--Author: jessebee
Disclaimer: Wolf Films and MCA/Universal own them, although I've taken liberties with persons and situations within that canon. No irrevocable injuries have occurred, and I've put them all back nicely where I got them.
Pairing: None, although Green and somebody is implied.
Rating: a hard PG, perhaps, for swearing and adult themes.
Summary: Set in and around the episode Burn Baby Burn, Season 11 (2000).
Author's Note: Written alongside a companion (and much longer) story, Burning, by Cassatt. They overlap during one evening, and each has ramifications for the other. We hope you read them both.
Author's Note II: This story owes several huge, unrepayable debts. The first and foremost is to culturevulture73, whose idea it originally was to stick Mike, Lennie, and Ed in a room together and make them talk. Were it not for her writing out some scenes and saying "Okay, what if--," none of my tale would have happened. The other huge debt is owed to Cassatt, for agreeing to try this whole dovetailing thing and then doing at least three times as much work as I did. Cassatt, this has been more fun than I can express. For the work, the feedback, the discussions, the laughter, the unstinting beta help, and the kick in the tush where needed--thank you again. I owe you a Harp, with or without the apostrophe. :-D
Copyright November, 2004, jessebee
--
They'd done it, for all the damn good it would do.
Detective Lennie Briscoe walked down the marble-clad hallway of the courthouse, heading toward the elevators, his mouth set in a line of cynical resignation. He and his partner Ed Green had done it, located the witness Ed had been sure existed, if only they could read through enough cab trip sheets in time. They'd found the man who could tie former Black Panther Lateef Miller to the killing of Detective Jake Kearsey and they'd delivered him to EADA Jack McCoy.
But Miller, the slime, had changed his tune when he'd caught sight of the cab driver, and there'd been an immediate change of plea: Not Guilty by Reason of Self-Defense. Which made their eight hours or so of reading trip sheets at every cab company in Manhattan little more than a waste of time. Ed had been so wound about finding the witness, but it looked like they might actually have done the case as much harm as good.
It was all up to the strategies and Irish tongues of McCoy and Abbie Carmichael now, and Jack wanted this one bad, Lennie could see it in the lawyer's eyes and the set of his jaw. If sheer balls and determination would do it, the case'd be won right now.
Self-Defense my ass. Lennie snorted, shaking his head, and caught Ed's glance in the corner of his eye. Christ, if I had a nickel for every stupid bastard who used that excuse for murdering somebody-- But in this case the somebody had been a police officer, a detective given the wrong address for a witness he needed to pick up, and he'd gone to the wrong place at the wrong time.
He felt the weight of his partner's gaze again, and a corner of his mouth quirked. More than a year with this one now, and Lennie still wasn't sure what to think of the man sometimes. Ed Green was a good cop. Bright, sharp, edgy. Sometimes too edgy, but Lennie could work around that most days. And Ed seemed more than willing to work with Lennie most days, too; Lennie'd had the sense right off that Ed wanted this partnership to work, that the younger man wanted to be liked. Once you got past the attitude.
But frankly, Lennie still didn't know if he wanted to. Like Ed, that was--or like him anything more than what was necessary for the job, anyway. He was so damned tired of breaking in new partners, and there were days when Ed made him feel so damned...old. There was such a gap between them in so many ways--experience, culture, age-- Hell, he and Rey Curtis had been closer. Or better yet, Mike Logan.
That thought made him chuckle softly. Only fifteen years between me and Mike, give or take--seemed like a million at first. But once he got over the fact that I wasn't Phil Ceretta, we clicked. And how. Backgrounds, attitudes, the truly twisted sense of humor that only another homicide cop could love--it'd been almost everything Lennie'd wanted in a partnership. Until Mike had let his temper get the better of him once too often and pulled the boneheaded stunt that'd got him tossed over to Staten Island. Lennie shook his head again. It'd been what, six years now? And he still missed the idiot.
A man caught his eye some yards ahead in the bustle of the hallway--dark hair, brown coat. A brown leather duster. Well, speak of the devil. Lennie felt the smile split his face. "Mike!"
--
Ed Green almost jumped as his partner's voice boomed off the marble walls. People turned to look, including a tall, dark-haired, annoyed-looking man about twenty feet in front of them.
The stranger's annoyance was replaced with a sudden grin, though, as he reversed stride and came toward them, his hand out. "Lennie! Just my damn luck that I'd run into you here."
Lennie took the offered hand and, to Ed's surprise, used it to pull the other man into a quick hug. "You can run, but you can't hide," his partner zinged, looking happier than Ed could remember seeing him. "Whaterya doing here?"
"Testimony on a case relating to an old one Max and I caught, never could put down," Mike replied, a shadow of the annoyance returning. "Couple of guys from the 1-5 think they've got it."
"Well, that's a kick in the head," Lennie opined with a snort.
Ed had to agree--he wouldn't want 1-5 detectives putting down any case he'd worked on, either. The 15th Precinct's reputation hadn't improved much over the years. So Lennie's mystery friend here was a cop? The name clicked in Ed's mind just as Lennie turned, his grin still showing far more teeth than Ed was used to.
Lennie swept a hand out in introduction. "Ed Green, current partner--Mike Logan, my old partner."
Mike Logan. Lennie's first partner at the 2-7. The one who'd punched the councilman, gotten himself a punishment transfer to Staten Island. The one whose signature Ed kept finding on old cases, ones with Lennie and with other names as well: Phil Ceretta; Max Greevey. The one who, with Lennie, had worked the Newhouse case. The one who had a reputation as both a black cat and as one of the biggest hounds ever to prowl the 2-7's ugly halls. Ed stuck his hand out. "Mike."
"Ed." Mike's grip was firm, and the greenish eyes between the heavy eyebrows and the Roman nose were definitely cop eyes: steady and cool, appraising.
"So, how's Staten these days?" Lennie asked.
The cool warmed noticeably as Mike looked back at him, even as a bit of a scowl appeared. "Still there, still boring as hell. But--" The scowl vanished, replaced by a conspiratorial sort of smile that did wonders for the man's face. "I think I've finally got another shot, a good one, at getting outta there."
Lennie's grin was joined by a raised eyebrow. "Does this one involve getting somebody arrested, too?"
Ed flashed on gossip he'd heard--the last time Logan had been seen at the 2-7, a long-time detective had gone down in flames. And it'd been Logan who'd fired the shot.
Mike's smile developed an edge. "No, it doesn't, thanks for asking."
The edge apparently slid right off of Lennie, though. "You free later? You can buy me dinner and tell--damn." He blinked, shook his head. "We're on back-up call tonight for the Parson thing, aren't we?" He sighed, glancing at Ed.
Ed had just a moment to make a decision, and found that it wasn't a hard one at all. Anybody who could put that much life into his partner's face was somebody Ed wanted to know more about. He liked Lennie, liked working with the man. Most days, anyway. But he always had the feeling of distance, of a door between them made of age, experience, and God only knew what else. A door for which he'd never found the key.
And a night out, even one like this, might distract him from the Kearsey trial and the bitter disappointment of having his and Lennie's victory turned to ash. From the sight and sound of the man prosecuting the case, and the sharp, too-real memories of things that had never happened. It was distraction that Ed badly needed, all the way around. "Yeah, we are, but they're not gonna call us first." Ed shrugged. "Besides, that's what cell phones and beepers are for. Won't matter much where we wait."
He'd just neatly invited himself along on a meeting of two old friends. Something in Mike's expression said that the other man knew it, but wasn't going to argue. Or maybe just didn't see an immediate way around it.
"How about Harry's?" Mike suggested, naming a small bar and restaurant a couple of blocks away down Worth. Ed had been there once or twice himself. The place was cozy, dark, and noisy--a classic neighborhood joint.
Lennie knew it immediately, of course. "That'll work. You'll still be able to afford to buy me dessert there, too, even after I clean your clock at the pool table."
Mike made a face. "We play anything tonight, it's darts--'least I got a fighting chance with that. 'Bout six work for you? And you're buying your own damn dessert."
Lennie laughed, a happy sound as unlike his usual self as his full smile had been. Mike smirked and shoved at Lennie's shoulder, then turned in a swirl of old leather and walked away down the hall.
"That time work for you?" Lennie asked rather belatedly, glancing at Ed.
"Sure, that's fine." Ed shrugged, vaguely annoyed at the way Lennie had assumed for both of them. But only vaguely. The annoyance was far outweighed by curiosity and a sense of opportunity. Mike Logan definitely had a key to a different Lennie Briscoe than the one Ed knew. And because he wanted to make this partnership with Lennie work, Ed wanted to know what that key was.
--
The rest of the day passed in a relatively uneventful way, or uneventful for Homicide, anyway. No new stiffs fell into their laps, for which Lennie was truly grateful. A new case now might keep him from getting out at something close to shift-end, and he was really looking forward to this impromptu evening with Mike. Ed'd be there too, but that'd probably be all right. Ed could be pleasant company when he wanted to be.
In fact, he thought as they hit the road, heading down to Harry's, Ed had been pretty good the last few months...until they'd started getting up close on the Kearsey trial. And the closer it got, the more Ed got--not snappier, exactly. Edgier. Edgier than usual. Uneasy, like something was itching him.
Which Lennie thought he understood, 'cause it was eating at him too--Lateef Miller. Lennie's mouth pursed as the old, familiar irritation hit him yet again. It was as plain as day to him that Miller had pulled the trigger, but who knew what the jury would see, in the end? You'd think that twenty-five years on the force would've burned out my expecting justice to follow the truth, but damned if hope doesn't keep rearing its ugly head.
The phone calls they'd gotten from other cops and other precincts, mostly the 3-6, had been mostly the "kick his ass!" type that Lennie'd been expecting, the usual sort of thing when the case involved a cop-killer. Usual, but not necessarily comforting. One or two who had asked which of them would be testifying had intimated that it was good that it was Ed--because he was black. Lennie's eyes narrowed in remembered annoyance. Of course Ed would be on the stand, he'd been the arresting officer. Idiots.
As if the gods were smiling on him today, a decent parking spot opened up just as they arrived, and Lennie jumped on it. He smiled to himself a few minutes later as he walked through the door of Harry's, Ed just behind him, at just after six o'clock. The place was as it always was, comfortingly under lit and a little on the noisy side. Dark paneling, dark bar, dark chairs. The warmth, the cozy half-dimness hit him, welcoming him and pricking at him at the same time. Sometimes he thought it was the atmosphere as much as the alcohol that had always drawn him to joints like this. The spirits of the spirits drew a cool finger up his spine, same as they did every time he got near a bar. He ignored it as best he could, same as he'd done for the last decade.
Lennie led the way past the bar towards the eating tables in the back, wondering if Mike had gotten there first--yes, indeed. Another smile pulled at the corners of Lennie's mouth. Mike was sitting at a fourtop in the back third of the room, dark hair a head above everybody else near him, as usual. He had the menu in one hand and a glass of beer in the other, and Lennie was hit with an unaccustomed wash of nostalgia. How many times had he seen his old partner like that, back in the day? How many meals had he and Mike shared during work hours, chewing over some case along with dinner? How many off-hours meals as well, simply because they'd come to enjoy each other's company?
Ed, now--Ed didn't eat, not like Mike did, or even Rey--
Mike chose that moment to raise his head and scan the room, smile and nod them over. Lennie shrugged off his navy overcoat and dropped it onto the fourth chair at the table, on top of Mike's worn leather one. He settled into the chair on Mike's right, took a welcome swig from the glass of club soda that sat there. Mike had ordered for him, knowing what he drank, just as he'd used to do when they worked together. Nostalgia pricked him again, and he sketched a brief salute to Mike with the glass as Ed sat down as well. "Thanks."
Mike looked at him from under his eyebrows. "What, you think I ordered that for you?"
Lennie smirked. "Since it wouldn't go well with your beer, I'd say yeah, you did. What're you having, Ed?" he asked his partner as the rather attractive redheaded server stopped by their table.
"Water'll be fine," Ed said to the waitress, glancing up at her with that expression of his that wasn't precisely friendly but wasn't unfriendly either. Lennie'd never quite figured that one out, although to be honest, he hadn't much tried, either.
Mike registered Ed's choice of beverage with a slight lift of one eyebrow. Almost as if he'd sensed it, Ed made a gesture for the woman to wait, then added a glass of Harp to his order. Lennie resisted the urge to smile; alcohol wasn't usually on Ed's menu, either on-duty--which they technically still were--or off. Then he paused, struck. Or was it? Because you don't actually know what the man does on his off-time, do you? And you haven't cared to find out.
Lennie blinked at the thought and the vague sense of guilt that accompanied it, focusing in on Mike instead. The past six years and change didn't seem to have touched his former partner much--until you looked closer. Deeper lines rode the skin now by Mike's eyes, his mouth; a few strands of hair winked light among their near-black fellows, there at the temples. Getting older. And I'm getting older, too. So why'd they keep giving me these--kids--to train?
Not fair, Briscoe, his conscience remarked. Ed's a good cop. He doesn't need or want training. Seasoning, maybe. The benefits of experience.
Yeah, yeah. Lennie took another swallow of soda and lime and changed his mental subject. He took a moment to size up the menu options and make a decision, then dropped the folder back onto the table. "So, Mike. Spill. What's this miracle that's gonna get you back to real police work?"
"Too many stiffs in the 1-10 lately," Mike replied. He laid down his own menu, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "And a coupla their Homicide vets retiring."
"So why would--" Lennie stopped, struck by the gleam in his former partner's eyes. A scrap of memory prodded him, and his own crooked smile rose in answer to it. "Because you've still got a connection there, sounds like. And with that idiot Crossley finally out--"
Mike's potential smile became reality. "Some of the political pressure is off. And my record, solve rate, speaks for itself--One Police Plaza can't argue with that, at least. 'S'not a done deal yet by any stretch, but Phil's pushing for me." He shrugged.
"Which gets you a decent shot at doing something more stimulating than lawn mower retrieval before you retire." Lennie's grin broadened. "Pays to know people."
"Sometimes." Mike raised his own glass in salute this time.
"The guy who was this bum's partner before me, Phil Ceretta," Lennie explained to Ed, who was looking politely inquiring, "is Chief Of Detectives over at Queens North."
"Lucky him," Ed commented.
Mike's smile slipped as something dark and familiar shadowed his face. "Yes and no. He got there 'cause he took a slug in the gut on an undercover we were working and it nicked his spine, left him weak in the legs. The 1-10 had made him the offer before that, I found out later on, and Phil wasn't gonna take it, but getting shot changed things."
"Hey, better driving a desk than riding shotgun in a box." Ed tilted his head, his features touched with the compassion that Lennie had always liked in him. His partner had meant that to be comforting, Lennie knew. But--
But Mike's shadow deepened, as Lennie'd known it would. "Ain't that the truth. That's how I lost my first partner, Max Greevey. Fucking mook zipped him to stop him from testifying in an extortion case." He snorted, and his smile this time was a wolf's-head one. "But I found the bastard, and Ben Stone nailed his sorry ass to the wall."
--
The redhead chose that moment to reappear with Ed's water and beer, and ask if they wanted to order food. Ed spared a quick thank-you to whatever deity might watch over cops for the few minutes' reprieve. His partner decided on steak, which didn't surprise Ed at all, and Mike went for a burger with everything. Ed settled on the turkey club, which he'd had here before, so he knew what to expect.
Unlike this evening, which was not turning out as he'd expected. He'd heard Logan called a black cat, but he'd never paid attention to why. Jesus. To lose not one partner but two, like that-- A sudden phantom image of Lennie collapsed in a bloody heap on the street sent a shock of cold up Ed's spine. Like hell.
Ed lifted his beer, the light pouring softly amber through the cold liquid. Mike looked at him, the dark brows going up inquiringly. Lennie looked as well. "To partners," Ed said quietly but distinctly, looking at both of them in turn, but a touch longer at Lennie. "To Jake Kearsey."
"And to the scum that shot him going down," Lennie added after a beat, just as quietly but with force. Three glasses clinked with solid finality over the condiments at the center of the table.
After that, Ed got still another thing he wasn't expecting, as Lennie grabbed the conversational ball in both hands and ran with it. Ed had no doubt that it was deliberate, although whether it was more for Mike's benefit or for Lennie's, Ed couldn't say. But over dinner, Ed discovered a side to his partner that he'd only seen hints of up until now--raconteur. Lennie was a storyteller, and a good one. In short order he had Mike pulled out of what Ed sensed could become a full-out Irish brood. Of course, it helped that Mike was obviously willing to be pulled, as well.
Some thirty minutes later-- "So Mike busts in and there's our man Drew, sitting up all nice and neat at the kitchen table. Dead as a doornail, slug right in the heart. Cash gone, drugs gone."
"The wages of sin," Mike chimed in. His expression said that he knew where this story was going and didn't mind too terribly much, or not enough to stop Lennie telling it, anyway.
Lennie grinned. "A minute later we hear screamin', although it wasn't easy over the sound of whatever crap music our dead guy had been playing. So we go chargin' down to the basement and find this nice old lady screaming that there's a junked-up nut in the laundry room, he's gonna kill her. We go in, who do we find? One guy by the name of Omar Cabezas, tossing somebody's laundry. Mike tells him to freeze, and the guy turns and threatens us with the loaded burrito he's got in his other hand. 'Put the burrito down, senor,' says Mike, whereupon our Mr. Cabezas says, in something kinda like English, that we're gonna die. 'Only if I eat that thing,' says Mike."
Ed snickered, both at Lennie's dead-on imitation of Mike's voice and Mike's eye roll at hearing it.
"Now this," Lennie continued with a grin, "apparently didn't sit well with Omar. He charges, brandishing said burrito. I--" he laid a hand on his own chest with a flourish, "am nimble enough to get out of the way. Mike, however, is not. Final score: burrito, one; Mike's tie, zero."
Mike aimed a lazy swipe at Lennie's arm as Ed broke out laughing at the mental image.
"And on that note, I'll be right back." Lennie scooted back his chair and got to his feet. "Gotta get rid of some of this ice tea." He headed for the washroom tucked just on the far end of the bar, not far from the alcove that held the pool table and dart board.
Which left Ed alone with Mike for the first time. His mirth fading, he returned Mike's regard with what he hoped was a calm front, or more calm than he was actually feeling, anyway.
Mike's gaze was assessing, but reasonably friendly. Ed wondered which one of them would start.
Turned out to be Mike. "So," he said, hands steepled down toward the remains of his dinner, "you like working with Lennie?"
The question had just the slightest proprietary edge, and Ed felt his hackles rise just a bit in response. Sat firmly on the reaction. That would not be the way to get the answers he wanted.
"I do, but I won't lie to you, it's not always easy," he replied evenly. "I think he knows more than I've ever forgotten, but--we're really different. Sometimes there's a little--friction." Ed shrugged. "Man's got a hell of an edge for anybody, never mind his age. It's like working with a walking encyclopedia of New York." He stopped, gathering his thoughts, resisting the urge to tap a finger against his water glass.
"But?" Mike prompted after a few moments' silence.
Ed flicked his own gaze back to the cool greenish one. "But there's twenty years and a lotta miles between us. Makes talking hard, sometimes."
Mike's eyes dropped and stayed down for some moments, like he was inspecting the pattern of the tablecloth. When it came back up, something had shifted. Mike unsteepled his fingers, sitting forward just a little. "He doesn't need a student. He needs a partner."
Okay, that got the hackles up. "He's got one," Ed said sharply. "I paid my dues, got my shield fair and square. And you do time on the Gang Unit, you're ready for anything."
Mike's expression warmed, his heavy eyebrows lifting. "Gang Unit. Pretty rough duty."
"Couple of years of sheer hell, yeah. But sometimes at least the parents were happy you were there, that somebody was trying to help." Hadn't he said something similar to Jack McCoy just a few days ago, before the trial had started? Jack.... Ed wondered, despite himself, what Jack was doing right now--he cut the thought off with a mental jerk, took a mouthful of water to cover it, calm himself. Refocused on the man across the table from him now, not the memory of the one he'd eaten dinner with earlier this week. "Like I said, he's got a partner. But I'm looking for more common ground. I like him, and I want to get along. But we're different--age, culture. Race. And I know that's got an effect. I'm trying to find how to get around it."
Mike studied him a minute, his gaze shrewd. "The race thing's bugging you, is it? All this crap around the Kearsey trial?"
Damn, this guy was good. He'd pegged it, when Ed's own partner didn't seem to care enough to try. "Hey, it is what it is," Ed said sourly, answering despite himself. "When they try it on the seven o'clock news, if Miller goes down, it'll be at least partly because I'm black. But if he doesn't, that'll be because I'm black, too. That's the way the world works."
Something in Mike's face looked as if the man was talking to himself, chewing on Ed's words, maybe, and making a decision of some sort. Then he leaned forward.
"Well, Lennie is not a bigot," Mike stated flatly. "He figures everybody'll fuck up on their own merits. He plays the odds, but he doesn't play favorites. What he is, is a cop. You cut him, he bleeds blue. That's always first with him--anything else you happen to be runs a far second. You're either for us or you're not. Like with this thing now with Miller. I'll guarantee you Lennie doesn't give a rat's ass that the guy's black--what'll have him going is that Miller's a former Panther, that he was egging people to kill cops. Doesn't matter that it was thirty years ago. You remember the Susan Forrest case, about six, seven years ago?"
Ed blinked at the sudden question, searched his memory. "Ye-ah, political protester, right? Vietnam War? Robbed a technology outfit and killed a cop. That was your case?"
"Mine and Lennie's." Mike nodded, looking pleased. "We stumbled into it off another case, routine burglary thing. The cash from the old robbery was part of the haul in the newer one. Anyway, we matched the cash amount up with that of that old heist, Neucon Technologies, and that really lit a fire under Lennie. The cop they killed was about his age; Lennie'd been a year behind him at the Academy, and he'd gone to the guy's funeral. Next thing I know, I'm finding out stuff about the Sixties I had no clue about, 'cause Lennie's got a memory like an elephant. You know how we nailed her, finally?" Mike's eyes glinted with the kind of fierce satisfaction that Ed more than understood. "Lennie memorized her from a few passes with a twenty-five year old mugshot. He knew her the minute he saw her."
The events of a case last year flashed through Ed's mind, when the perp had made, and then recanted, the confession that nobody but Lennie had heard. The case where Ed had wondered, despite himself, whether his partner's age had affected his hearing, or something else. Mike, he realized, would have backed Lennie up, immediately and loudly. Without question.
Which was what Ed hadn't done. He'd done it the right way, done it by the book--he hadn't heard the confession, so he couldn't say that he had. But maybe that wasn't how Lennie had taken it? Had he seen Ed's actions as something else, something vaguely like--betrayal?
And this thing now, the Kearsey trial. Lennie detested lawyers on general principle, but Ed had heard him speak of Jack as one of the good guys. But yesterday he'd dug at Jack there in the courthouse hallway, letting him know how badly the case was going in, and Ed had been a hairsbreadth from snapping at his partner to leave Jack alone. Lennie wasn't shy with his opinions, but he usually held back in front of family, witnesses. But if the facts of this trial had him more than usually on edge, gotten under his partner's skin a lot more than that cynical surface calm let on--
Damn, that would explain a lot--
Mike's voice broke into his thoughts. "You wanna get along with Lennie? Give him his due. He's earned it, and he doesn't forget." A pause, then Mike smiled, grinned almost, at Ed for the first time. "And eat a lot, too--he knows all the good spots and he hates being hungry." Before Ed could really even think about how to respond to that, Mike's gaze shifted over Ed's shoulder and his mouth quirked. "And speaking of eating, I guess everybody's got to."
Ed blinked, turned to look behind himself.
"Even lawyers," Mike said, a wry twist in his voice. "Damned if I didn't just see Jack McCoy up there at the bar. Well, I guess the place is big enough for all of us."
Ed blinked again, squinted, and there--light shone off of a familiar head of sterling-gray hair. In the next moment, a simple, clear impulse emerged from his tangle of thought. "I see him," he said. "Excuse me." He got to his feet.
"What?" Mike asked.
Ed spared him a backward glance. "I wanna talk to McCoy a minute. Shouldn't take long."
--
The first thing Lennie noticed as he returned to their table was the lack of a partner. His current one, to be precise. "Where's Ed?" he asked, pausing in the act of pulling out his chair. "You scare him off already?"
"Consorting with the enemy," was Mike's laconic reply. Lennie gave him a mock-annoyed look, and a quick grin flashed across the handsome face in response. "McCoy walked in a minute ago. Ed said he needed to talk to him."
"McCoy?" Lennie turned in the direction indicated by Mike's head nod. He saw Ed's tall form making its way toward the far end of the bar, closest to the front door; saw the EADA's distinctive shock of hair. "What for?" he asked, turning back to Mike.
His old partner shrugged. "He didn't say, but it didn't seem like life or death."
"Then it can wait, far as I'm concerned." Lennie dropped back into his chair. "I've had about all the lawyers today I can take."
"Which makes today different from any other day--how?"
Lennie snorted, and Mike gave him another swift smile. God, it was nice to talk to somebody so completely on the same page, an instinctive understanding, no effort.... You just had to go and punch that asshole, didn't you, Mike?
Mike took a long swallow of his beer, then leaned forward. "Speaking of lawyers, how's the Miller case going in?"
Lennie sighed, although, honestly, he was surprised Mike had lasted this long before asking about it. "Like crap, frankly. Apparently being a member of an Irish cop biker club means you've got 'I hate niggers' tattooed on your ass."
Mike's face darkened. "Saying that Kearsey was a racist? That he went gunning for Miller? That's a load of cheese!"
"Sure it is, but the fair and impartial panel of twelve's thinking about eating it." Lennie swigged down the rest of his soda. "So when Ed and I bring in the cabbie who took Miller to his lawyer's office from where Kearsey was zipped, suddenly the plea goes from Not Guilty to Self-Defense--"
"And Kearsey was a bigot, so he musta fired first," Mike finished sourly.
Lennie toasted him with the glass.
Mike shook his head. "Goddamned lawyers." He tipped his head back and downed the remainder of his beer. "How's Ed takin' it?" he asked after a moment, toying with his own now-empty mug.
"It's a cop killing, Mike--howdaya think he's takin' it?" Lennie looked at him, wondering why Mike would even be asking.
"He's also black--"
"Well, thank you, Sherlock."
"--and so is Miller. Bet that wasn't easy."
Lennie narrowed his eyes. Well of course it hadn't been easy, and Ed had done it without backup, too. Lennie'd been uncomfortable as hell that day when Ed had left him there on the street with Van Buren and walked into that mosque alone, unarmed. To do what at that moment only Ed, by virtue of the facts of who and what he was--a cop and a black man--had a chance of doing successfully. But Ed had done it, had gone in and brought Miller back out with him, quietly. No muss, no fuss. And he'd been fine with it, afterwards--hadn't Van Buren indicated as much? "He's okay with that part, Mike," Lennie said, wadding up his napkin for no reason other than it was there, and ignoring his own faint shade of doubt.
"You're sure." Mike's flat tone made the words anything but a statement.
"Yeah, I'm sure. If he did have any problems, he's long since talked 'em out with somebody--he's never said a word to me." Lennie eyed his former partner with annoyance.
"And I'll bet you never asked."
"If Ed wanted to talk, he'd say something," Lennie retorted. That vague sense of guilt he'd had earlier was back, along with the faint thread of unreasoning resentment he'd felt those months ago when Ed had left him there in the street. Useless. Old. Even though he'd known that wasn't it, that Ed had had a better chance alone. "I've never pried into his personal life--why would I start now?"
Mike gave him a one-shoulder shrug. "You never seemed to have any trouble prying into mine. You're the senior, Lennie. If you don't ask, maybe he doesn't know he can talk? He's a cop. In the end, we ain't got nobody but us. If you can't talk to your partner, it gets pretty...lonely, even with other people around. Stressful."
This time Lennie flat-out stared. This was coming from Mike Logan, of all people? His habitually self-absorbed former partner? "What are you, now--studying for Olivet's job?" he demanded. "Where're all these pearls of wisdom comin' from?"
Mike shrugged again, his mouth quirking and his gaze dropping toward the tablecloth. "Staten's...lonely. Got too much time to think." He was still turning his glass in tight little circles. "Kid likes you. I know you haven't been real happy over the last year, you've said as much the times we've talked. You might make things easier on yourself if you...liked him back."
Resentment surged up again, but this time it was from a much older hurt. Lennie's hand clenched where it lay on the tabletop. "Happy?" He snorted. "If you were worried about my happiness, you should've kept your damn fist to yourself six years ago instead of trying to play therapist now," he finished, hearing the sharp edge on his own voice.
The glass's motion stopped abruptly as Mike's head jerked up, lips parted and eyes wide. "And you were so quick to leap to my defense back then too, weren't you?" he shot back, surprise quickly becoming anger. "You were my partner."
Lennie rolled his eyes. "Said it before and I'll say it again: you punched a politician, genius. What the hell do you think I coulda done?"
"Goddammit, Lennie--" Mike sucked in a deep breath and pushed it out again, closed his eyes. Grabbed hold of his temper with obvious, visible effort. Breathed in and out again. Again. Finally gave a short nod, which was about as close as Mike had ever come to an apology.
Lennie's mouth twisted. Big of you, Mike. Fat lot of good it does us now, though.
"I mean it, though," Mike muttered after another minute, shifting a little in his chair. "I think you should talk to him."
Lennie snorted. One thing hadn't changed--Mike was still like a damn dog with a bone when he was onto something. He watched Mike diddle some more with his glass, and worked on wrapping his mind around this weirdly insightful version of his old partner. And wondered. Was Mike right? Was race a bigger factor with Ed than Lennie'd realized?
Not "realized," his conscience prodded him. You knew. You just didn't wanna deal with it.
Yeah, he knew, Lennie admitted to himself with a sigh. He knew Ed was sensitive when it came to minority matters, and he'd known it long before Ed had had the blow-out with that idiot Canizaro. But he hadn't wanted to deal with it--he was so tired of that crap, dammit. They were all cops, for God's sake--that should be all that mattered.
Since when? You're dreaming, Briscoe, come off it. Even Lieu's got a little chip about that, you saw it there with Canizaro, and she's gotta lot better leash on her temper than Ed ever will.
Was this what was really behind the case of nerves Ed seemed to have developed the closer they'd got to this trial? Lennie'd figured that surely Ed had people he'd've talked to about it, if in fact it had been bugging him. But what if he hadn't? Lennie pursed his mouth, remembering a few seemingly off-hand remarks Ed had made, about his family not liking his choice of career too much. Because Mike was definitely right about one thing: when it was all said and done, the only people who understood cops were other cops.
And he's a good cop, Briscoe, isn't he worth a little effort? Okay, he's got a chip or two, but so did Mike. So did Rey. And weren't they both worth it in the end, even Rey?
He's so damn--young.
Fine, so he gets to do the sweaty work, and you can dispense wisdom from the side. You've earned it, and you never did like running down perps all that much, anyway. He wants to be good with you--and you didn't need Mike to tell you that, either. Why don't you try and meet him halfway?
He blinked back to present reality to find Mike watching him with an odd expression. Odd? That made him chuckle. Hell, the whole day had been odd, and was getting odder by the minute. Lennie quirked a half-smile at the other man, letting his anger go. When it was all said and done, Mike was still a good friend, and this wasn't the hill Lennie wanted their friendship to die on.
Mike essayed a small grin in return, his own face lightening. "What's so funny?" His eyes went past Lennie, and the grin dropped away. "Looks like the coffee-klatch's over."
Lennie turned his head and saw Ed coming toward them, moving like a man with a mission. An alert bell chimed in Lennie's mind—Ed's face looked pinched. Before the younger detective reached them, though, he slowed, tilting his head, then reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Finger in the other ear, he continued walking. The call finished about the time he reached their table, and Ed put the phone away and dropped back into his chair, mouth set in a thin line.
"What's up, Ed?" Lennie asked, concerned. For a cop, his partner was a lousy actor. He wore his emotions on the outside for the most part, although Lennie didn't think that Ed himself realized that. Ed's shoulders were higher than they should be, and the fingers of one hand beat a rapid run on the tabletop before Ed stilled them into a fist. Twitchy, like a cat on speed getting ready to rumble.
Ed glanced at him with a pasted-on smile that came nowhere near his dark brown eyes--eyes that slid away from Lennie's again almost immediately. "Good news. We're off the hook as of right now; they're not gonna need us tonight. Which means since you're driving," he pointed a finger at Lennie, "I can have another beer." Ed looked past Mike's shoulder then and the finger went up in the air, miraculously catching the attention of their server.
Lennie rubbed his chin. Something had happened, something big, because Ed was pissed as hell--that was obvious. It was equally obvious that Ed didn't want to talk about it, whatever it was.
Mike stepped into the breach. "So, what news from the legal front?" His old partner wore a subtle hunting expression. Lennie wondered if Ed would see it.
There was a two second delay. Ed looked at Mike blankly, like it hadn't registered that Mike was talking to him, and furthermore, he had no clue what Mike was talking about.
"What'd McCoy have to say?" Mike clarified.
Ed blinked; then he seemed to snap back from wherever he'd been, and his mouth thinned again. "The legal front. The legal front wants to slap down forty years of police brutality to back up Miller's claim of self defense."
Lennie's jaw dropped. "What the fuck?! We screwed up in the past, so that makes it okay to shoot us now?!" He chuffed and closed his eyes, shaking his head. Why was he even surprised? And in light of what he and Mike had just been talking about, it was no mystery now why Ed was angry. "Son of a bitch."
"Goddamned lawyers," Mike repeated in blatant disgust. "Okay, that really calls for another beer."
--
Cool. He was cool. He was completely, absolutely cool and nobody could say he wasn't, Goddammit.
He was not gonna leave and blow the evening because there was nothing to run away from. He was a cop. Cops didn't run. He'd said he was gonna have time with Lennie and Lennie's old partner and that's what he was gonna do, was doing, he was having another beer and talking and watching and listening and laughing and of course Mike didn't know a thing and no way Lennie did either 'cause of course Lennie never really looked at him anyway so Lennie thought it was all about the trial if he thought anything at all but he had no clue that something else might have happened because nothing else had happened.
Cool. He was cool. That was his story and he was sticking to it.
And he stuck to it through his second beer, chiming in with all the right remarks while Lennie and Mike bitched about cases lost on double-talk and technicalities and about lawyers they loved to hate. He stuck to it as Mike got about halfway into a second beer as well, cleverly getting himself a third so that there'd be no reason to leave yet, no reason to walk past the bar. Not that there was a reason not to, of course, just because Jack was--stop. "Besides, didn't you say something 'bout kicking his ass?" Ed said to Lennie, waving a hand at Mike. "I keep hearing what a shark you are, but I ain't seen it yet."
Lennie's snort was nearly drowned out by Mike's sound of surprise. "You haven't dragged him into some stick joint yet, Lennie?" Mike asked. "Well, that settles that. It's not my money you're taking tonight, you can hit on your partner. You play pool, Ed?"
"I can hold my own."
Mike bared his teeth in a grin that Ed in no way trusted, even under the influence of two and a third Harps. "You've never played Lennie."
Nevertheless, Ed wasn't backing down. "Bring it on," he challenged cheerfully. He took another gulp of fresh, cold beer, then slapped both palms flat on the table and pushed himself up. "Table's still free, so let's do it."
Lennie looked up at him, studying him, almost, with narrowed eyes. "You really looking to lose cash tonight? How 'bout I let you have the first game free?"
Okay, was Lennie actually tryin' to insult him, here? "'Cause you think I can't take it? C'mon, man, put da money where your mouth is."
"Let's go, Mike." Lennie pushed back his chair. "You're off the hook. Dinner's gonna be on Ed."
A little while later, Ed was down by fifty bucks and a fourth beer, and trying to ignore Mike's "told ya so" smirk. Ed knew enough about pool that he'd realized a couple of strokes after the first break that he was in trouble. Lennie wasn't just good--he was damn good. Put a cue in his hands and the man was poetry in motion, never mind his age. In fact, Ed was suspecting that Lennie was holding back, trying not to embarrass him too much. Or maybe giving him just enough rope to hang himself with.
Well, fine, then. If he was going down, he was going down swinging. He focused on the striped nine peeking tantalizingly from behind a trio of solids. He wondered if Jack played pool, then wondered why the fuck he was wondering and snarled angrily at the thought to drive it back to the dark corner where it belonged. Eyes on the ball, Eddie. He could make this shot, couldn't he? Sure he could. Just pop the cue ball off the far railing right about there....
You couldn't hardly make that one work sober, his inner Ed sneered.
I am sober, and you shut the fuck up. He leaned in over the table, trying to concentrate. But his muscle control wasn't what it should have been. The shot connected but not true. The white ball clicked sharply against the solid four on its way, sinking nothing and changing the field. Ed swore under his breath and straightened up, keeping a hand on the polished wood of the table edge as the floor made a little shift to the left. Ed blinked, his grip tightening before he made his fingers ease up. Damn, was he was more lit than he'd thought? He looked to see if anybody had noticed. Mike still wore that damned smirk, and Lennie was chalking his cue, regarding Ed with assessing eyes.
Ed stiffened, denial springing to his lips and pulling up his shoulders. But Lennie turned his attention back to the collection of balls that lay in a confused welter on the green felt, with the cue ball now in an impossible position. Ed had a moment of pride as Lennie walked around the table—if he couldn't sink, at least he'd mucked it up for Lennie. "You in trouble, partner," he stated as Lennie leaned in.
Lennie's eyebrows lifted, but his gaze never wavered from the field. "Oh, you think so?" the older man replied easily, his hands coming down to line up—something. What the hell was he gonna--?
"Watch and weep," Mike said.
The "pock" of stick against ball was distinct through the bustle of the restaurant as Lennie shot. It was followed immediately by the thump of ball against bumper and the neat crack of ball against ball as the white cue smacked into the six from behind. A fantastic chain reaction ensued, spreading the field, sinking one solid and leaving another teetering on the edge. Ed's jaw dropped, and he stared as Lennie moved again, tapping the wavering six-ball in and then squeaking more blue chalk onto his cue tip as he considered his next shot.
"Fuckin' hell," Ed swore in thoughtless, frustrated admiration. "That was sweet."
Lennie chuffed. "Needed more gas. The six shoulda dropped, too."
Ed's eyes widened. "Shot like that and you aren't happy? Damn, man." He shook his head, then wished he hadn't as the room took a few more turns than it should have. But it fueled his earlier suspicions: one, Lennie was going easy on him; and two, maybe he shouldn't be working on his fourth beer? Well, fuck that second thing. He'd ordered the beer—he was drinking it.
And he did drink it, leaning against the tiny side table Mike was sitting at, holding the slick glass firmly in hand as Lennie proceeded to run the table. The black eight-ball sank last, ending the game, and Ed sighed. Yeah, he'd been had, all right, and by a pro. But this wasn't that different from poker, right? Right. 'Cause next time the cards could fall differently.... He set his almost empty glass down. "Rack 'em up again. Next game'll be mine."
Lennie exchanged a look with Mike, then shook his head. "Let's call it a night. We gotta work tomorrow, and I need my beauty sleep."
"Gee, you really think that'll help?" Mike asked with a snicker, then mock-winced as Lennie punched his shoulder on the way over to the cue rack.
Ed straightened up as Lennie slipped the stick into place. "We're not quitting now? You got my money."
"No, I don't," Lennie replied, picking up his navy wool overcoat. "It's gone, 'cause you paid for dinner."
Wait, that wasn't right, was it? 'Cause hadn't Ed seen Mike pull out his wallet? Or had he? Ed turned to ask, but Mike was sliding into his big leather coat, obviously getting ready to go. Go. Leave. Leaving. But that meant the front door, which meant walking past the bar, which meant walking past—nobody. Ed didn't want to look, but before he could stop himself, he did, even though he couldn't see more than the near end of the bar from where he was. Nobody. It meant walking past nobody he knew. Nobody who mattered. It didn't matter, didn't matter at all. They'd been here a while, he and Lennie and Mike, way longer than it took for somebody to eat a hamburger and leave, somebody who—no, dammit. Nobody. He grimaced and deliberately swigged the last mouthful of his beer, then moved carefully to put away his cue stick in the rack, which seemed to want to sway gently in front of him, and pick up his own coat. He was cool. Nothing—and nobody—had happened.
They walked toward the front door. Ed didn't look at the bar again as they passed it. The cold Manhattan air hit him with a smack as he stepped out onto the street and he blinked, breathing deeply to try and replace the smoke in his lungs with actual oxygen. He was sure that was the problem, why his head was fuzzy; had to be. Even though he didn't remember seeing anybody in there smoking.... Now, where had Lennie parked? Found a good spot, he had, hard to find in Manhattan for a car, had to be a lot easier for a motorcycle—okay, stop. Just damn well stop.
Lennie flipped up his collar against the chill. In a move that almost mirrored him, Mike did the same. "This was good, Lennie," Mike said, the words steaming in the November night.
"Yeah, it was," Lennie agreed. "Don't be a stranger, all right?"
Mike nodded and smiled, shook Lennie's hand. "I'll call you. Good to meet you, Ed," he continued, offered his hand to Ed as well.
Ed shook it. "Likewise." And he meant it. He liked Mike, he'd decided, liked his dark humor. Liked his obvious pride and affection for Lennie, his loyalty to his old partner. Liked the way Mike had extended help even though it was obvious that he was jealous, envious of anybody and everybody who stood in the place he himself had screwed up—next to Lennie. Ed could respect that. Tonight, watching the two of them play off each other, Ed thought he was beginning to understand. Beginning to see the way through to the guy beneath the patented Briscoe snark and seen-it-all cop exterior. Mike had been generous, not for Ed's sake but for Lennie's. Lennie. Think about Lennie. Wasn't that why he'd come out to dinner in the first place?
Lennie knew just where they'd left the car, which was good. They got in, got going, Lennie remarking that he'd just take Ed home, no point in dropping him on the subway or spending money on a cab. Ed didn't object. He was starting to think that maybe the subway wasn't a great idea right now anyway.
Gradually he became aware that Lennie was muttering to himself, one long finger tapping sporadically at the steering wheel. And that was weird, because Lennie had been relaxed and fine at Harry's. Hadn't he? It was so weird, in fact, for Lennie, who was usually the essence of laid back, that Ed decided that he had to ask. Not that Lennie'd tell him, of course, 'cause it wasn't like they ever really "talked" to each other, but still-- "Lennie?"
The tapping and muttering stopped abruptly, but the older man's focus stayed on the road. "Yeah?"
Normally Ed would've stopped right there—hell, he'd have stopped before he got started. This was Lennie, for God's sake, nothing much bothered Lennie. But Lennie's voice wasn't as calm as it usually was, and the alcohol was giving Ed a push. "Something up? Y'r actin'--bugged."
There was a pause, then his partner chuffed. "Bugged? That's a good way to put it. Kearsey case. Sonuvabitch killed a cop who knocked on his door by mistake, and now the defense wants to make Kearsey the lamb who had to die for the NYPD's past sins? Yeah, I'm bugged, all right." Lennie shook his head. "That was good work you did on that, by the way. Pulling Miller outta that mosque like that, nice and quiet."
The simple praise stumped Ed for a moment. Lennie didn't do compliments, or at least he never had before. Ed finally settled on "Thanks." Then--"It's bugging me, too. Walkin' through my neighborhood...ain't been the same. Was okay for while, but then the trial got closer, and...." He shrugged. Something between his shoulder blades itched. Jesus, listen to him. Why was he talking about this? Beer. He should remember to stop at three....
Lennie breathed in, breathed out. Ed did the same, catching the faint hint of Lennie's aftershave in the close air. Did Lennie notice it himself, Ed wondered? Ed didn't usually notice his own aftershave after the first hour or so, but his dad had always said that if you did, you were wearing too much--
Lennie's voice broke into his ruminations. "'Cause you're black?"
"'And so's Miller," Ed answered, yanked back to what they were talking about. "But he's got standing, street cred, 'cause he's been around, and people think he's doing good now with that operation of his--"
"He shot a cop, Ed."
"I know that, that's why we arrested his ass. But he's a name, and who am I? Suddenly I'm the brother who hauled him in for defending himself, I'm the--" The words stuck in his throat like sneakers to a freshly tarred street, like they had when he'd spoken with Jack about this, God, had it been just the other day? It seemed so long ago.... Ed breathed. Stared fixedly out the windshield at the white winter trails drifting up from the sewers below, the motion of the car parting them like he'd blow steam off his morning coffee. "I'm the enemy."
There was silence for a minutes or two. The street was relatively empty; the only sounds were those of the car engine and their breathing. Way to go, Eddie. Set yourself up as a whiner who can't hack it, that'll win you points. Wasn't like you didn't know the community was gonna kick your ass for that, so what you crying 'bout it now for? He didn't know if he should hate Lennie or love him for bringing this up now. Didn't know what to do with himself for actually answering the question. He'd wanted to talk but he didn't, either--saying it was wading through glue--and there'd been nobody to listen, anyway. His family didn't want to hear it, his friends might listen but there was no way they'd understand. Lennie might, but he and Lennie didn't "talk." Or they never had before. What made tonight different?
When Lennie spoke again, his voice was quiet. "I took the transfer into the 2-7 in '93. Although "took" isn't the right word--wasn't like I had a choice. I was basically just outta rehab, and Brooklyn had no faith it would stick. So I wind up at the 2-7, partnered with Mike." He snorted. "Not exactly a match made in heaven, but we learned to deal with each other."
Wondering where the hell this was going, Ed looked over in time to see a brief smile twitch at Lennie's mouth.
"I'm not there a year," Lennie continued, "when we catch the Newhouse murder. Rookie cop on patrol alone, gets pinned down by drug dealers, calls for backup. Backup doesn't come. Why?" The expression that crossed Lennie's face this time was definitely not a smile. "'Cause four of his fellow officers didn't like the fact that Newhouse was gay."
Ed blinked, remembering like it was yesterday how he'd poured over the papers, listened as closely as he'd been able to the NYPD grapevine about that case, for his own private, intensely personal reasons. Remembered the gut punch of disappointment and anger when the verdict came back. Remembered wondering what they were like, those detectives who'd had the balls to push the case in the first place and wanting to shake their hands, but never dreaming that one day he'd be partnered with one of them.
"Mike and I had the bastards dead to rights, but the case tanked in court, with the defense pulling out some crap about 'fear of gays' making them do it." Lennie's grimace left no room for doubt as to his opinion on that. He shook his head. "Anyway, talking about feeling like the enemy--that case did it. We broke the blue wall. We went after cops. For months after, I was feeling eyes staring holes between my shoulder blades. Didn't matter where we were. I think there's probably still a few guys in the 3-1 who wouldn't mind seeing me take a dirt nap for that." He heaved a sigh. "The Chivas Regal'd already helped me lose two families. That case--felt like losing a third. I don't pretend to know how you feel, Ed, but maybe I can guess."
Maybe he could. It wasn't the same thing, but Lennie's pain was real enough. Mike's voice ghosted suddenly through Ed's brain: "Give him his due. He's earned it." The next words came out of Ed's mouth before he thought about them. "Y'did the right thing, Lennie."
The car slowed to a stop. Lennie looked over at him. "So did you."
Ed had to look away. "I know that. But...thanks." He rocked in his seat a little, toying with the belt. Warmth was rising in his chest, kinda like standing in the flow of radiant heat from his apartment baseboards. It felt--good. When the car didn't move again, though, he looked up again, out the window. Was that his building? Already?
"Ed."
"Huh?" He turned back to his partner, and that was a mistake.
Lennie had that bird dog look, like he was smelling something on the air. "There's something else, isn't there? I mean, this is bad enough, but there's something else eating you."
Ed's stomach flipped and he looked away again, a fist clenching around his heart. Shit. He couldn't lie well to Lennie on a good day, never mind now. "There is, but it's personal," he managed around the sudden tightness in his throat. "Not you. Not the case. Just...personal."
Lennie, after a moment of silence, miraculously didn't push. "Well, if you need an ear, ever, if I can help, you got my number. I'm your partner, Ed. You need something, you can come to me."
Ed didn't trust himself to do anything more right then than nod.
"But right now, I think you need a couple aspirin and some sleep, 'cause you're gonna have a head the size of Queens tomorrow." Lennie's voice had regained its normal, faintly mocking undertone. For some reason, Ed found that reassuring.
And sleep sounded like a wonderful idea. Now he just had to get the belt undone and the car door open. He fumbled with and finally managed the catch, breathing deep. The car smelled like something else, too, besides Old Spice--the danish of days-gone-by, maybe? Say something, Eddie. You wanted this--don't let it slip past. "Thanks, Lennie. Really." His tongue felt weirdly thick. "That--helps. It--"
"Ed," his partner said again. Again, Ed turned. Lennie's head was tilted and he wore that trademark half-smile. "Go home. Sleep. We can talk about it tomorrow, if you want."
Ed's chest tightened again and he nodded once more, reaching for the door handle. He needed to leave, yes, before he said something more, something Lennie might not let go of so easily. Talking about the Miller thing, that was--good. It was good. It was opening that door between him and Lennie a little ways. It was what he'd wanted. But if he kept on talking, then he might keep on talking, and talking 'bout that other thing, the thing that hadn't happened, was Out Of The Question.
--
By the time he unlocked his apartment door, Lennie had pretty much resigned himself to the idea that he was going to like his new partner.
New? A little voice in his head snickered.
Yeah, well, so it took a while. Shuddup already. He snorted wryly as he flipped on the lights and locked the door behind himself. While his apartment wasn't the walk-in closet he'd once joked to Mike about, it was definitely on the small side. Which was just as well, he'd decided over the years--he didn't really need more space just for himself and he wasn't home that much, anyway. Less to keep clean, too.
The message light on his phone was blinking and he frowned at it, looking at his watch. Shouldn't be an emergency--his daughter Julia had his cell phone and beeper numbers, of course, if she needed to reach him right away. So did the NYPD, and the friends of his who mattered. Which left the friends who didn't matter, and sales people and equally annoying idiots like that. He tapped the Play button.
"Hey, it's me." Mike Logan's familiar voice issued from the tiny speaker. "Call me at home when you get in, all right?"
Lennie's frown deepened. Mike was one of the "friends who mattered," even though they didn't talk that often, so this probably wasn't any emergency. And Mike hadn't sounded like he was in trouble, so--what?
Well, it could wait 'till he got his coat off, anyway, whatever it was. Lennie shrugged out of his navy wool and hung it and his scarf over the coat tree by the door. When his building had been broken up into apartments way back when, closet space hadn't been high on anybody's list of concerns.
He headed for the bedroom next, discarding his suit jacket and tie and toeing off his shoes with a sigh of relief. Donning his favorite pair of leather slippers and a battered sweater, he nudged up the temperature on the thermostat in the hall as he passed it again. November. Ugh. But there was no point in spending money to heat space when he wasn't in it.
Back in his small main room, he picked up the phone and dialed Mike's number from memory. Tucking the receiver under his ear--gotta love cordless--he walked into his tiny kitchen next to pull out filter and grounds for a short pot of decaf, something to offset the chill until his place warmed up a bit.
One ringy-dingy, two ringy-dingy, three--
"Logan."
"You rang?"
"Hey, Lennie." His old partner's terse professional tone melted into something warmer. "Ed get home all right?"
"Door to door service, " Lennie quipped, pouring water into the new coffee maker he'd treated himself to last Christmas. Just because he put up with crappy coffee at the 2-7 didn't mean he had to put up with it at home, too.
"Probably for the best," Mike said. "He looked like maybe he shouldn'ta had that last beer." There was the faintest upswing there at the end, asking without asking.
"I don't think he's a drinker, not on the job. I've been there, and I don't see it in him," Lennie said slowly. "And not off-hours, either, I'm betting. He was...." He found himself suddenly protective of his current partner's privacy. "He was upset, really upset, tonight."
"I got that." Despite the choice of words, there was no sarcasm in Mike's voice. A pause. "Didja...talk to him?"
It was Lennie's turn to pause this time. He watched the coffee begin its slow, gentle run into the glass pot, its welcome smell filling the air. "We talked," he said at last. Yeah, we talked. I put out that I was still more worked up over Miller's lawyer's shenanigans than I really was, and Ed took the bait and asked. Think I'll push a little tomorrow, too, see if I can get an idea of how often this happens. 'Cause I'm thinking it's not very often--Ed's never been out 'sick,' and he's never come in hungover, either, not that I know of, since we've been partnered. "And he is worked up over the racial thing. Arresting Miller put him on the outside, and that stings."
"Don't it just." To his credit, Mike refrained from any "told you so" type remark. "You guys gonna be better now, y'think?"
"Maybe." Lennie reached absently up into the cabinet overhead for a mug. "There's something else eating his lunch, though; something he wouldn't hint at other than saying it was personal. Outside-of-work personal."
Mike made a little "mrph" noise. "He seems like a decent guy, Lennie. He'll get a lot outta working with you."
"Sure, he's learning how the old white dawgs do it," Lennie retorted, but he smiled as he dumped sugar into his cup. The coffee was about a third of the way done. "Is this why you called? To grill me about Ed?"
"What, can't a guy just call?"
"At ten o'clock on a weeknight when we just spent the evening together shooting the shit? And you miss me already? And you ain't known Ed long enough to be all that concerned. I always like talkin' to ya, Mike, but what's this about, really? 'S there something wrong?"
Silence, then a gusty sigh in his ear. "Wrong? Yeah. It's about...." Another pause. "It's about trying to...trying to fix something I know I can't, I guess. Lennie...I'm sorry."
Lennie stopped in the midst of reaching to swap his mug for the pot and letting the fresh brew flow directly into the cup. "Sorry? For what?"
"For fucking things up six years ago. If I hadn't lost it back then, with Crossley, you wouldn't be struggling with Ed Green now."
With six years gone by, it shouldn't have been a big deal. It certainly shouldn't have made the world give a small hop sideways the way it did. Lennie leaned against the edge of the kitchen counter and closed his eyes, thankful Mike had dropped that little bomb before he'd picked up the glass pot. Before today, it had always been about how Mike's actions had screwed up Mike's world, about Mike's exile and his desperate need to get back to Manhattan. There'd been almost no indication that Mike had ever considered just what his little stunt had done to Lennie. Still, it shouldn't matter that much now. But it did. It did.
"And yeah," Mike was going on, "I'm way, way too late saying this, but.... Anyway, I wanted to tell you."
Some moments of silence followed, during which Lennie thought about second chances, and new starts. How tough his own new start had been, and how much it had meant that certain people had been willing to give him one more chance--
"Lennie?"
"Ed's not that bad. But I think maybe Staten's done you some good," Lennie said carefully, eyes still closed.
Mike snorted. "Maybe. I never did learn much the easy way. But I messed with your world, too, and that wasn't right."
"It's done and gone, Mike." Lennie opened his eyes and smiled, looked at the coffee pot, at his mug, at his neat but worn kitchen cabinets. There was more light in the room, somehow. "But thanks for saying it."
Mike made that "mrph" sound again. The following moments of silence felt easy now, and eventually Mike spoke again. "Hey, you got plans for the weekend? I'm off Sunday, thank God, and I'm thinking pizza and the football game."
Lennie had to grin. "What is this, a date?"
A much louder, ruder snort in his ear this time. "I just don't want six months going by before I gotta reason to call you again, is all. I'm being proactive." Mike's voice had acquired that slightly smug edge it got when he was pleased. Or relieved. "So, Sunday?"
Lennie agreed, and they said their goodbyes. Clicking off the phone, he laid it on the counter and finally poured himself that cup of coffee, then regarded the cordless receiver thoughtfully. Words. So much could change with the right words, whether face to face or not. Relationships, new and old, could take on just enough of a different hue when colored by a few right words. Words between he and Mike; words between he and Ed.
Lennie took a deep breath, let it out with a easy smile. No matter what happened with the Kearsey trial, tomorrow was already looking like a better day.
Finis