"Rennie? Rennie. Rennie. Who am I, Rennie? Do you know who I am? Tell me. Who I am, Rennie?"

Rennie's looking at Vecchio like he just asked him to explain some kind of math problem in the original Greek.

"Constable, what is my name?"

"Ray."

"Good. That's good. I'm Ray Vecchio. Who is that?"

He's pointing at me. Rennie looks at me. He looks like he's been broken.

"My Ray."

That second I love him so much, it's all I can do to not jump all over him and make like one of them sucker eels.

"That's right. He's your Ray. I'm Ray Vecchio and he's Ray Kowalski. I'm your friend, remember?"

Rennie nods.

"Your Ray loves you, right?"

Rennie looks at me and I nod. Rennie nods too and he relaxes just a little.

"I'm your friend, and Ray loves you. You're in Ray's home and we won't let anyone hurt you. We want you to feel safe, because you are. Where would you feel safe?"

Rennie's still looking at me. He's looking at me like he's about to fall off of a cliff, and I'm the guy with the rope. I'm feeling kind of trapped, and I'm thinking Rennie's a big guy, and I hope to God he's not to heavy for me to carry all alone.

Uncle Matty was right. This is some serious shit, but it's already too late for me to cut and run.

He hasn't answered Vecchio's question. So he asks him again.

"Where do you feel safe, Rennie?"

"Bed. I feel safe in Ray's bed."

He's not using those big words yet. But that was a full sentence, and that's got to count for something.

"Ray's bed?"

Rennie turns his head back to Vecchio and nods.

"Well okay then. We're going to go into Ray's bedroom, and you can follow us."

Vecchio stands and walks to me.

"Come on, Stan. He has to do this on his own."

I don't want to leave Rennie alone, but I don't want him to see me fighting neither. I let Vecchio take me by the arm and lead me to my bedroom.

It couldn't have been more that a minute, but it felt like forever. I tried a couple of times to go back into the John, but Vecchio wouldn't held me back. Just when I was ready to let the fists fly, Rennie comes walking in. He doesn't look at Vecchio or me. He just heads straight for the bed. He climbs up and curls up. I make for him, but Vecchio stops me.

"Why don't you brush your teeth first, Stan. It smells like the Russian army has been camping in your mouth."

I don't like it, but Vecchio's been right so far. I go and brush my teeth. I'm thinking about Rennie the whole time.

*

I feel like shouting to the sky, "Dammit, Jim, I'm a cop not a head shrinker!"

But my work here isn't done. I've got to have a little talk with Rennie. I just hope enough of him is here to understand what I'm saying.

There's a wooden chair sitting in the far corner. I pull it up next to the bed. I'm no good at speeches. Benny was the public speaker. For the hundredth time since I woke up this morning, I take a second and let myself wish that Benny was here with me. But he isn't. So I'll have to give this little speech.

"Rennie, this is all one big mess. You know that better than me. Don't you? That guy in there loves you. He's going to do everything he can to help you. But he can't make you better. Only you can do that. It's going to hurt bad, and it's going to hurt worse than that. There are days when you're going to want to pay somebody a million bucks to make the pain go away. But you can do it. I'm sure of it. After all, you are a Mountie.

"You're going to have to tell Stan about your back and everything else. You don't have to do it today. But you have to do it soon or you'll lose him -- like I lost Benny.

"You need to see a shrink. You can't put all of this on Stan's shoulders. You'll crush him and he'll let you. He loves you that much.

"And one other thing, the most important thing, no more hitting him. You hurt him, and you're going to feel like you're no different from the people that hurt you. If you think you're going to take a swing at him, go for a walk, count to ten, or stick your head in a bucket of ice water, if that's what it takes.

I'm all speeched out.

"Give me your feet. Those giant boots of yours can't be doing Stan's covers any good."

Rennie doesn't say anything to me at all. But he swings his feet over the edge of the bed and lets me take his boots off. The doorbell rings and I go to answer it. On my way there, I pass Stan. He's standing in the entrance to the bathroom. I have no idea how long he's been there.

Just before I leave the bedroom, he whispers, "Thank you."

I nod and walk away.

***********

This time, the laundry guy is a guy. He's about six inches shorter than me and stocky. He's got blue-black hair pulled back into a smooth braid that reaches almost to the middle of his back. His eyes are golden and his skin is the exact shade of a perfect cup of café latte.

He's wearing a pale blue T-shirt under his black leather jacket, and I can see the edge of a tattoo on the side of his neck. He's got rings and earrings and an eyebrow ring. He's gorgeous. I find myself wondering if I could make him scream the way Rennie did Stan this morning.

He hands me a package. I grab my wallet. He holds on to my hand just a moment too long when I give him the money for the dry-cleaning. When he thanks me, with a faint Latino accent, he doesn't call me sir.

He's way too young and way too muscle-boy to be my type, but I smile back and tell him anytime. And I tip him really well.

I say thanks and close the door. If I could get it up with him watching, I'd probably drag him down to the Riv and do him in the back seat -- twice. But I can't, so I don't.

I'll just go home and close my eyes and pretend like he's in the room with me while I jack off. I'm pretty sure his face will turn into Benny's before I come. They usually do. But I can at least try.

I take my clothes to the kitchen and lay them on the table. I make a quick call to Welsh. He tells me he won't need me until Monday. I tell him I checked on Stan, and that he's doing okay. He doesn't even ask why I, of all people, would care about Stan. He says, "That's good," and asks me if Sharon likes flowers.

Tulips. I tell him she likes pink tulips and Godiva, and don't forget the latest issue of 'The Hockey News'. That gets her every time.

I hang up the phone. Welsh in love. God help us all.

I strip off Stan's clothes and put on my own. I slip my feet into my designer loafers. I don't feel like a new man, but I do feel like me. There aren't any sounds of love coming from the bedroom. So I figure it's pretty safe to go in there and make my good-byes.

*

Stan's managed to get about half way across the bedroom. He's sitting on that blanket chest. He's staring at his bed like he's afraid if he blinks Rennie's going to disappear or shatter into a thousand pieces.

Maybe he's not too far off the mark.

"Stan, Rennie's jersey is on the kitchen table. Welsh said we're free until Monday. I'm going to go home. I'll come back and check on you guys tonight. Maybe you can cook for me this time.

"Why don't you walk me to the door? You need to lock up."

Stan isn't feeling very talkative for once. But he stands up and follows me to the door. He's more than a little unsteady on his feet.

I walk out into the hallway and turn to face him.

"Listen, this has been a pretty wild week. Why don't you go back to bed? The sleep can't do you anything but good."

He nods and closes the door. I wait until I hear the bolt slide home. Then I head for my own.

*

I weave my way back to my bedroom. I stand on the side of the bed and watch Rennie. He's curled up in the middle of the bed, not moving. I whisper to him.

"Rennie, you awake?"

He rolls onto his back and looks at me.

"Rennie, I need some shut eye. I can crash on the couch, if you want. But I want to be in here with you. I won't touch you or nothing. I just want to lay down with you, like last night. Is that okay? If it ain't, you can tell me. I won't be miffed or nothing."

He slides over to one side of the bed. I lay down on the other side and turn so my back's to him. I want him to know I mean it -- about not touching him.

We lay like that for about ten minutes or so. I'm getting that real warm heavy feeling I always get before I sack out. All of the sudden, I can feel Rennie moving around behind me, and there's a big hand on my shoulder.

I'm wide awake. I can feel his skin through my shirt and his breath on my hair, but that's all.

"Did I ever tell you why I got this bed, Rennie?"

I don't wait for an answer.

"It was right after the second time we went out. I had this little double bed my Mom gave me when she and Dad sold the house and bought that trailer. It was big enough for me and a midnight snack, but that was it. I didn't mind so much, because that's all I needed.

"Anyway, we went out that first time, and we had such a great time. So I asked you out again. It shocked the pants off of me when you said yes -- every time you said yes. I felt like the science geekoid who got to go to the prom with the football captain. I still don't know what you see in me.

"You picked a Jamaican place and a Chamber music concert. I'd never heard of either, but I didn't care. I'd have gone nude windsurfing if that's what you wanted for one of our dates. I know you didn't think we were dating, but I could pretend. So I did.

"We had another bang up time -- dinner and music and talking. I even listened when you went on about curling. We said goodnight at your door, and I drove home. I took a shower, and I waxed the dolphin so hard, I almost ended up on my knees on the stall floor.

"I had monster dreams that night. All of them had you naked or in your brown uniform or full hockey gear. Then I had the last one.

We were in my bed, and you tried to stretch out on top of me and make love to me. You were so tall and the bed was so short that you kept hitting your head on the headboard, and your knees kept slipping off the edge of the bed.

Then we were chest to chest. We started rolling around, kind of challenging each other to see who got to be on top. I wasn't trying to hard to win. But you flipped me real good and we landed on the floor. I even dreamed I got rug burn on my ass.

"I went out the next day and put some money down on this bed. It cost me more than one of Vecchio's suits. But I remember thinking it would be worth all the green I got, if I could get you horizontal just once.

"I was right."

The mattress shifts again, and Rennie's pressed up against my back. I'm so close to Heaven, I think my brain's going to fry.

"You know what that means, Rennie? It means this ain't my big old bed. It's our big old bed. There's never been anyone in this bed but you and me. And there won't be anybody else, if that's how you want it."

His nose is nuzzling up to the side of my neck. I'm making like I'm frozen. I'm not going to move one underdeveloped muscle, until he says I can. He whispers into my ear.

"Ray, I need . . . I need to feel you. I need to touch you the way I did this morning. May I, Ray? Please."

I feel like crying. I don't want it like we -- like he did it this morning. I want to do stuff for him too. But he can't handle that. He's got a bad case of control freakitis. I'll take what he can give me. I love him too much. And anyway, he feels too goddamned good to turn down.

"You can do anything to me you want. Don't you know that, Rennie?"

He puts his hand on my bony hip and slides it down my leg, pressing my skin into the denim of his jeans. He shifts again and slides his other hand under me. His hand peeks out in front of me.

"Hold my hand, Ray."

I slip my hand into his and hold on for all I'm worth.

His free hand runs back up my leg, over my boxers and under the edge of my T-shirt. He plays with the hair around my belly button, then he flattens his hand against my stomach and slides it up to my chest. When he finds a nipple, he squeezes my hand and moans.

I can't help grinning.

"What is it with you and nipples, Rennie?"

He stops moving, and I think I screwed up, big time. But his hand starts roaming again, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

"I was sixteen. It was the summer, and my father had sent me to live with my mother's brother. He had a small cattle ranch in Alberta, and Father thought the work would help me develop my muscles. I was rather thin in my youth.

"My uncle wasn't well off. So he couldn't afford to have help on a permanent basis. He would hire out day laborers. Most of them were good men. All of them were roustabouts. They would work just long enough to be able to afford a single night of hard drinking and sex in one of the bars in town.

"All of them except one. He wasn't any smarter than the others. But he was quiet and contemplative. All of his thoughts were about owning land and cattle of his own. He was very driven. He was beautiful.

"He and I worked alongside one another for two weeks that summer. We were riding fence. We had to ride the entire circumference of my uncle's property, repairing the barbed wire fencing.

"Most of our time was spent silently. When we did talk, it was about his ranch or the Mounties or women.

"We took a much deserved rest one particularly hot afternoon. He showed me a small pond on some neighboring property. He stripped naked and jumped in the water. He dared me to do the same. I was horribly embarrassed. He didn't think of me sexually at all. I thought of him in every situation my hormonally soaked brain could devise.

"He pointed out that I was an athlete and showered with other boys often, and that I would have to do so again when I went off to the academy.

"What was I to do? I couldn't confess the truth to him. I barely admitted it to myself, and I had vowed to never act upon my feelings toward any man. I shed my clothes and jumped into the water.

"We splashed and tried to dunk one another under the water. We stayed in there long enough to wrinkle our skin. Luckily for me, his horse escaped its stake, and he had to put on his jeans and run after him.

"By the time he returned with his horse, I had masturbated and dressed. While he was unclothed, I never did have the courage to look at him below the waist, but I remember the broad expanse of his chest distinctly.

"We finished the fence, and he went to work for another family. We parted friends.

"My uncle told me he married a well-to-do woman who had her own land and cattle. I hear that they now deal mostly in horses, are still married, with six children, and very much in love."

I'm feeling pretty small and low and green.

"He was a real babe?"

"Everyone thought so."

"He was all buffed, right? I mean he was a cowboy, and they work outside all the time. So he was buffed and tan and all that stuff. Not like me."

"Would you care to know the greatest difference between the two of you -- the only one that matters?"

"Probably not."

"I don't love Sasha."

He whispers it right against the back of my neck. Then he starts tonguing and sucking that same spot. His one hand tightens on mine and the other one drops down into my shorts. He wraps it around my dick and works me over good. I grab the sheets with my free hand and start howling into my pillow.

Rennie pulls away from me. I scream, "No!"

But I don't grab for him. That's against the rules. He rolls me onto my back. He kind of half lays on top of me and goes back to spanking my monkey.

"I want to watch you, Ray. I need to see your face when you orgasm."

I reach up and grab two of the posts on our bed. I'm yelling "Oh, shit" over and over, and thinking if it gets any better, I'm going to explode.

It gets better. He doesn't wait for me to get off, this time. He presses two of his fingers to my lips and tells me to suck. I know I got to be staring at him like I'm a madman, but he just tells me again. I do it. He lets me work on his fingers for a while. Then he pulls them out of my mouth.

He throws one of my legs over his thigh and starts fingerfucking me. I'm breaking all kinds of city noise ordinances. I grab a pillow and try to press it over my face. Rennie takes his hand off my dick and grabs the pillow from me.

"Scream for me, Ray. I want to hear how I'm making you feel."

That does it. That has got to be the single hottest thing anybody has ever said to me.

I yell at him.

"Get your hand back around my dick, and I'll do anything you want!"

He smiles.

"As you wish."

He tosses the pillow on the floor and goes back to working me over. I scream his name about a hundred times before I come. When it finally happens, I sound like Dief on a full moon. I squeeze the bedposts so tight, I bet I leave marks.

I'm afraid to move.

"I think I broke something important."

He smiles and kisses me on the forehead and tells me he'll be back. I don't have enough brain cells left to ask where he's going.

He come back and gives me a glass of water. I suck it down. Then he cleans up my stomach with a wet towel. He leaves again, and I flop back down onto the bed. He's only gone for a second. When he comes back, the towel and glass are gone. He gets into bed and curls up next to me. He pulls the covers over us and tells me to sleep.

"Rennie?"

"Yes, Ray."

"I know you don't want me to touch you or nothing. But if you want to . . . you know . . . If you want to jack off, that'd be cool. I'd like to watch you too."

It takes him a long time to answer. He's one of those people that need to know just what's going to come out of their mouth before they even open it -- not like me.

"I want very much for you to touch me, Ray. There is nothing I want more than to feel you inside of me or to be inside of you. But I'm terrified of the first, and I'm not capable of the second."

"I don't care about fucking you. Okay, that's a lie. I care about it. I think about it all the time. But I can live without it. It ain't like if you do me, I got to do you.

"I can just . . . Well, I can just roll over and not move -- like we just did. You can fuck me any way you want. It's going to be good for me, just because it's you."

He's got tears in his eyes, and he's looking up at the ceiling like that's going to keep him from crying.

"When I say I'm not capable, I don't mean emotionally. I mean physically or perhaps both. I haven't been able to achieve orgasm in a very long time. When I made love with you this morning, I had an erection. That was the first time I had been able to achieve one in two years.

"I don't have an erection now. Even after everything you allowed me to do to your beautiful body, and your incredible responses, I'm flaccid."

There's only two things that can do that to a guy, and I'm pretty sure Rennie doesn't have some kind of medical thing going.

"Was it rape?"

He sighs.

"I've never been sure."

He sees in my eyes that I don't get what he's talking about.

"I . . . I enjoyed it. I craved it. I begged him to hurt me. I did anything he asked of me."

He sits up and hangs his legs over the side of the bed. He's so tall, his feet reach the ground. Mine wouldn't even come close.

He pulls the edge of his shirt out of the waist of his pants and draws it over his head.

I run to the John. I barely have time to lift the lid before I start to hurl.

***********

I sit on the edge of his bed, immobilized by my own fears.

He cannot be more than a dozen steps away. I hear him clearly, trying to rid himself of the pain of my burden.

I know my duty. I am all too aware of it, but I am too weak to function accordingly. I should go to him. I should attempt to comfort him. I should . . . I should do something. I should do anything other than sit here paralyzed, a silent witness to the reaction of his compassionate heart.

I do nothing.

Finally, the wretched sounds cease. I hear the toilet flush. Shuffling steps are followed by the whine of ancient pipes and water flowing into the sink. The rasp of a brush scraping itself across the enamel of his teeth keeps time with the steady rush of water refilling the toilet tank.

The tank is, at last, full. I hear him gargle and spit and gargle and spit again. He does not use the glass that I know is still sitting on the counter. He must have employed the more expedient method of holding his mouth to the stream of water coming from the tap. This action is so like the Ray I have come to love that the mere thought of it should make me smile.

I do nothing.

The flow of water stops. The shuffling steps resume.

I am still sitting on the edge of his bed, facing the far wall. He comes to a stop at my side, his elegant dancer's legs brushing one of my own clumsy thighs.

He raises a gentle hand toward my back and I flinch. He settles for stroking my hair tenderly.

I should pull away from his touch. I should cover my shame with my shirt. I should leave this place and him. I should return to my apartment and my other life and spare him the pain that is sure to be his only recompense for loving me.

I do nothing.

When he speaks, it is with the hushed tones of someone who is adept at gentling wild horses or gaining the trust of misused children.

"Rennie, I know I told you I'd do anything for you. And I meant it. Least ways, I thought I did. But I never thought of this. I mean. . .I ain't stupid, I know people do stuff like this. I seen it before.

"When I first came on, they used to pull me off of my beat all the time to work Vice stings. I used to stand on the corner and get the Johns to tell me what they wanted me to do or what they wanted to do to me. But I'd just tell them that the street was too hot with the five-oh, and they had to meet me around the corner. Then the glory boys would jump the guy and haul him into the back of a Paddy wagon.

"It was kind of a thrill, knowing guys wanted me bad enough to pay for it.

"Most of them were real nice, just hard up or lonely or wanting something they couldn't get at home. I hated sending those guys around the corner, because I knew I could've been one of them, if Stella hadn't been so hot for it.

"But some of them weren't like that. Some of them wanted to hurt me. I'm pretty small and young looking. Some of them would ask me if they could tie me down and hit me or bite me, stuff like that. One guy even said he wanted to cut me with a broken pop bottle.

"I wanted to get those pervs something bad. I'd play like a junkie with them. Tell them I'd do anything, if they'd spot me a fix on the way to wherever they wanted to go.

"I'd send them around the corner, feeling like I'd done some good -- like maybe I'd saved one of the kids standing on the corner with me from going through that stuff.

"I love you, Rennie. I meant that part, and I ain't taking it back. But I can't do that. I can't to that to you -- not even for you. I want to jump Bogart all over the guy that did. Even you telling me you liked it don't change that."

I cry.

For the first time since I left Helen's care, I allow myself to cry. There are no shuddering sobs, only the silent trail of tears over my too long face. They pool at the bottom point of my chin, before falling, unheeded, onto the wooden floor beneath my feet.

Ray does not, thankfully cannot, understand the source of my pain, but he knows intuitively what I wish to convey to him.

He does not try to hold me. He allows me to hold him. I wrap him in my arms, and release my anguish onto his shoulder.

My tears, at last, run their course. He removes his T-shirt and uses it to clean my face. When he is satisfied with his efforts, he tosses the shirt carelessly onto the floor and resumes his dialogue. But his voice has taken on a low sultry quality it lacked before.

"I know I'm gay, and most straights think that means I got this thing for whips and chains and leather pants and dog collars. But I ain't like that. When I think about making it with you, I see us doing all of that black and white movie stuff, like rolling around on a big rug in front of a fireplace, or kissing in the snow, or necking in the back of a movie theater, maybe even making out on the sofa and pretending like my Mom and Dad are in the other room.

"Don't get me wrong. I want to do other stuff too. I want to kiss you so deep you pass out. I want to run my fingers over your whole buffed Godlike body. I want to grab your ass when we're at the station and somebody might catch us. I want to watch you jerk off and clean the come off your stomach with my tongue. I want to suck your fingers and suck your toes and suck your dick. I want to bend you over your desk and bury my cock so deep in you that you can taste me when I come.

"I want to fingerfuck you and tonguefuck you and suck you off while you fingerfuck yourself. I want you to lay on your stomach, hold on to the bedposts, stick your ass in the air and come, just from the feel of my fingers on your balls and my tongue between your ass cheeks.

"I want to make you scream and I want to make you beg, but not from pain."

I released my grip on him long ago. I am shaking like a startled colt. He places his hand under my chin and forces me to look at his face. His cheeks are flushed and his pupils are dilated from lust.

"Did it hurt you, Rennie, those things I just said?"

My throat is suddenly gone dry. When I speak, my voice is like the snapping of dead twigs.

"No, Ray."

The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkles, and his lips turn up into a slight smile. His fingers release my chin. They slide down my neck, over my bare chest and come to rest on the fly of my jeans. He presses the palm of his hand firmly against my rampant erection.

"Does this hurt, Rennie?"

I shake my head mutely.

"Can I kiss you?"

I nod acquiescently.

His lips lower to mine, and his fingers begin a gentle kneading against my still hardened penis. I moan into his mouth. His hand moves to the top button of my pants, and my erection fades.

He senses the change instantly. He does not stop lavishing attention upon my lips. He simply moves his hand to my far shoulder and shifts, so he is now straddling my lap. He is balancing on the mattress, on his knees, leaning over me. He has one hand cradling my head. The other, the one that had been resting on my shoulder, slides unhurriedly to my back.

I freeze.

His fingers continue to trace the lines upon my back even as his tongue traces the ridges of my palate.

He feels sublime, frighteningly so. But I remain flaccid. I pull back, evading the attentions of his intoxicating mouth.

"I'm sorry, Ray. I can't."

He smiles.

"Can't what? Can't kiss me? You could've fooled me. Can't play grope the Polack? I may not be LadyShoes, but I'd bet the farm that those are your hands on my ass."

He is all to aware of what I am making reference to, but I have already voiced my shame to him once today. I find myself wondering why he should wish to force me to do so again.

His hands cup my face. He looks earnestly into my eyes.

"Rennie, baby, you are so hot, you should be registered as a lethal weapon. I got it so bad for you, sometimes I think my head is going to bust -- both my heads maybe. But you've already got me off twice today. Which is two more times than I've gotten lucky since my divorce. And I'm on the down side of thirty to boot. So . . .

He takes one of my hands from his small firm ass and places it on the crotch of his boxers. He is as flaccid as I. He smiles at me again, and then resumes making a slow intense exploration of my mouth with his tongue.

I melt.

He pulls away from my grasp this time. His smile is innocent. His words are anything but.

"You'd better stretch out and get comfy, this could take a while."

I lay on my back, and he drapes himself across me. Even the weight of his slight form pressing upon me is enough to make me feel decidedly claustrophobic. I roll us both so that we are laying bare chest to bare chest, on our sides. He offers no protest. He simply presses himself to me and allows me to kiss him.

One of his hands returns to the scars upon my back.

I wince.

He ignores my reaction and continues to kiss me as his fingers learn every welt that mars my skin. I find that not even the discomfort of having my past so exposed can distract me indefinitely from the ministrations of his mouth. And when his lips begin to worry at the juncture of my neck and shoulder, I allow myself, if only for a while, to forget everything else. I lose myself in the exquisite pleasure of his skin upon mine.

The late afternoon daylight passes through the bedroom window. The angle of the shadows it casts within the room change, unnoticed by either of us, until the weak February sunlight is replaced by the garish fluorescence of the shops below, attempting to lure unwary customers into their grasping clutches.

The steady driving sounds of people rushing to their homes to seek their ease fade into the staccato rhythm of the same people rushing out into the night to seek their pleasure.

His lips never stray below my neck, and neither of us achieves an erection. Our kisses become more infrequent. The movement of his hand upon my back slows, then ceases all together. We fade into a much needed sleep, entwined in one another's arms.

***********

At first, the meds are really doing their thing on me. I'm dead to the world. I don't even hear the phone ring or Rennie tell Vecchio it's okay that he's too beat to come over. Rennie has to tell me about it over breakfast the next morning.

I slide into this dream about being back on the Henry Allen with Fraser. He does that buddy breathing thing, which freaked me bad when it happened.

It was my first guy to guy lip lock. I spent a lot of time going over that kiss in my head -- later when I'd finally gotten my feet back on dry land or at least dry boat.

It felt great. And I remember thinking that maybe it was that whole "near death" thing, that the adrenaline was going, and the blood was pumping, and that it probably would've felt that good if anybody had done it. That it hadn't been so wow just because I'd finally had one laid on me by a guy -- a totally built, gorgeous, firm lipped guy. Heck, I'd probably have liked it if it had been Thatcher making like a puffer fish on me.

So we got on that weird boat. I never even told Uncle Matty about that one. I mean, who could've thought something like that up? A boat manned by nothing but big strong manly Mounties, come on. Well, who besides someone that had lots of gay sailor-boy fantasies as a kid?

Anyway, we get on that boat, and I have to do it. I test my little idea that locking lips with anybody would've felt as good as Fraser. I latch onto this little blonde spanky Mountie chic. She seems game, so I plant one on her.

It was nice. As far as kisses go, it didn't suck. It didn't suck, but it didn't do nothing for the old ticker neither.

I smiled at the girl, and she gave me the same look -- thanks, but no fireworks here either. We settled for holding hands and talking. So much for that idea that all Mounties are overstocked in the brain department.

I looked over at Fraser, and he was laying one on the Ice Queen. Funny thing was, I got the feeling he was doing it for the same reason as me. I didn't have anything to go on, other than instinct, but I felt almost like he was trying to find what he needed from her, like I was trying to find what I needed from any woman, one last time -- goodbye kisses all around.

Then I saw Rennie. He was arm wrestling with some guy. It was bizarre. It was out of nowhere. It was like he couldn't stand watching all the smooching going on and had to find something to do, so he could ignore the rest of us. I had to walk away to keep from laughing, to keep from grabbing his face in my hands and testing out my kissing theory the way I really wanted to test it.

But back to my dream. I'm dreaming we're inside of the death ship and Fraser blows me one, just like for real. But he points up, or least ways what I think is up, and I try to follow him.

I can't. There's some big dark thing grabbing on to my leg, holding me down. I start jerking around, trying to get away. I try to drag myself away from whatever it is. I try to pull myself up out of the water.

I pull myself awake.

I'm laying face down on my bed. I don't have a pillow, and there's a big drool spot on the sheet pressed against my face. My body is telling me I should have pissed about an hour ago. I know this because there's something heavy and warm laying on top of me, putting all of its weight right on the center of my bladder.

I slip out from under Rennie and sneak into the John. I don't want to wake him up, so I close the door. I brace myself and take a world class piss. It still hurts like a motherfucker, but I'm used to the pain.

My bandage is getting kind of funky. I head for the kitchen to throw it in the wash. I'm real quiet in the bedroom. I open my closet door and grab some of the clothes I threw on the floor the other day. I can't see colors too good, because the only light in the bedroom is coming from the stores outside. I'm not too worried about stuff matching though. I just make sure I got at least two shirts and two pairs of pants, some socks and underwear. I lay one of the shirts on the floor and wrap the other stuff inside of it. I close the closet door. I know Rennie loves me, but I figure I can hide how bad a slob I am for a while.

Before I leave the room, I look over at Rennie. His hand reaches out for me and finds my drool spot instead. It pulls back, and he moves away from the middle of the bed. My pillow is still laying on the floor, from when he threw it there. I pick it up with my toes and toss it into the air. I grab it with my right hand and put it on the bed, right over my drool spot. I do so good, I don't drop any of the clothes.

I see his turtleneck lying on the ground next to my T-shirt. I pick them up and add them to my pile. He can't keep wearing the same clothes every day. He's going to have to go home sooner or later. I decide not to think about that just yet.

I look at him one last time, before I head off to do real life stuff.

*

I've reached the age where I've finally realized that there is nothing better than a full night's sleep in your own bed, well, almost nothing. Nothing that I could get anyway.

Of course, the down side of this is that there is nothing worse than being rudely pulled from a deep restful sleep in your own bed. Which would explain why, when I was dragged away from wonderful dreams of Stan and Rennie letting me watch all of those things I heard them doing, I wasn't the nicest guy in the world.

The phone rings and I jerk awake. I'm not together, but I'm all the way awake. I've long passed the age where I realized that a phone ringing in the middle of the night never brings good news.

"Vecchio."

"Detective?"

"No. I used to be a Detective. After the operation, I changed my name to Rita and took a job as a meter maid."

Silence from the other end -- nice, polite Canadian silence.

"Yeah, this is Detective Vecchio. What do you want at this God forsaken hour of the morning?"

"Detective, this is Inspector Allen. I'm terribly sorry to disturb you, but Constable Turnbull wasn't been in contact with the Consulate at all today. I'm aware that he was helping you with your case last night, but he hasn't checked in once. And while I did release him from his consular duties for the duration of your investigation, it is most unusual for him to fail to report in and appraise me of his status. Would you happen to know where he is?"

He's rambling in a polite Canadian way. He's trying to hide it, but I can tell he's nervous, maybe even scared, and I'm tempted, really tempted, to tell him the truth, "Sorry Inspector, but it would be a little hard for Turnbull to talk to you on the phone, since he's probably got Detective Kowalski's dick halfway down his throat, right about now. But I could give you the phone number, if you'd like."

"Oh, right, Turnbull. You see, there was a raid last night. Turnbull's fine, but one of the officers got knocked around some. You ever hear of Stanley Kowalski? He was the guy who took my place, when I was undercover.

"Nevermind, that was before your time. Anyway, he and Turnbull are pretty good pals. So Turnbull's staying at his place for a few days, making sure he's okay."

So much for the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

"So, there haven't been any . . . problems?"

What kind of problems? Like Turnbull going ballistic and beating up a suspect and then a fellow officer? Like Turnbull fading in and out of reality more often that Dennis Rodman? Like Turnbull being broken and every one of your super efficient Mounted Policemen doing their super-efficient best to ignore it?

"Nope, no problems at all. In fact, I think Lieutenant Welsh is going to try and steal him away from you guys, after some of the great ideas he came up with on this case. He really broke things wide open for us."

Let him stew on that one for a while.

"Well, I'm . . . I'm glad to hear that. We're always pleased to be able to help our American friends. I'm sorry to have bothered you, Detective. Have a good night."

"No prob, Inspector. I'll tell Rennie you're looking for him."

I slam the phone down.

I'm wide awake all right. Wide awake and pissed at Allen and the rest of the God damned Royoul Canadian Mounted Police force for throwing Rennie to the sled dogs.

Armando Langostini taught me that the most important part of any war is knowledge. If I'm going to help Rennie, I'm going to need to know everything about him, not just his side of the story.

That leaves me wondering exactly how I'm going to get a hold of Rennie's work file. Then I remember that keeping the personnel files was part of Benny's job description while he was here. I know exactly where those files are -- in a cabinet in Rennie's office.

I look up Kowalski's number on the station emergency contact sheet and give him a call.

Rennie answers the phone. I tell him that I'm too wiped out to make dinner. He says not to worry, that he and Stan have already hit the hay. Then I tell him that he needs to call Allen.

He surprises me again. He doesn't sound too worried about that. He tells me he'll call in after breakfast tomorrow.

I offer to drive him back to his place in the morning, to pick up some of his stuff and take it back to Stan's. He tells me not to bother, that it's only forty-two blocks to his place. True enough, I say, but there aren't any dogsleds around for him to haul his stuff in, and I have a feeling he's going to need most of it, that he won't be going home too much. He gives in.

I tell him to kiss Stan for me. He chuckles and tells me to get my own man.

He's no Benton Fraser, not with a mouth like that, but I like this Renfield Turnbull. I hope he sticks around for a while.

I hang up the phone, turn on the TV, hit the mute button and pop in my favorite porno -- the one with all of the sailors on that old boat, "Mounted on the Bounty".

I pretend like I'm the captain and Benny is the cabin boy.

I clean myself up and lock up my tapes. I walk across the hall and flush the used tissues down the John. I go back to my bed and don't even pretend like I'm not crying myself to sleep.

***********

My windows face west. The sinking sun tells me the hour is just past six and there is still time yet -- plenty of time to take a leisurely stroll through the Academy grounds, or read a book on the quadrant lawn, or saddle and ride one of the numerous finely bred, finely trained horses in the Academy stables.

Just past six on a pleasant Sunday evening. I'm not due to teach another class until ten tomorrow morning. I have a rare moment of free time, and I find myself lying face up on my general issue cot, staring at my once white ceiling, looking for traces of my past in the bumps and swirls of cracked plaster.

It is the sixty-seventh time since coming to Regina that I have indulged in this pastime, and the sixty-seventh time I have failed to find what I seek.

I close my eyes and allow my fingers to run lightly over my bed sheets. They are pleasingly smooth and amazingly soft -- a softness that can only be achieved by years upon years of regular washings in dangerously hot water. And knowing the Academy's reputation for thrift, it wouldn't surprise me at all to discover that these same sheets graced my cot during my days as a recruit.

I shift, just a bit, and my boots catch on the sheets, marring their smooth tightly tucked surface. This thoughtless action brings to mind other sheets -- sheets that covered another small hard bed in another small dingy room, one whose windows faced north.

He was with me the first time I stepped over the threshold of that other room.

They were both foreign to me, when I first laid naive eyes upon them. I cared nothing for either of them, outside of their usefulness -- a man to help me catch another man, and a roof to cover my head.

Somehow, unexpectedly, along the way they both became associated with the word home.

I remember clearly the first time I spoke of that room as home. It was the close of the business day. I had been doing my best to teach a newly arrived Turnbull the ins and outs of consular life. Neither of us was having an easy time of it. His polite bumbling was tearing my nerves to shreds and seriously testing my ability to present myself as eternally patient.

Finally, the hall clock chimed five. I was blissfully free. I helped Turnbull tidy up the paperwork we had been covering. I grabbed my Stetson, wished him a good evening and told him that if he needed anything, he could find me at home.

I was half-way through my walk before it struck me. I was going home.

I was decidedly upset at the thought. When had my beloved Territories been replaced by a rat trap in a ghetto on Chicago's worst side of town? When had longings for snow and dogsledding and blessed isolation been usurped by trash laden streets and green muscle cars and the company of a loud brash skinny large-nosed self-centered man?

I gave no outward sign of my inner turmoil. I walked confidently, following my regular path. I smiled politely at all I met. I helped two old ladies across the street and responded appropriately to the thanks of a young woman when I returned her dropped handkerchief.

I soldiered on, as I have always done.

I rounded a corner a scant ten blocks from home. I was already anticipating a blisteringly hot shower -- one of the few pleasures I felt no guilt in allowing myself to indulge. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, after all.

And if the other pleasures I allowed myself while in the shower were less than guiltless, that was between me and my God as well.

As I stepped around the corner, my eyes came to rest on a bulky green car with ungraceful lines and displeasing proportions. Ray was lounging against the hood of his beloved Buick Riviera, exuding an air of bored expectation. It never ceased to amaze me how two moods that were so at odds with one another could be achieved by this man with seemingly no effort at all.

Ray stood and opened the passenger door.

The images in my mind twisted and turned in on themselves. When they reformed, they included Ray.

I have never been particularly adept at sexual fantasies. They have always tended toward the mundane. But fate chose this inopportune time to have my imagination catch up with and surpass my admittedly overactive libido. Explicit scenes, disjointed and badly edited, flashed before my eyes.

Ray with me. Ray in my shower. Ray and I on an ice floe. Ray and I, again in my shower, touching one another under the punishing stream of water. Ray and I dry in my bed. Ray moaning under me. Ray looming over me. Ray doing things to my body Victoria had refused to do.

I half-stumbled and paused, frozen by my own heated desires.

Ray looked at me questioningly, but did not ask. He had long since become used to my quirks and turns of personality. He motioned to the passenger seat.

"Come on, Benny. We haven't got all day."

I covered my shock with a comforting blather.

"I'm terribly sorry, Ray. I didn't realize that you were going to give me a ride home. I hope you didn't wait at the Consulate for too long. It wasn't necessary for you to track me down like this. It's only ten more blocks to my apartment. I really don't mind the walk."

"Aw, that's okay, Benny. We didn't have any plans. I thought I'd surprise you. And it's not like I had to lick any fire hydrants or anything. You always walk the same way."

I realized then that this man knew me better than any other ten men. He studied my habits as closely as the Inuit studied the migrating patterns of wild geese and caribou. That knowledge struck a chord deep inside of me. It wended it's way into the dark hidden corners of my heart and caused cruel hope to blossom.

I looked into his eyes before I stepped into his car. I took a chance, an incredibly daring subtle Canadian chance. I allowed my face to ask the question my voice could not.

Americans seem shockingly blunt in their approach to such things, and I half-expected my query to fly unnoticed over the thinning hair of Ray's lovely head.

But Ray, for all of his fire and fierce bravado, is a subtle man at heart. He caught my question deftly enough and returned a well-thought out answer.

"Get in, Benny. I got plans for us."

And so, it was settled.

Things between us proceeded as slowly and as inevitably as spring comes to The Territories.

We made love only once. But it was powerful magic.

He was silent in his passion. This might have bothered other men, but in the desperate flow of his breath, I heard the driving winter winds of home, my other distant home.

The threads of our passion bound me to him as surely as other, purely material, ropes had bound us together in our past.

I was foolishly certain that he had also felt the power of our union.

I am no stranger to duty. I was oddly proud when I heard what he had done, why he had left. I actually thought, in my arrogance, that I could take just a small piece of credit for his self-sacrifice. That perhaps I was having a positive effect upon him.

Even though he left so suddenly, it was no hardship for me to remain constant. I took up residence at the Consulate. I filled the days with the brash charm and warm comradeship of my new Ray, and the nights with images of my old Ray and the efficient attentions of my left hand.

My arms were empty, but my heart was full.

His return was a shock. His reaction to me doubly so. It was as though our courtship had never taken place, as though our friendship had all been a ruse.

I could have accepted the loss of the first. But to be so cruelly stripped of the second was a devastating blow. I hid this new pain as I have hidden all the others, behind a mask of professional detachment and Canadian manners.

When he told me to go get my man, I knew that there would be no unexpected visit this time. He was telling me goodbye.

Yet, those ties he placed around my heart refused to be loosed. I felt them pulled tight by the distance between us, when I choose to stay in The Territories. They pulled tighter still, when he increased the physical distance between us by migrating to Florida.

Ray Kowalski tells me that he has returned to Chicago, alone. That he has returned to working at the department and to living with his family in their newly rebuilt home.

I find myself wondering if he would do me the courtesy of cutting the ties that bind me to him, if I could find within me the courage or even the desire to ask. I laugh quietly. It is a small bitter chuckle, one that would undoubtably shock him to hear coming from between my lips.

The sun has slipped below the horizon. Lights from other barracks' windows flicker on. Dief scratches at the door, seeking to be let in.

******************************************************************

Go on to Part 2