Trying every key in the bunch to get the door even ajar

not knowing whether it's locked or simply jammed from long disuse

trying the keys over and over then throwing the bunch away

staring around for an axe.

Adrienne Rich

Surprised, but pleased, that Tim would choose to show up out of the blue, Rawls turned and only then the full import of Noreen's words sank in. Wow. Tim wasn't wearing his glasses tonight, or anything else he had so far seemed to be in the habit of wearing. Under a zippered and studded black leather jacket, he had on a snow-white t-shirt, its neck scooped enough to reveal a gold chain circling the long column of his throat, a pair of worn and faded jeans, at least a size too small for him and at most skinning past a public indecency charge. Okay, maybe he was wearing his regular shoes, but who could look that far down?

You're going to sorely try my patience tonight, aren't you, Tim Bayliss?

Then Tim Bayliss walked up to him, leaned down with no preamble, held him by the nape and took his mouth in a hard kiss. Jesus! On second thought, who knows what you're going to try tonight. You're spoiling for something.

"Guess it'll have to be you," he heard Noreen say with dramatic resignation.

As Bayliss pulled away there were a few discreet claps around the room, and one not-so-discreet hoot. Rawls ignored them with all the dignity he could muster. Tim folded his long body into the booth, had to turn sideways to find enough room for his legs, then asked after the fact, "Mind if I join you?"

It was meant to be sultry, but it came out inept, the boy-next-door doing vamp. It should've been endearing. Right then, though, it only pointed out how erratic the man could be. There was something reckless in the mix tonight. Rawls collected his papers in one pile, pushed it aside, and offered like a good host, "What would you like to eat?"

"I'm not hungry, thanks."

No? He watched Bayliss confiscate his fork, wrap a great bundle of pasta around it and carry it to his mouth. But you certainly got an appetite, don't you?

Bayliss next commandeered his wine, took a healthy swallow. "That's really good." He licked his lips. Slowly. "I'm definitely developing a taste for reds."

Oh? Rawls motioned at a busboy for another glass. Whatever this was about, he knew he had done nothing to cause it. This wasn't about him at all. Something or someone had inflamed Tim. He was only catching the backdraft. He hoped it wouldn't scorch too badly.

***

Pembleton had stopped by the Waterfront before he'd headed home. The Ridenour case wrapped up, Lewis and Falsone had been propping the bar up and holding the usual postmortem by drinking with a vengeance and suffering each other. Tim hadn't been there.

It was late and the only light in the house shone dimly from the top of the stairs when he opened the front door -- too easily. Mary hadn't bothered to bolt it. It disturbed him more than usual. Hush your mouth, go to sleep, ol'Patty Ridenour'll take you back deep…

He could hear Frank Jr. fussing upstairs. "Mary," he called out.

"Up here."

"You didn't bolt the door."

"What's your problem, Frank?"

"Stop. Stop right now," she raised her voice over his. "I spent the day lobbying a congressional asshole who thought he could employ any offensive tactic as long as his language was politically correct. A proposal I worked on for months isn't so much as going to get a hearing. Livvy has discovered climbing and, unfortunately, falling --I swear some idiot at day care is feeding her too much sugar-- and Frank Jr. won't go to sleep. I've had it."

Oh. Best back off. "Look, yes, I know it gets crazy sometimes -- "

"For starters, secure the doors instead of talking about them and go see if you can get your son to settle down. I'm going to take a bath. Then I'm going to have a drink. And then I'm going to bed. Got all that?"

Immediate and unconditional obedience was the only way to weather this storm. "Yes."

"Good."

He thought he'd heard her last word for the night. But later, fresh from her bath, her hair in plaits, with her drink in her hand, she came into the living room where he'd taken the baby so everybody else could sleep in peace upstairs. She stood and watched him rocking their son. "You're okay here?"

"We're fine, go to bed."

Approaching, she held her glass to his mouth. He took a sip, felt it burn going down. "Sometimes you must wonder why you ever thought I was the man you wanted to live with."

She laughed softly. "Let me burst your bubble, Frank, I never thought you were the man I wanted to live with. I had to accept, kicking and screaming all the way, you were the man I couldn't live without. Try to appreciate the difference."

"I do."

She leaned to kiss him on the temple. "Good night."

"Good night, sweetie."

He watched her leave, then looked down into his son's dark eyes, staring fixedly at him, droopy lidded, but still stubbornly open. He made soft, soothing sounds, while inside his head the old terror kept jabbering: Hog-tie a man six-feet-four, kill little children for too much noise, so hush your mouth, get on asleep, ol'Patty Ridenour'll take you back deep…

***

Come down to my house and stick a stone in your mouth, you can always pull it out if you like it too much, vocalized a singer Rawls didn't remember hearing before, barely decipherable through the loud technopop beat of synthesizers that sounded arrayed for an altogether different song. Multicolored neon, serving as both lighting and decoration, pulsated to the relentless tempo, the reflective surfaces of high-tech plastic, glass, and chrome bathed the club in harsh flashes of electric color. Rawls sat at the bar and, like something shot in time-lapse, watched Tim dancing with nobody in particular on the strobing dance floor.

"I want to go to a club," he had announced before Rawls could so much as finish his dinner. Remembering how much Tim seemed to enjoy the place, he'd suggested the Carnivale, only to have Tim promptly declare the Floss to be his choice of the night.

Been here, done this years ago, Rawls thought. Fashions changed, music changed --well, maybe not so much, as Gloria Gaynor took over from the thin-voiced singer and uncompromisingly stated she'll survive-- but the basics stayed the same. Trade and trade-off as usual, the axis of this world. The working boys ran the whole spectrum from fresh-out-of-boys'-home Ken dolls to the shaved, pierced and tattooed specimens known in the trade as the Club-Fuck Hardies. The older men from the ever-hopeful ordinary to the muscle studs posing as if they were the only men in the place, ready to trade off money for sex, affection for orgasm, public sanction for public acts. The aspects unchanged since his own clubbing days were the ones making him feel too old, too weary for the scene now.

"That's where we arrested Fields," had been Tim's only stated reason for choosing this meat market. If any clarification was to be found in that comment, Rawls doubted he'd care to look for it.

He glanced at an impromptu lap-dance starting nearby, a skinny kid with blond dreadlocks and skull earrings straddling the legs of a leather-vested man sporting too many crucifixes on a massive chest, turned away to face the bar. He kept an eye on Tim's maiden voyage by way of the ornate, gilt-edged mirror that looked like a solitary refugee washed up here from pre-industrial age. Tim was crackling with energy and flinging it about with wild abandon. He was new and he was interesting. He had a tall man's body, broad-shouldered, wide-stanced, but he'd kept a youthful lankiness and a boyish face. He appealed to more than one type, and they all wanted a closer look. Some of them were angling for a hands-on look. The natives had smelled fresh blood and they were getting restless.

More than once Rawls had decided he'd had enough of the noise, the press of bodies, the smoke and the sweat, and also the undertow of arousal he couldn't help but feel in the sexually charged place. More than once he'd started to take off and leave Tim to his own devices. The man was a cop, he should know how to take care of himself. But Alan had been a strong, capable man, too. He couldn't shake off the memory of lifting the lid of the dumpster and finding his broken body. So he kept vigil perched on the bar stool, kept a frequent eye on Tim while he avoided eye-contact with anybody else, pretended to be only interested in drinking his drink --coke on ice with a twist of lemon. Even when he had been a teenager and advertising himself in jeans tighter than the one Bayliss sported, Chris Rawls had known better than to get intoxicated in places like the Floss.

The dance-mix reeled continually out of the speakers, one throbbing song emerging from the final thrumming of the one before. You learn to love the pain you feel, presently issued, you're nothing special here, the queerest of the queer. He liked that one; there was the hard-knock of honesty about it.

His coke was going flat with melting ice. He pushed it away and got up. He'd get another one, but first he had to go to the bathroom. On his way, he noticed two kids on the corner of the dance floor, totally ignoring the hectic rhythm, the pumping, gyrating bodies around them, and moving to a music only they could hear. One was a gorgeous creature, the other plain, especially by comparison, but they seemed equally fascinated by each other. They were young enough to find nothing paradoxical about gazing dreamily into one others' eyes while the way their lower bodies rubbed gave new meaning to stressed jeans. Rawls had to smile.

By the time he came back, music had turned slow and while the club was dimmer now it was easier to see without the chromatic flashes. The dance floor had been left to the ones who'd managed to pair off, the rest of the crowd had piled around the bar, making the bartender earn his keep. Bayliss was there, with a drink, leaning over to hear whatever a spike-haired, tank-topped twenty-something was saying to him. He smiled, shook his head, said something in turn, got a response and looked taken aback. The man laughed, reached across the bar into the closest bowl full of foil packets, picked up a few and slipped them into the pocket of Tim's jacket. He executed a turn calculated to show off his sculpted shoulders and walked away as Tim stared after him with his mouth half-open.

Rawls squeezed through, motioned at the bartender for another coke, and informed Bayliss, "In case you missed it, that was a direct invitation to follow him."

"What did he say to that?" Rawls asked and promptly joined in the answer word for word, "'Bring him along,'" making Tim shake his head ruefully. "I'm not interested, but if you are, that's okay. You want to go, go."

Well, I'm glad one of us is confident, he thought, watching Bayliss' eyes catch the amateur lap-dance show now subdued with the prevailing rhythm from the speakers and more sensual because of it, then follow the ebb and flow of varying degrees of sexual improvisations around the club. More than looking, he seemed to be cramming them in, trying them on.

The overworked bartender finally brought his drink. He picked it up, drained half of it, needing its cold wash down his throat. He turned around for something other than Tim to look at, just in time to see a man approach the two boys he'd noticed earlier, tap the pretty one on the shoulder to get his attention and whisper into his ear. Obviously an offer the boy couldn't refuse. Even though he didn't look happy about it, he pulled away from his friend --lover, about-to-be lover?-- and let the man hustle him toward the back door.

Rawls felt like he'd just seen something perfectly dovetailed ripped apart. They had to be in the trade, since the boy left behind didn't object, didn't look angry. He just hung his head between his thin shoulders, stuck his hands into his pockets and scraped his toe on the dance floor a few times before he shuffled off it, looking the way lonely children look walking down the street and kicking stones.

He reached back to put his glass down -- I'll ask him to dance. How long could it take out there, up against a wall in the back alley? Ten minutes tops. He could distract this kid in the meantime, thank him for the dance, give him enough money so he could afford to get out of here for the night and take his friend with him. He pushed through and reached the boy, smiled at him. The boy looked up, smiled back hopefully. That was when Rawls noticed his blown pupils.

Faster than he could credit, Bayliss spun and grabbed the man's arm. In a single move, he twisted the man around by twisting his arm behind him, gripped him by the hair, propelled him forward, and slammed him face down onto a table as everybody in his path barely had time to scatter out of the way. "Remind me, do I know you?" he snarled, bearing down, grinding the heavier man into the table, "Did I give you permission to touch me?"

As fast as he'd started the altercation, before anybody had time to react, Bayliss ended it. He left the man sprawled across the table, turned to Rawls as if at no point he'd lost track of his whereabouts, "I like this song," threw an arm around his shoulders. "Dance with me."

The muscle-bound specimen and his few equally muscle-bound buddies who separated from the crowd, no doubt wanted to make a bigger issue of it, but the bartender, who must know from Fields’ arrest that Tim was cop, was there, whispering to them, and they all seemed to settle for the better part of valor.

Rawls was pulled onto the dance floor while Melissa Etheridge claimed: I'm the only one who'd walk across the fire for you. Now that Bayliss had pounced, bit, and proved himself a predator, a circle of open space formed around them like a hollow spotlight. Tim didn't notice or didn't care. "God, you're beautiful," he said, looking down at him with adrenaline-lit eyes, more yellow than brown, reminding him of night prowlers headlights briefly pass over. He tapped the end of Rawls' nose with a finger, traced the outline of his mouth, "I like looking at you." Then he laughed, apparently just because.

What a lot of teeth you have.

Tim held his shoulders, swooped his hands down his arms to his wrists. Almost a surprise now, the fact those hands were still delicately slender, as they circled his wrists and towed his arms to his back, locked his hands behind him like deceptive handcuffs. Bound there, they were used to press firm into the small of his back to curve his spine in and fit him into the arch of Tim's larger frame, hold him fast to the sway and friction of Tim's hips.

He reacted, of course he did. Danger, aggression, testosterone, the usual contents of the witch's cauldron, coating his veins also, as any other male's -- except he'd tasted that brew before and hadn't liked it. Suddenly, his own attraction to this body was one more thing to despair of, making him all too susceptible to the imprisoning arms, the hard muscles of the thighs grinding the demanding hips into him--be careful what you wish for-- and grinding --you might get it-- -- and grinding…

I'm the only one, Etheridge sang into the dying refrain for the last time, but Tim didn't let go, and the next song came on, her edgy voice now asserting: If I wanted to I could do anything right, I could dance with the devil on a Saturday night.

Bayliss finally lifted his head from the nest he'd made for it damn near on top of Rawls', met his eyes through half closed lashes, "Hmm?" and smiled hazily.

He'd stoked them both into hard heat in the middle of this infernal den and had the nerve to smile that angel's smile. "Let go of my hands," Rawls pronounced clearly. "Now."

"Oh." He stopped moving. "Okay."

At long last free to choose his own movements, Rawls backed out of Bayliss' loosening hold. "I'm done, Tim. I'm going home."

Arms half-stretched, Bayliss looked as if he'd forgotten what to do with them. He dropped one, used the other to lift his hand and rake it through his hair. "Yeah, right, let's go."

What, cabs are discontinued? Don't quite dare stay without a security blanket? "Fine. You're ready to leave, I'll drive you." He turned and headed out.

Bayliss followed close on his heels, out the club, across the street, only peeled off to climb into the passenger seat. Rawls put the car in gear, backed out of parking and negotiated all the one-way turns to get onto the southbound lanes of I-83. The traffic was sparse on it. Good. The drive shouldn't take long.

Bayliss' hand reached to cover his resting on the gearshift. Rawls pulled his hand out from under, half expecting to find Tim's on his thigh next. The man was so obviously tuned up to a vibrating pitch. But Bayliss took his hand away and kept it to himself. He turned to look out his window. Two exits passed before he swallowed audibly and asked, "What's wrong, Chris?"

Bayliss leaned back into the headrest. "Felt so good back there," he said after a while. "Dancing with you."

Yeah, I bet.

"Dancing usually makes feel, I don't know, kinda clumsy, like I don't fit, I'm too big. I move too much or something. I fit with you, felt great."

Oh, hell, he may have assigned innuendo to an innocent expression.

Bayliss looked out again and quietly told the cityscape blurring past the car, "I don't want to be alone tonight."

Okay then, we'll do it your way. I won't leave you until you know there are lonelier ways than being alone and decide for yourself. Instead of following the interstate to its end, he exited west after Pratt, made a right on Calvert to backtrack to Mt. Vernon. If he was going to do this, he preferred to have the home advantage.

The Zodiac looked properly put to bed for the night. He was going to have to break down and give Noreen that raise she'd started hinting at with all the subtlety of, well, Noreen. He was also going to have to replace the long-blown bulb to the stairs of his walk-up apartment if anybody beside him was to get there without stumbling, the way Bayliss was now doing. He quickly unlocked his front door, reached in and flipped on the hallway light so no foolish necks would be broken on his stairs. He let Bayliss in, walked in himself, closed the door, went only one step past Tim politely waiting to be led.

He put both hands on Tim's chest and backed him up to the door. He looked startled, but as soon as Rawls' hands continued up his chest to push his jacket off his shoulders, he got it. "God, yes," he breathed, couldn't seem to wait even long enough for the jacket to come off. It slipped right back up his shoulders as his arms turned into a snare again. Okay, leather could stay, arms had to go. He gripped Tim's wrists --my turn-- to pull them away and place them against the door at Tim's sides --now keep them there. We're doing this by the numbers. I'm about to bare too much of you to too many of my senses, don't want to like it too well into the bargain. I might run the risk of fooling myself I know the man inside just because I've learned his surfaces.

"Chris," with bare breath, "Let me hold you, let me touch you."

"Chris, wha--?"

"What're you -- oh. It's not, I mean, I'm not…no, you're right, you don't know me that well."

Tim did make a sound, a small whimper, timed to the intense rush he could feel against his tongue and so badly wished he could taste, again caught in the seesaw of this night, wanting and not wanting, having and not having, building into a silent scream of frustration inside him, too.

He caught Tim, what else could he do, all those long limbs suddenly boneless and dismantling? Tim folded into him, warm, abandoned weight straining his arms, sighed shuddering breaths into his neck, making him want to feel tender, protective -- Goddammit!

He pushed and unloaded Tim back into the support of the door, sat on his heels to breathe deep and collect himself. His eyes not quite focused, Tim smiled sweetly and started to reach for him. Quickly, he scooted out of the way and found his feet with the help of the wall until he could look down at Tim's untidy sprawl. "That's the basic service. You could've had it from any hustler at the club. Can you spare some blood for the higher functions now?"

A few seconds for the words to penetrate his post-orgasm lassitude and Bayliss' eyes widened. He dropped his head into his palm, "Dammit, I'm screwing this up, too," pressed his fingers to his temples, "It wasn't about that. I just wanted to know if I could swim without sinking. I didn't want anything from a hustler."

"Yeah? That's too bad. 'Cause that's exactly what you've had. I used to be a hustler." He ducked into the hallway bathroom, got the box of Kleenex and came back to drop it onto Tim's lap. "Make no mistake, I'm not a hustler anymore." He pointed toward the other end of the hall, "That's my home. If you have a better reason to be in my home than the one that got you through the door, come on in. If not, lock the door behind you when you leave."

~~~

He washed up in the small bathroom, found himself lingering, feeling awkward about facing Chris after --just do it.

The narrow entrance hall opened up to a large area. It must've originally been divided into two or three cramped rooms as most Baltimore buildings of its vintage. The walls had been taken down since then, leaving oddly-placed columns and arches here and there, for support or decoration, Bayliss wasn't expert enough to tell. It was tidy, but not fussily so, furnished in mixed groupings with heavy, deep-seated furniture on age-mellowed hardwood floors. Chris seemed to prefer his rugs on his walls, alternating with bookcases. An eclectic, functional space that did not unnecessarily advertise its owner's orientation. Except maybe for the single poster on a plaster wall, an art photo of a nude male, young and Asian, looking remarkably like a lotus flower made of flesh. If the small-boned, eggshell-delicate beauty of the subject was to Chris' taste, Tim Bayliss had to be missing the mark big time.

He followed the sounds, and the smell of percolating coffee, walked into the kitchen and had to blink at the bright glare. All metal and glass and sleek tile, so different from the rest of the house it gave him pause, until he realized he was in a scaled-down industrial kitchen. Chris' profession explained that, but what explained the incredible clutter which seemed to have resulted from a crash between a medieval torture chamber and a space age lab?

Rawls noted his presence by reaching into a metal cabinet and taking down another mug to join the one waiting by the percolator. He then turned, followed Bayliss' gaze around and shrugged. "I like to cook."

"I also like gadgets." He went to the wall-sized refrigerator with the thick plexiglass door, pulled out the cream, casting a helpless look at his own kitchen. "I intend to use them, but the truth is, I hardly ever do," he admitted ruefully. "I have no sense when it comes to kitchenware."

Somehow, Bayliss found that reassuring. It also helped bypass the awkwardness he'd expected. "Chris?" He took a deep breath. "I've been a selfish jerk all night long, I'm sorry."

"All right."

"You didn't want to go to the Floss in the first place, did you?"

"No."

"Should've said. You don't like clubs?"

"I like clubs just fine, I don't like meat racks. Do you like every single aspect of straight life? Do you think it's any different when you're gay?"

"No, of course not. I'm sorry."

"You said that already. It's okay, it's done. But, Tim, if you need a litmus test to decide whether you're straight, gay or bisexual, you're not going to find it in any club." He took the two steps necessary and briefly laid a hand on Bayliss' midriff. "You'll have find it here."

"Yeah, I know, that's what Frank said, too, except he didn't say it as nicely."

"So he knows," Rawls concluded. Clearly, he'd wondered about it.

"He knows most everything," he shrugged, "he's Frank."

"He has a problem with it?"

"Not with it, with me. As usual."

He led the way to a glassed-in alcove that must've been a porch once, to a small table amidst a minor jungle, seating for four, no other dining area Bayliss could see. Maybe he didn't care to overpopulate his personal space. Bayliss sat down, took a sip of the coffee. Good, but very strong. That was okay, he probably needed it. He took a few more sips and by that time it was clear Chris wasn't going to volunteer anything, or do anything, not even drink his coffee. He seemed intent on simply sitting there and watching Bayliss' hands carry his mug to his mouth, back to the table, back to his mouth. "Chris?"

"Hmm?"

"Will you tell me about yourself?"

Rawls looked up and stared at him for a long minute, as if the question needed more clarification. "I grew up in Hagerstown," he said finally. "But that's a relative term. I lived there until I was fifteen. I did most of my growing up after that, in New York. About five years ago, when I finally put together enough money to start my own business, I moved back to Maryland. The restaurant trade in New York means dealing with protection rackets -- but that's not really what you wanted to know, is it?"

"I wanted to know about you."

"And that little bombshell I dropped on you out there didn't make an impression, right? If you want to know how come I ended up hustling, ask."

"Okay, how come?"

"I had to eat. I was fifteen, I had nothing else to sell."

Oh. He made a guess, "Your parents threw you out?"

"Hell, no, they were determined to hang on to me tooth and nail. I ran away."

"Why?"

Chris pushed his coffee away untasted, leaned his elbows on the table, propped his chin on his laced fingers and just watched him. "Okay," he said, obviously to a silent argument he'd had with himself. "Turn around and look," he told Bayliss, "The photo on the far wall, his name is Lee."

"That's someone you know? I thought it was a poster."

Bayliss had to get up and go closer to see the photo. It had been taken on a bright summer day at a pool, two sun-browned, smiling young boys, very different in looks but lovely children both, despite the attendant scrapes and peeling noses. One was clearly Chris, about nine or so. The deep smile creases he carried now had been dimples then. The other boy looked more Asian in this photo than his grown-up image did on the poster. Probably airbrushed as much to make the image appeal to a wider audience as to cover imperfections. Bayliss returned to the table.

"His father used to be a Marine, brought home a Korean bride. Lee was eight when they moved into the neighborhood, we grew up together. Our families were close, but we'd have been drawn to each other anyway, not that we knew why at the time. I think we were in love long before we figured out why. Then our bodies caught up and we figured it out every chance we got."

He rose to go to the kitchen and came back with cocktail napkins, although there was no immediate need for them that Bayliss could see, except maybe Rawls' need to move. "We were kids and we were stupid," he continued as if there'd been no pause, but he didn't sit down. "We got caught, of course. Neither of us had enough sense to pretend it was just pubescent curiosity. We made it worse by our protestations of undying love. My father tried to beat it out of me. My mother persuaded him to enlist the help of the church and pray it out of me."

"What, like an exorcism?"

"Close. The whole congregation got into the crusade of saving my soul. Nobody prayed more fervently than I did. I thought it was the price I had to pay to be allowed to see him again." He frowned at a hanging plant and seemed to decide it needed to be rid of its dried leaves right then. "Then I found out his family had packed up and moved out of town already."

"So you ran away."

"I stuck around for a while, until I stole enough money. From my father, his friends, the church, I wasn't picky. I had to get myself to New York. I'd seen enough movies to know I could get lost there and they'd never find me. So one day I'd find Lee. I did, too." He looked at the dried leaves he'd collected, piled them on the table, leaned on the back of the chair he'd vacated. "Took me ten years, but I found him."

Rawls shrugged. "I had enough cash to live on for a while. By the time I had to earn money, I'd seen what would happen if I put any of it up my nose or in my arm. And I refused to touch anyone without a condom. I didn't know enough to worry about STDs, it was just the unforeseen benefit of being a dumb, love-struck kid. I imagined that with something between them and me, I'd stay pure somehow. Just a silly romantic notion, but it probably saved my life."

Still a miracle that he'd made it stick. Being gorgeous may have helped him set his own rules, but only being smart would've enabled him to avoid the real predators.

With an abrupt move, Rawls reached across the table, yanked the mug out of Bayliss' hand, making it slosh and spill on the table. "Stop fondling that thing!"

Startled, Bayliss could only gape at him.

Chris put the mug down with exaggerated care. "Why didn't you leave?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Need is one thing. Obligation is another. Pick one." He looked as close to exasperated as Bayliss had ever seen him, his normally mild eyes reminding him of Frank's when he considered Bayliss too dense to be pierced by anything less than spear-sharp.

***

Bayliss woke up, queasy and parched. His mouth was dry and tasted horrible. It wasn't exactly a hangover, just a nasty enough reminder he'd had too much to drink last night. Not the only thing he'd done too much of last night, but that was a whole different issue over which his brain and his body had widely differing opinions. Chances were, it had been stupid. Truth was, it had felt wonderful.

Quiet and careful not to wake Chris who had to be the mound under the comforter, he got up. Busily, he told himself Chris worked nights, probably slept late, and he was being considerate, but deep down he knew he wasn't ready to face the other man in the cold light of day.

"Good morning -- I hope."

He spun around and found Rawls standing there. Heavy-lidded, tousled, unabashedly naked, the man who'd become his lover. Suddenly his last memory of the night replayed itself.

He must've turned too fast. Or something. He was nauseated and dizzy. Dizzy? The way he felt, he could've been spinning like a top. Arms locked around him, made him back up and sit. "Lean forward, put your head down."

"I'm okay."

"You're fine. Just breathe deep and take it easy for a moment."

Rawls kneeled before him, rubbed his arms and shoulders. "It's okay, Tim. The ground opened up under you. You're allowed to feel like you've taken a header down the rabbit hole." He took Bayliss' hands and chafed them briskly. "I won't take it personally, promise. Come on, breathe. Just relax and breathe."

The blood roaring in his ears settled into dull thud. In another minute, his stomach unclenched and he felt as steady as he was likely to feel on this morning. Hazily, he looked down at Chris' calm, beautiful face and felt an immeasurable gratitude for it. He lifted one hand and cupped it in his palm. Chris smiled at him. "Better?"

"Much."

"Good."

He got around to smiling back. "I'd like to kiss you, but even I can't stand my mouth."

Chris, bless him, wasn't made of martyr cloth. "Don't take bets on mine, either. Come on," he tugged Bayliss up, "there's a new toothbrush in the other bathroom. A little paste, a glass of orange juice with breakfast, you'll be fit for kissing again."

"I'm not hungry."

"Of course you are. Take a shower, shave, pull yourself together, you'll find out you'd kill for some protein."

"I'll be late to work."

"But you'll be functional when you get there. Move it."

He wondered if he'd ever had a practical lover before, couldn't think of one. There was a lot to be said for it. Okay, he'd forego stopping by his apartment and change at work instead. It'd save time.

***

"Shut up," his curt order dismissed Bayliss, his cutting eyes didn't.

He had to turn away from them himself. Black-watched all the way, he went to his locker, got out the change of clothing he kept there against vagaries of life in Homicide, and took himself to the bathroom. It proved to be no refuge. Pembleton followed him in, closed the door and put his back against it. "I was wrong," he said, quiet as a fuse, "it's thirty-seven, not twenty-six. But don't you think that's too old?"

"What?"

"The age you wake up and suddenly decide you're a tad homosexual. Or are you still calling it an experiment?"

"Ashamed, are we?" Sounding inordinately pleased, he taunted, "Will Rawls still love you if he knows you're ashamed?"

"Damn it -- "

Summary verdict, Frank Pembleton style. Just like his truth, direct as a stone. Bayliss carefully avoided looking in the mirror and changed his clothes.

No end of joy today, obviously, for Munch cornered him as he was shoving the night's attire, rolled up in a ball, into his locker. "I have to talk to you."

"What do you want, John?" he asked wearily.

"Just drop it, okay?"

"Come on, Tim. The rumor mill's churning overtime. Pembleton thinks if he snarls nastily enough nobody's gonna notice he's busy throwing a smokescreen around you. A body likes to know where things stand. You can tell me."

He closed his locker, rested his forehead against its door. "Why is my private life suddenly everybody's business?"

"It is true then?"

He'd had enough. He whirled into Munch's face, who took one step back, then stood his ground. "Okay, John, yeah, it's true, okay? Is that okay with you? Tell me, what difference can that possibly make to you?"

"Just one, I'm sorry for my big mouth yesterday. I heard talk and assumed it was the latest in our usual let's-beat-up-on-Timmy routine. I didn't know. You know me, I always say the wrong thing, but I swear, Tim, I really didn't know."

"Is this something I should've figured out all along?"

He could only sputter, "I think you're safe, John."

Munch turned to go, then stopped to add, "I can't talk to Pembleton at the best of times. If it ever comes up, tell him I said we're even, okay?"

"Tim," Laura Ballard chose that moment to bounce into the locker room, "there you are, saw you come in from Daily Grind --" only to stop and pout, "Aw, you've changed already."

Oh yes, definitely, as soon as he could stop laughing and catch his breath, first thing, he was going to find a way to ask her out. Wasn't there an exhibit at the Artists' Co-Op, something about masks? That should be just about right.

***

Chris Rawls turned out the last light, leaving only the thin illumination of the street lamps filtering through the closed curtains. Not that he needed it; he could find his way through his restaurant blindfolded. He took his coat and draped it over his arm, not expecting to need it in the short distance between the entrance to the Zodiac and the door that led to his apartment up the stairs. When he came out onto the street, though, he found a clear and cold night, a familiar jeep parked against the curb, and Tim Bayliss, collar up and hands in pockets, leaning against it. "Hi. Why didn't you come in?"

"I just got here, saw the lights going out," Bayliss explained, then smiled sheepishly and added, "--hi."

"Working late?"

"No. I'm on my break."

"Missed dinner?"

"No --hey, wanna go for a walk?"

"Yeah, sure," Rawls managed to sound enthusiastic and shrugged into his coat, thinking he should've had the good sense to wait until spring to pick up with Tim Bayliss. "Lead on."

Both aware of the cold, they started briskly down the street, but in no time at all Bayliss' tempo slackened. Rawls watched in amusement as his long strides shortened with each step until they hadn't gone the length of a single block and Bayliss chose somebody's stoop and sat on it, folding up his legs to wrap his arms around them.

Rawls leaned onto the iron railing of the steps. "Tired?" It came out more as a tease than a question. He really didn't mean to make fun of Tim but anybody who was that transparent shouldn't expect others to be that blind.

"No." An unhappy sounding mumble.

He knew Bayliss didn't have the slightest interest in taking a walk. He was dying to go up to the apartment and get down and dirty. But he didn't feel right about dropping by unannounced in the middle of the night just for a hot bout of sex. One thing to be said about straights, God bless their women, they gave their men manners. Thinking of which --

"So," Rawls asked lightly, "did you prove I didn't break it?"

"Huh?"

"Come on, Tim, you're not the only latent I know."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, don't tell me in the last couple of days you didn't let a woman take you out for a test drive to make sure everything still works." Bayliss tried to glare, couldn't sustain it, looked abashed instead. Rawls decided not to tell him how appealing it looked on him.

Rawls sat down next to him, a tight fit on the narrow stairs but neither seemed to mind. Rawls, for one, was glad of the warmth. "You can tell me. You don't have to. But you can."

"I work with her and…well, I like her. She's a colleague, though, not a pick-up. I should've stuck to dinner and the exhibit. She doesn't know enough about me. By the time it dawned on me she's entitled to know a hell of a lot more, we were a little past the point I could say, oh, by the way, I also sleep with a man, do you mind?" He sighed and threw his head back. "So instead I just mumble something about the time and get out of there. I must've left her with a priceless impression."

"No doubt. And you left yourself wired for action, so here you are."

"Chris, no, I -- "

"It's all right, I'm not sending you away."

How interesting. Bayliss hardly ever mentioned his partner in casual conversations. Except for pointing out what a great cop he was partnered with, he was tight-lipped about him. But suddenly, now that a dam had burst, Frank Pembleton was pouring out. A thought occurred to Rawls, he almost threw it away, then looked at it closer.

"I'm here," Bayliss echoed as if he'd just noticed. "Oh, if we're being honest, I should also tell you, sure, I can use my hand, but I'd rather have yours."

Rawls chuckled. He got up to face Bayliss, put his arms loosely around his waist. "Oh, I can probably manage a bit more than that."

Bayliss dropped his head down to rest on his. "I want honesty tonight, Chris, and I want to be loved. I don't care how."

Once they were inside and warm and together on the bed, he gave as much honesty as he thought Tim could handle, told him he was beautiful, naked like this and aroused, explained it all to him with his hands and his mouth. When his own desire clamored, he didn't dilute its truth either. He laid Tim on his back, straddled him, prepared them both, lifted up and joined them. In the first tight-drawn moment, Tim reminded him of the statue of a saint he'd seen as a boy, caught in an ecstasy which had looked to be a scary thing. The moment passed and he didn't want to think anymore, only feel -- such delicious torment. He closed his eyes and threw back his head, the hands convulsively jailing and loosing his thighs moved to his hips with purpose and he knew Tim's apprehensions had passed.

Afterwards, he looked down at Tim, out for the count before their bodies could so much as separate, breathing less guardedly in his sleep than in his pleasure, found in himself an indulgent smile he didn't begrudge wasting on the worn-out man -- just as well he wasn't fussy about what form his compliments came in.

***

Did you lose yourself?

He didn't want to hear.

…his nerves unraveling, movements broken, sex out of sync, and he grabbed for Chris' hips to fast-root them and find the rhythm again, just for a moment, that was all it'd take, but his hands closed on emptiness.

Did you lose me?

He was alone with fear in his belly and excitement in his flesh…

Are you ashamed?

…alone and naked and exposed in the watched dark.

"No." Only a whisper, but his lips tingled from the shock of his own voice.

"You're scared," Frank knew.

He mustn't speak again.

"What're you scared of?"

"Tell me."

"Nothing to be scared of," so gently, "I'm here."

If I'm very, very quiet…

And, oh, yes, Frank was shrouding him like sun-warmed earth, dark and dense and rich, and he opened his mouth --want to breathe you-- to let the fragrant earth downpour into him --be filled by you-- he was suffocating, of course, but that couldn't be helped, until, finally, all sound, all possibility of sound were buried inside his throat and now --I-- it was safe to speak --love-- no one would ever hear --you.

"Tim, Tim, wake up!"

Something shook him hard. He gasped and wondered why he tasted air. He wondered why he wanted to cry because he tasted air. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

Chris wiped his cheek. It surprised him for he was sure he wasn't crying. But he could feel wetness in the touch and he realized he already must have. She cried and she died.

Chris held him, let him hide his face. "It's okay," he said soothingly, but he must be wondering if he was ever going to wake up and not find a lunatic in his home.

"Please, it's…it's not you."

"I didn't assume it was." There was something strangely sad in his voice.

"I'm sorry. I'm not -- I'm not handling this very well."

"I know."

"Maybe I need to go away for a bit, get my head together."

"Maybe you should, " Chris agreed quietly. "Take your time, don't worry about it, find your own way."

He stayed in Chris' arms, listening to the raindrops drumming on the windows. They couldn't have slept long. It was dark in the room, no light from outside lined the edges of the shades. "I don't know why you put up with me."

"You wouldn't believe what I can put up with."

"Tell me?" Tell me anything, take my mind off of -- just take mind off.

"You won't find it a pretty story."

"Is it about the boy you loved?"

"Love. Never understood why feelings should be in the past tense. Lovers die, not the love you feel for them."

"Lee died?" He felt he could only ask it in a soft whisper.

"Yes."

"Was it -- ? " No, he couldn't ask that, not even in a whisper.

"AIDS?" Rawls heard anyway. "No. The chances he took, it couldn't have been far away, except a sadistic monster beat it to the punch -- " a harsh laugh, "literally."

"I'm sorry. No wonder you were so determined to help with Alan."

"It wasn't like that, this was something Lee went out to find. It wasn't gay-bashing or a hate crime -- not in that sense. There must be some type of hate in warping sex from an expression of love, or passion at the very least, into an instrument of torture." His arms seemed to collapse from around Bayliss and he pushed away toward the edge of the bed. "Lee couldn't find it at home, I couldn't do it, I tried, I couldn't. I still remembered how it was before, I just couldn't hurt him like that. I was there when he discovered his sexuality, it was such a tender, playful thing, it was meant for joy, not pain, so how could I hurt him like that?"

Bayliss wished he could see Chris better, but didn't dare turn on a lamp. Some things were easier said under cover of darkness.

"Because I couldn't hurt him, somebody else did and didn't know when to stop, or just didn't want to, what's the difference, it's the old joke, the cure worked, but the patient died, isn't that how it goes, that's how the bastards at the Chase-Levinger would see it, right?" His voice was dry, almost a rasp, but somehow a sound parallel with rain and tears.

"Shhh, Chris. Chris, come on, it's okay, I'm here, it's all right," meaningless words, just soothing noise as their roles switched and now he was the one pulling Chris into his arms, offering his shoulder. "What's Chase-Levinger?"

"Chase-Levinger Medical Center, Battle Creek, Michigan, how's that for legitimacy? They used to treat homosexuality in their psyche ward; that's where his parents put him after they took him away from me. Remember all the rage back then, electric shock?"

"That was for mental illness."

"How do you think they categorized homosexuality? By the time medical guidelines stopped listing it as a sickness it was five years too late to keep them from attaching electrodes to Lee's body and shocking him when he reacted to the gay porn they forced him to watch -- for all that's holy, he was still a child, he didn't even know half the things in those movies were possible. They called it aversion therapy. The only thing they averted was his ability to have pleasure without pain. By the time I found him, he was so far into S&M that he couldn't get much out of sex without it. First he tried it my way, didn't work for long, then I tried to try it his way, it was even worse, by the time I got him going I was either in the bathroom throwing up or curled in a ball crying."

He clenched around his middle as if it still hurt in there, and it probably it did. Bayliss let him curl up, curled up around him, stroked his back.

"So we stopped having sex. I didn't care -- no, that's a lie, I cared, of course I cared, but not enough to give up having him with me, sleeping in my arms every night -- or whenever he came back from wherever he went. He always came back."

Bruised and bloody, he'd bet, and Chris must've taken care of him, hurt for him. Love always carried the heavier burden. It's okay, he mentioned with his touches on Chris' back, shoulders, I'm here.

Chris kept wiping at his nose with the back of his hand, a child-like gesture he didn't seem aware of. "At first he'd swear never again, but that was because he thought I'd leave him, when he realized I wouldn't, ever, he finally stopped lying to me."

"Okay, yes, it's okay. You don't have talk about it, it's all right, I understand." He tented his body over Chris', cradled his face in his hands, "I'm glad you were happy, I believe you, and I'm glad," and kissed his forehead, his eyes behind shuttered eyelids, found the down-drawn grief at the corners of his lips, licked at it, found his beautiful mouth pressed into a thin scar, kissed it until it softened under his mouth, opened to him.

Bayliss didn't say anything else, platitudes felt obscene right then, he let his hands talk, trying to smooth down raw-edged nerves with swirls of his fingers, prompting, provoking the flesh chilled by memory into warmth, until Chris seemed to relax and soak it up. When he felt Chris hardening against him, he slid down and took him in his mouth.

"Tim?" Chris' hand on his nape stopped him, made him look up. "Are you saying goodbye?"

"No! What makes you -- oh." He'd said he was going away. He'd intended to get up and go, too. Not anymore. "I meant just for a while, I'll be back. My cousin and his family, they've been wanting me to go with them on their vacation." Probably to help with all those kids. "I think I need to be somewhere really different and get my head together." He had to smile, "Can't get much more different than Disney World."

"Disney World?" It got Chris to chuckle. "Be careful, I hear the Caribbean pirates are a pillaging lot. Tim -- " He carded his fingers through Bayliss' hair, his thumbs stroked over cheekbones, temples, "What I said about loving Lee, it's not an object you have to remove before you can put another in its place. There's room for you -- if you want it."

"Okay," Chris accepted and gently pushed his head back down.

***

Goddammit, Tim was late again. Coming off two whole days of their break, couldn't he have managed to drag his ass to work on time for a change? He'd better not have the nerve to get huffy if a call came in before he did and his partner rolled out on it with someone else.

Willing the phone to ring, now, Pembleton hung up his coat. To make matters worse, the squadroom had turned upside down during his absence and tension crackled in the air. Apparently, Georgia Rae Mahoney had filed a wrongful death suit over Luther and had papered the place with subpoenas, citing in her civil action the officers involved, the department, the city, and probably all the way up to the Almighty. Which seemed to have resulted in Meldrick provoking an altercation with her last night and getting suspended for it. Kellerman had just found out and was having a fit, taking it out on the drawers of his desk, yanking them open and slamming them closed for no discernible reason.

And there was Munch, never one to throw water on the fire if he could add fuel, being his usual doom sayer. "Spare yourself the heartache and kiss him off right now," he was telling Falsone who'd been riding with Lewis steadily since whatever happened to break up Mike and Meldrick had happened, "He's not coming back. Take it from me, first they go on suspension, and then they just go and stay gone. You won't so much as get a Christmas card." Clearly, the sting of Stan's desertion was still with him. "Meldrick's history, and the sooner you get used to it, the better off you'll be."

Of course, the gloomy predictions were rolling right over Falsone's back. The one getting infuriated about them was Kellerman, looking ready to pummel someone if he could only choose between Munch and Falsone.

His radar for trouble as functional as ever, Giardello opened the door of his office and accurately subjected one and all to the full force of his darkest glare. Once he was assured all his charges had considered the dire consequences of his wrath, he crooked his finger at Pembleton, "A minute, Frank?"

"Coming, Gee." He went in and closed the door behind him.

"You're back on rotation, right?"

"Right. Tim finished up with our little old lady from Pasadena. Next call is mine."

"Take Falsone with you."

Pembleton's cherished intention of teaching Bayliss a lesson by going out with someone else took immediate wings. "Falsone? Why should I take Falsone?"

"Lewis is on suspension, he's single."

Gee looked at him strangely. "Bayliss is on vacation. Found his leave form on my desk this morning. He's out of town for two weeks. Didn't you know?"

Too late to say yes and too galling to say no. Too, too galling to ask where. I'm going to kill him. "Then let me work alone. Falsone's forever taking off to see one shyster or another on some dispute with his ex. I'm not going to sit around twiddling my thumbs waiting for him."

"I have all the grief I need, Frank, my agita tells me my own people are leaving me twisting in the wind with this Mahoney fiasco, so don't give me any more. It's only temporary. For now, take Falsone. Looks like I'll soon have approval to transfer Stivers from Narco. For the rest of the time, you can pair with her. She's good and she's consistent." A phone rang outside. "You're up," Gee waved him away.

On his way out, Pembleton narrowly avoided running into Ballard who was speaking to Gharty over her shoulder instead of watching where she was going, headed for his desk and the bleating phone. I'm going to kill him. Not a word to me. Not a fucking word.

But there was one bright spot to this cursed day, sitting darkly on Gharty's face. Somewhere he'd found the misadventure he so richly deserved; it had left him with a lovely, black and blue shiner. Pembleton would've preferred putting it there, but still, it cheered him a little.

He picked up the phone. I won't kill him. "Homicide." I'll just make him sorry he's alive. "Pembleton."

He was hoping for a nice, all-involving redball. Instead, he got a domestic. A dunker, too, the guilty party having called it in personally and blabbered it all to the desk sergeant in gory detail.

By the time he jotted down the address and put the phone down, another thought had occurred to him. Bayliss' impromptu, none-of-Frank's-business vacation could be most happily attended by Chris Rawls. He grabbed his coat, passed by Falsone and headed out alone. The case was nothing more than paperwork. Who needed a partner for that? Who needed a partner for anything?

If he had only listened to his good sense six years ago, he wouldn't be asking that question, instead of trying so hard, now, not to answer it.

***

The first days of vacation with Jim, Shannon and their kids --now numbering four, one child growing out of diapers meaning time-for-a-new-one to them-- Bayliss had been sure he wanted to have kids of his own one day. It was the middle of the second week, their van finally back on the streets of Baltimore after the interminable stretches of I-95, and he was equally sure he'd sooner slit his throat. He'd change his mind again, he knew, as soon as he next saw Olivia, but for now, how many times could any sane person listen to Wheels on the bus go round and round and expect to stay sane?

"Uh, Jim, think you can turn the radio on and let us catch up on the news?" He might as well be coming back from Mars, for all he knew about what's been happening at home. One thing for sure, the trip had given him the distance he'd needed only to make him eager to reconnect to his real life.

Jim obligingly tuned the radio to an AM news station. "Hey, Teej, you have a few more days' leave left, right? What say we pick up dinner and you stay over tonight? We'll go to the gym tomorrow, shoot some hoops."

"Sounds good, but I can't, I'd better get back. I should put in some time at the bar. Munch and Meldrick must be ready to lynch me." He might also drop by the Zodiac. He'd called Chris to tell him he was on his way back.

"Oh, come on, it can wait until tomorrow night," Jim said, and the battle cry, "Come on, come on, come on," was taken up by all except the youngest who had fast learned to survive a large family and could sleep through anything.

"No, really, I think -- " the voice from the radio caught his attention.

The discovery of the body of Monsignor Bernard Jaeger in front of St. Germain's last night, it said, the second priest to be brutally murdered in the same week, has devastated the city's Catholic community. "Wait, hey, guys, hush up, I need to hear this." The first priest killing in Baltimore in more than a quarter of a century took place Tuesday. Father Michael Juneaux, Central City Vicar of the Diocese of Baltimore, was found bound and beaten, dead of multiple stab wounds, in the rectory of St. Raphael's, victim of an apparent robbery murder --

"Take me home, Jim. No, better yet, drop me off at work, I can change there." The redball must be big enough to choke the whole department; he belonged at his job. He'd have to call Chris again and tell him he'd be unavailable for a while longer. The newscaster was talking about the continuing search for two missing Guatemalan refugees earlier questioned by the police and released at the insistence of the Archdiocese and the CFCA. Gee must be chewing nails.

As he'd expected, he got to the squadroom and found that the shifts had merged. The place rivaled rush hour at Penn Station. He took a quick look at the board. Juneaux was under Ballard, and Jaeger was under Pembleton. Gee spotted him across the crowded room and made short work of him by pointing him toward the lockers, "You, decoy detail."

A desk jockey from O'Neil's squad had set up a table at the entrance to the lockers, laid the city map on it, and he was assigning priest-garbed officers to various locations. It had to be pretty bad, to come down to decoys. Munch was there, grousing as usual. "Doesn't anybody care my mother's spinning in her grave?" he was demanding of the world in general. "Look at me," he tugged at his white collar, squirming in the outfit as if it were a hairshirt, "Now there's an extra special place waiting for me in Jewish hell." He saw Bayliss and snapped at him, "Nice of you to join us."

"Where's Frank?"

"Ask Stivers."

"Narco's in this, too? Why, South American connection?"

"Huh? Oh, that's right, you've been missing in action. Stiver's one of us now and Frank's got her. If he has any sense, he'll keep her, too. Or is it only me partners dump on? Stan, Megan, poof, gone, Mike's a basket case, you and Meldrick are no help when it comes to that money drain across the street. Thank God for Billie Lou, but if this keeps up I'm gonna have to marry her so she won't fly off somewhere, too. Well, tell me," he asked the dispatcher, "where in this fair city should I lay my body down in its glorious service?"

"West side, Mc Henry and Gilmore."

"Lucky, lucky me." As he was leaving, he told Bayliss, "Just do me one favor, when they find my mutilated corpse, don't let my watch-the-profit-margin brother bury me in his cheapest coffin."

Bayliss had to go sign on the roster first, then got a quick run-down and his assignment. He didn't see the rationale in thinking a priest killer would look for a priest in the red light district, especially since both murders had taken place on church grounds. This had all the earmarks of Barnfather appeasing the Mayor that everything possible was being done, never mind anything probable. But his was not to question why. He found a pile of cassocks on a bench, shook them loose, chose the longest one and donned it.

Sitting in the van all day had stiffened his muscles. He was stretching them when he felt eyes boring into him and straightened up to see Pembleton standing in the aisle between the lockers and watching him coax his body back into flexibility. "Oh, there you are." Frank would've made one hell of an impressive priest, it dawned on him, seeing him outfitted as one. Not today, back in the days of the Inquisition, when severity had been valued over serenity. "Hi."

Pembleton asked blandly, "Busy vacation?"

"Well, yeah, it was, but -- "

"But good and busy."

"Disney World?" Said as if he were trying out a novel flavor on his tongue.

"Yeah, it was great. You gotta take Mary and the kids."

"Oh, sure, and here I was, wondering what I could possibly do to make my life complete." He hadn't liked the taste, what a surprise, but he seemed to like Timothy Bayliss much better all of a sudden. "I can see it actually, you in the never-never land. So why did you come back early?"

"I figured Captain Hook, you, what's the difference, I'm for the plank either case, better the devil. I got presents for Olivia and Frank Jr., but I'll have to bring them later. I left them in Jim's van."

"Any chance of leaving them there permanently?"

"None."

"I didn't think so." He shrugged, his smile denying his grumble. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah."

"Me, too. Had a cup of coffee, I'm good for another night."

"I'm not gonna argue with you, bunk, you'll lay off or I'm telling Mary. By the way, how come you noticed I came back early? Counting the days?"

"No, counting my blessings, but here you are yapping at me again. They must've run out."

"You're full of it, Frank."

"Move your ass, Bayliss. Time and crime wait for no murder cop."

***

"Good work," Gee stood like a benevolent deity at the door to his office and beamed at the whole squad. "Now get out here, all of you, go reintroduce yourselves to your wives, husbands, significant others--"

Out of the corner of his eye Bayliss saw Gharty give a start. He barely contained his own start, having never heard their lieutenant put it that way before. Well, Gee had very big ears. And his own way of getting messages across. No big deal and nobody better force me to make it one, seemed to be his decree.

"--kiss your kids, pet the dog, get enough sleep to reset your biological clocks," Gee continued. "So tomorrow you can make me happy again with another good day's work. 'Night, everybody."

About time, too. Along with the case, Bayliss had also put in a late night duty at the bar. He picked up his coat, planning on a quick trip to the grocery store, and a night of catching up on bills, dust and laundry.

"Hey, Tim," Pembleton called out, "About that dinner invitation."

Bayliss waited but Frank effortlessly out-waited him. "What dinner invitation?"

"When you invited me to have dinner with you."

"Uh…?" Bayliss realized he'd frozen with one arm halfway through a coat sleeve and completed the move. "When?"

"I asked you to my house, I cooked you dinner. To reciprocate, you invited me to have dinner at your place, remember?"

"So," Pembleton asked cheerfully, "Is the invitation still good?"

Bayliss' mouth dropped open. That was a year ago and Frank had nipped Bayliss’ reciprocation effort in its daring bud with a single, curt: No. Of course, pointing that out now would bring about a searing lecture that would, somehow, make it all his fault. He closed his mouth and cleared his throat, "I have to make a run at the grocery store, but yeah, sure, it’s still good."

***

Oh. Bayliss quickly pulled back the bottles he'd been about to put down, before Frank could take further umbrage at the his failure in providing glasses. He went back into the kitchen for proper dinnerware. "Did you phone Mary?" he called out.

"No."

"You should."

"Why?"

He carried the plates and the utensils to the table. "To tell her you won't be home for dinner," he spelled out, wondering why his partner was being obtuse.

"I haven't been home for dinner for over a week. She doesn't know the case is wrapped up; she's not expecting me."

Perhaps he should've stayed out of it. "Okay. You know best."

"Besides, last time I went home, she wasn't exactly thrilled to see me."

Oh, dear. They may have had a fight. He definitely should've stayed out of it. Silently, he arranged the table to what he hoped was his partner's satisfaction.

No wonder he was so unyearning for hearth and home this night. Napkins. Frank would definitely want napkins. He went to search the drawers.

"It wasn't like I was being offensive on purpose," on a roll, Pembleton was continuing. "I'd been on the job around the clock for days; I didn't have anything clean left in my locker, so I dropped by my house to see my wife and my kids for a few minutes and to pick up a change of clothes, that's all. I didn't dress up like a priest to play trick-or-treat on the Whelans. By their outrage, you'd think I'd personally hammered Christ to the cross."

As he returned with napkins --proud he'd found the cloth ones and they were spotless-- it suddenly dawned on Bayliss that his partner's comment in the locker room --Could've been worse, we could've been decoyed as nuns-- may have had a whole different impetus than the one he'd assigned to it and not liked. He went back to the kitchen for glasses, brought them to the table and said in conciliatory tones, "They're older, conservative people, Frank. Mary understands your job."

Salt and pepper? Yeah, right there on the counter. "Maybe you shouldn't have said goddamned."

With Frank, he never could win for losing. Good thing he was used to it.

The dinner was a quiet affair, Pembleton scowling balefully at each forkful then chewing on it as if shredding a personal grudge. "What's bothering you?" Bayliss finally asked. Something more than his usual ire toward his inconvenient in-laws had wound him up tight tonight.

For the longest time, he thought Frank wasn't going to answer. Then, garrulously, "Why did he have to go and say he enjoyed it?"

"Who enjoyed what?"

"I lock him up with the corpses in the morgue's meat locker, I let him out after he's a gibbering wreck, drag him to an isolated spot by the bay, pull a gun and threaten to kill him, and the stupid yo damn near thanks me."

Ballard and Pembleton had been the primaries; Bayliss hadn't been privy to much. He'd seen them leave the squadroom, Frank towing Roc-Roc away with a grip on his collar, and return in the morning with enough information to round up the killers. Now he knew what had transpired through the night. "For the meat locker or the death threat?"

Bayliss stayed quiet and let him get it out. He'd learned early that Pembleton ranted about things he knew couldn't be fixed and offering him platitudes only made him angrier. He simply wanted someone to shut up and listen.

"So, this Rawls, what does he do for you?"

Bayliss almost choked on his beer. He managed to swallow and say past it, "Jeez, Frank."

Why does every conversation with you has to turn into interrogation under duress? Bayliss looked down, at the way the ceiling light splayed through the amber depths of his beer. "He takes it easy on me."

Bayliss took another swallow from his glass, said nothing. Anything he said would be used against him.

"Don't be silly," Frank snapped. "You don't want anybody taking it easy on you."

Irritated anew with Frank's habit of tossing out blithe assumptions about him, he couldn't bite back the retort, "How do you know what I want, Frank?" Oh, no, he shouldn't have said that. As Frank put his elbows on the table, leaned in and set to dissect his brain, he knew he shouldn't have said that.

Frank threw open his arms in an exasperated move. "As far as I know, not a thing. Stop trying to make it about him; it isn't. Or why would I waste my breath?"

"I don't know what you're getting at."

There was a brief interval when, with disbelief as his ally, he could've salvaged it. But Frank was the verbally privileged one, not Tim, and he sat there with dumb silence between his teeth for a second too long until it was a second too late.

Soft as a whispered midnight conspiracy, Frank asked "Who do you love, Tim?"

Everything else seems beyond us

we aren't ready for it, nothing that was said

is true for us, caught naked in the argument,

the counterpoint, trying to sight read

what our fingers can't keep up with, learn by heart

what we can't even read.

…there are no prodigies

in this realm, only a half-blind, stubborn

cleaving to the timbre, the tones of what we are

--even when all the texts describe it differently.

Adrienne Rich