The Good Cop (4 page)

So, things were starting to settle down and I plodded along from ho-hum case to ho-hum case. I tried very hard, with marginal success, not to think about it, for whenever I did, my mind whispered
Do the words ‘dead-end job' ring a bell, Dickie-Boy?
Of course that wasn't really fair or accurate. I'd had several really interesting cases and knew perfectly well I'd have more. But an occasional bout of self-pity is good for the soul.

Part of my problem was that while I considered myself to be adrift in a Sargasso Sea of non-progress, luckily my friends were doing quite well for themselves.

Phil had signed a contract to be the official underwear model for Spartan Briefs, thus providing teenage and adult gay and closeted males across the nation with an endless supply of fantasy fodder.

Jared had applied for a teaching position at, and been accepted by, Mountjoy College, a small but prestigious liberal arts college noted for the large number of its graduates who went on to government foreign service. I, like his other friends, was relieved that Mountjoy's campus is only about an hour north of the city, so we'd still be able to see him regularly.

And Tom had earned a citation for rescuing a fellow officer involved in a serious traffic accident in which the officer's squad car had caught fire, trapping him inside. Tom had risked his life to pull the other cop to safety. He'd been on the force less than a year, and was rapidly becoming, as he had been in all other aspects of his life, their golden child.

So it was with considerable pleasure that I picked up the ringing phone in my office to hear Tom's voice.

“Hi, stranger,” I said. “How's our resident hero doing?”

“
Please
don't do that ‘hero' routine,” he said, not angrily but in a tone that said he meant it. “…like anybody else would just have stood there and watched Jake die.”

“Sorry,” I said, mildly embarrassed. “You're right, of course. But how
are
you doing?”

The good humor had returned to his voice when he said: “I've got the weekend off! The whole weekend! Well, I'm on call, of course, but…and Lisa and Carol are going out of town—some mutual friend's wedding—and the apartment's just sitting here empty, and I was wondering if you'd like to come over and spend the weekend with me.”

Gee, let me think that one over,
I thought.

“Sure! That sound's great! You want to go to dinner Friday night as a weekend kickoff?”

“Yeah, I'd like that.” There was a slight pause, and then: “It's not like I don't love my job, but I really do need to kick back for awhile and just be me.”

“We'll work on it. What time Friday, then?”

He was quiet again for a second, apparently thinking, then said: “I get off at three; why don't you come by around six or so? Will that give you time to swing by your place and pick up your toothbrush? But you probably won't need to bring much in the line of clothes.”

I got the message, and was sure he was right.

*

I left work around 4:30 Friday, went home, showered, changed clothes, and tossed a few things in an overnight bag. It wasn't like I was going to Tibet, and I could always just walk home and get anything I needed. But I liked the whole idea of a “get-away weekend,” even though it was only a couple blocks.

At two minutes to six, I was ringing the buzzer to apartment 6-G, overnight bag in hand. I rather hoped I wouldn't run into any of Tom's neighbors in the hallway. While the real reason why some guy was walking into Tom's place with an overnight bag probably never would have occurred to them, it might have seemed a bit odd.

Well, why didn't you just pack everything in a pizza box and pretend you're making a delivery?,
my mind said sarcastically.
What the hell are you worried about, anyway?

Well, it had a point, and I guess I was just a tad…conflicted?…about this whole Tom and Lisa situation. It really bothers me when people don't feel, for whatever reason, that they can just be who they are. Every now and then, when self-realization rears its ugly head, it dawns on me what a heterophobe I really am. I'm certainly not proud of it, but it's a part of me and so I live with it.

Tom had the door open even before I reached it. We did our shake-hands-at-the-open-door-and-bear-hug-when-the-door-is-closed routine. Apparently his training at the academy had included a lot of physical workouts, because his hug was just this side of rib-cracking. Tom motioned me to a seat.

“Too early for a drink?”

I shook my head vigorously. “Perfect time.”

“I've got something to show you, first.” He went to open a drawer at one end of the credenza. Reaching in, he pulled out a small wooden case, which he unlocked with a key from his key ring. When he brought the case over and opened it, I saw that it was lined with cotton batting, in the center of which was…a gun in a small leather holster.

“It was Lisa's dad's off-duty weapon,” Tom said, obviously delighted. “…from when he was on the force. He sent it to me for my graduation from the academy. What a great thing for him to do.”

I recognized it as a short-barrel .357 magnum—much easier to conceal than the regulation model. It looked brand new—though, if Lisa's dad had had it, it had to be at least 15 years old, if not older.

“Uh, doesn't the Police Department furnish you with a gun?” I asked, hoping he knew I was kidding.

Tom grinned. “Sure. But we're allowed to carry a weapon off duty, and everybody has their own. The rules vary from department to department: Some won't allow anything but your service revolver, which can get a bit cumbersome when you're not in uniform. I was planning on buying one, but then this came. It really means a lot to me. Our service issue is a .38, and I had to qualify on the police firing range to carry this one before I could carry it officially. I always keep it locked up when I'm home, though.”

I noticed, as I was slipping the gun back into the holster, that the small strap that attached the holster to the wearer's belt was broken. Tom saw me looking at it.

“I know. I can't figure out how in hell that could have happened. Leather's not supposed to do that. But it is pretty old, so I suppose…. I had to order a new one; it should have been here by now.”

I put the gun and holster back in the case, which he took, carefully locked, then went to replace it in the drawer.

“So,” he said, turning back to me with a smile, “how about that drink? A Manhattan, I assume?”

“Great, thanks.” I got up from the settee and followed him into the kitchen while he went to the cupboard for the liquor.

“Grab the ice cubes out of the freezer, would you?” he asked as he reached for glasses. “And there's some salsa in the fridge—chips should be in that cupboard right by your head.”

Between the two of us, we got everything organized. I carried our drinks back into the living room while he followed with the chips and salsa. I set the drinks on the coffee table, then sat back down on the love seat. After tearing open the bag of chips and putting the bowl of salsa beside it on the coffee table, he plunked down beside me, his hand immediately laying itself casually on my knee.

He turned to me with a smile. “Nice to see you.”

I put my hand over his. “You, too.”

He leaned forward and kissed me—not a “wow, let's get it on right now” kiss, but a kiss that conveyed a lot more: the kind of kiss straight guys might give their best buddies if they dared. I recognized it for what it was, even though I had to send a mental shorthand message to my crotch to cool it for the moment. The good stuff would be coming along later.

We picked up our drinks and sat back, hands still joined.

“So how come you're not married?” Tom asked, then broke into a broad grin. “No, not Lisa-and-Tom married—you know, Dick-and-Joe married.”

I shrugged. “Good question. Wish I had an answer.”

We were quiet for another minute or so, sipping our drinks, and then I couldn't resist asking: “What about you? Don't you want a lover?”

Tom stared pensively into his glass, lips pursed. Then he brought his eyes back up to mine. “Sure, some day. Maybe I'll be lucky enough to find somebody in the same boat as Lisa and I—though I realize that's not exactly a very deep pool for fishing. I'm really glad Lisa has Carol, and I do admit it would be nice to have someone just for me. But I realize that not many guys would be able to adjust to this kind of a relationship. I don't imagine you would.”

I didn't know if he was being rhetorical or specific, but I think I could figure it out, and I was both embarrassed and a little ashamed of myself because he was right…I couldn't.

Tom took a quick, quiet intake of breath and gave my hand a quick squeeze. “So,” he said, “for the foreseeable future….”

“Well,” I said, trying to lighten the air a bit, “it's surely not as though you were doomed to a life of celibacy.” I gave him a wicked smile. “Not as long as I'm around, anyway.”

He pulled back his head and opened his eyes wide as if he were totally surprised. “Well, thank you sir,” he said, then let his expression segue into a softer smile. “I just might take you up on your kind offer.”

“Any time,” I said with a smile.

Now! Now!
my crotch yelled, and I quickly squeezed my legs together to shut it up.

*

We took our time finishing our drinks, talking about everything and nothing, laughing and reminiscing. When our glasses were empty, Tom said: “Like another? Or are you in a hurry to go out? I was thinking maybe we might just order in a pizza or something.”

“Fine with me. I'm plenty comfortable just staying in.”

“Good.” Getting up from the love seat, he picked up the glasses and heading for the kitchen. “Where's a good place to get delivery pizza around here?”

“Momma Rosa's about as good as they make 'em. And it's pretty close-by.”

“Great,” Tom said from the kitchen, where I could hear the clink of ice cubes being dropped into our glasses. “You want to call them? The phone's just around the corner in the hall, and the book's in the little drawer in the phone stand.”

“I think I remember the number.” I got up and went to find the phone. “Large sausage, pepperoni, green olives, onion and…half mushroom for you, half anchovy for me. Right?”

“You
are
good!” Tom said from the kitchen. “How in hell can you remember that after all these years.”

I dialed Momma Rosa's and listened as the phone rang several times. “It hasn't been all
that
long,” I said, hand over the mouthpiece. And at that moment, it really didn't seem so. “And if you'll recall, we practically lived on the st…”

“Momma Rosa's.”

I placed the order.

*

About 25 minutes later, Tom had just excused himself to go to the bathroom when the buzzer rang.

“I'll get it,” I called to Tom, getting up to go to the door.

When I heard the knock, I opened it to find Jeff Barber, whose parents owned the laundromat I'd gone to for the past several years—in no small part because Jeff, now about 18, was a singularly tasty piece of eye candy who had been rather blatantly coming on to me since he was around 16. I never took him up on his offer, to the ill-concealed disappointment of my crotch, but….

Jeff was carrying a large Momma Rosa's pizza box, and seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

“Dick!” he said with a very large and very sexy grin. “I didn't know you lived here!”

“I don't,” I said, reaching into my back pocket for my billfold. “Just visiting a friend. And what are you doing delivering pizzas?”

“I'm starting college pretty soon, and need the extra money.” His grin never faded. The tip of his tongue appeared at one corner of his mouth and slowly traced the inside of his lower lip.

Gee, I sure wish I'd brought my Dictionary of Sexual Signals
, I thought.

I took out a bill considerably larger than the cost of the pizza, and we did a hand-off exchange. He reached into his pocket for change, but I told him to keep it. “For your college fund.”

At that moment, Tom came back into the room and Jeff gave him a long, hard, and very appreciative look.

“You've got nice…friends,” Jeff said in a lowered voice that left no doubt whatsoever what he meant.

“Thanks.”

“I'm still holding you to your promise,” Jeff said as he gave Tom a big smile and small wave, which Tom returned.

“You've got it,” I said, as he turned and went out the door.

As soon as the door had closed, I walked the pizza over and handed it to Tom, who was grinning at me. “Hitting on pizza delivery boys now? Have you no shame?”

I returned the grin and explained the situation, and that I'd once told Jeff that he was way too young for me, but that if he was still interested when he turned 21….

“Why wait? He seems pretty eager right now, and he's old enough to know what he wants.”

“Yeah, I know. Hard to explain—maybe the old Midwest, middle class ethic, but I just wouldn't feel right about it. No accounting for how the mind works.”

“Ah, Hardesty the Heartbreaker,” Tom said as he set the pizza on the coffee table and opened the lid.

*

A nice night, in every way. No sense of hurry, none of the “Hi, my name's Dick…ya wanna go home and fuck?” urgency of picking up a trick a few minutes before Last Call. Lots of time to explore, and experiment, and enjoy. That Tom hadn't had a chance to be with anyone for quite a while certainly showed, but in a nice way.

We got to sleep around two or so, woke up for a spontaneous somewhat-delayed replay at about four, then went back to sleep, totally relaxed and comfortable.

*