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Tomorrow, we head off to bright and beautiful Tanglewood for the 3rd annual 'Music Under the Stars' with the star's club, Hofstra University and NASA... todaaaay...
Banner by aliensouldream
Title: Beantown Blue--5
Pairing/Characters: Casey, Zeke (pairing?)
Rating: Hard R
Genre: AU
Warning(s): various crimes (murder, rape specifically), some grisly images, heavy angst
Author's Note: This story isn't of the fluffy variety, and is chock-full of AU. Nevertheless, I won't be getting too, too nasty with it. I also don't know the ins-and-outs of detective work, murder investigations, etc., but I'm doing my best.
Disclaimer: Don't own!
Synopsis: Set in present-time Boston, MA., Zeke's life as a police officer intertwines with a certain intriguing coroner's.
Previous Parts
There was a cloud hanging over Zeke the next day. It didn't matter that the weather had been perfect, a sunny seventy-one degrees that left the streets a pleasant breezy-warm when he started his shift. He'd gotten enough sleep, taken his vitamins and had a hearty dose of nicotine before heading into the station, but his brain was focused on other things.
Biscuits. Fucking hippies. Zeke waited in the squad car for Tim, who needed a pack of his own smokes ("I don't smoke that fancy crap," he'd teased Zeke when Zeke had offered one of his to get him by) and a piss. His eyes were open but unfocused, lips sipping coffee on automatic. His concentration wasn't on being 'ready for anything', but dwindling back to the night before, all the things he and Casey had talked about. Being with Casey, altogether. Though it still felt odd that he was 'hanging out' with the resident weirdo, it also felt cool. Dangerous, even; secret meetings that no one needed to know about. Zeke was getting information and processing it the way a detective needed to--and Casey saw it, honed in on it with all the confidence in the world. Zeke couldn't remember the last time anyone had made him feel this important, and he barely knew the guy. No one knew him, not like this...
"Sorry, it turned into a number two."
Zeke's attention was snagged by Tim, who now returned behind the wheel, grunting and groaning. "S'okay," Zeke said.
"Break-time soon. Where you wanna chow?" Tim asked as he pulled away from the curb. Zeke shrugged.
"Eh."
Frowning a little, Tim stole a glance at Zeke. "You okay, man? You've been pretty blah today."
"Yea. I know, just been thinkin'."
"'Bout what?"
Zeke put his ankle up on his knee and shrugged. "Our newest victim, there."
"Ah. Yea, it's been under my skin a little. Can't let it get to deep, though," Tim said. "Maybe you'll make Detective before it's closed. Bet you'd find 'im."
"Man, everyone's pulling for me," Zeke said with a smile.
"When you got it, you got it. And you got it. So. Lunch?"
Zeke thought it over a moment. Dinner last night had been divine, but he still felt full from it. "A quick stop for me, I think. I gotta start watching what I shove in my face."
"Not me--I'm hitting some serious grub. Woke up too late to have a REAL breakfast. Coffee and a bite of toast don't cut it," Tim said.
As they drove along, Zeke pondered his options; but when Tim turned off of Kenmore onto Commonwealth, he perked up. The 'Sugar Daddy Smoke Shop' was down the way. Not a consignment shop on Casey's list, but... Zeke cleared his throat and tried his best to look casual in pointing at the small convenience store two doors down from the place. "Just drop me off here, come back and pick me up when you're done."
"You sure?" Tim asked.
"Yea, I'm good."
Though Tim looked a little confused, he shrugged back and slowed to a stop in front of the store. Zeke gave him a smile, a 'See ya', and got out of the car. To look legit, he wandered into the Indian-run store as Tim continued on his way.
One bottle of Pepsi and dollar-scratchie later, Zeke went back out onto the street. The road was packed with the lunch-rush, making it impossible and im-passable. Zeke stopped a few paces away from Sugar Daddy's and looked down on himself. 'Yea, they're gonna LOVE me,' he thought as he took in the sight of Boston-Blues and badges. He had a good nature, understanding and youth on his side, however, so he stood straighter, strode over to the door and walked in.
Tinkling, musical bells announced his arrival. A beaded curtain blocked the view from inside; he stepped past it, getting a little frustrated when one string caught onto his badge and tugged him back. Once freed, Zeke walked in with a meandering, nonthreatening pace. He heard people talking and laughing, then saw a young man behind the counter full of pipes, packets of "vitamin supplements" and other sketchy paraphernalia stand up. "How can I--" he started, but stopped dead. His beard-lined smile faded and he groaned. "Dude, how many times are you guys gonna come by before you get bored with us?"
"Shit, a cop?"
"Again?"
Zeke tried his best to smile as he approached the counter. Two more people, another young man and woman sat in the corner next to glistening, colorful bongs. The girl was stamping out a cigarette, wearing a concerned expression. Zeke cleared his throat, looking to the wall behind the counter-guy. A perfect 'in' sat there. "You sell Djarums?" he asked, pointing to his brand of smokes. The young man cocked an eyebrow, shrugged and plucked a pack from its box. "Two, please. It's been a long day."
The group watched the transaction with careful, wary looks. After handing over the cash, Zeke smirked at the girl. "Smoking indoors can get you in serious shit, y'know."
Before anyone could protest or makes excuses, Zeke tore open one of the packs, plucked a cigarette from the inside and lit it. More looks were exchanged until the counter worker nodded. "Have a nice day, Officer."
"Actually... if you got a minute, I'd--"
"Look, we don't have a pot-farm out back. Wanna look? You guys love checking," the other young man spat. Zeke cocked an eyebrow his way.
"I'd like to ask a few questions," he finished. Another long pause...
"Like what?" Counter-boy said.
Zeke stood straight as he puffed away. Get into serious shit, indeed; but like hell if these guys would say anything about it, without giving themselves away. "A few cases have popped up involving the crowd you guys run around in," Zeke said. "I know shit-all about hippie-culture and wondered if you'd help me out."
More wary glances were made, until the counter-boy made a lone chuckle, leaned on the shelf behind him and shook his head. "Okay, I know MY shit when it comes to law enforcement. You're a street-beater, not a detective," he said.
"I'm working on that." Wanting things to be more friendly and personal, he held out his hand. "Name's Zeke--and you are?"
How many pauses were there going to be? Zeke tried keeping his patience, knowing who he was talking to. Finally, counter-boy sniffed and took the extended hand to shake lightly. "Cliff. That's Ash and Dee," he said, nodding to each person respectively. They gave curt nods; Zeke nodded back.
"A'right. So, lemmee ask... and don't give me shit if I sound stupid, but do you guys know a band with the name 'biscuit' in it?"
"Um... yea," Dee said with a chuckle. She gave him a look that yelled, 'are you dumb?' "Disco."
"Disco...?"
"Disco Biscuits," Cliff finished for the girl. "Dee loves 'em, but they're too tech-y for me."
"Tech-y?" God, Zeke felt dumber than a box of hammers, even if it wasn't warranted.
"Yea, they're kinda like Phish, only with a techno edge. I had my first camping trip in July," Dee said. Zeke had to chuckle.
"'K, keep in mind that this is Greek to me. Camping is?"
"Camp Bisco. It's a huge music festival out in New York, they hold it every year. It was the ninth anniversary this summer," Ash chimed in.
Things were starting to fall into place; the mechanics of Zeke's mind whirred, fighting for the right questions to keep asking this new well of information. "I know enough about that stuff; it's very community-like, right?" he asked.
"Oh, yea. You meet people from all over the country. I've been all over the map myself," Cliff said. "New York and Colorado specifically. That's where the magic happens the most."
"Cool. Lots of festivals--they sell weird shit there, I've seen," Zeke said.
The questioning, wary looks returned, this time accompanied by wry grins. "Yeeea, Officer Zeke. Don't worry, we avoided the brown acid," Ash said.
"Hah, no, I meant cool things, toys, whatever. Like... have you guys ever seen these really awesome laser-pointers, like... disco balls, lots of rainbow-lights--" Zeke stopped dead when a sphere of colors, little dots of dancing light appeared on the ceiling above them. 'Holy shit--that IS cool,' he thought as he looked down at Dee, who was swaying the device around and wearing a broad smile.
"I keep it on me at all times. I once went to a party with a bunch of people who had 'em, we tripped-out like you wouldn't believe," she said.
"Where'd you get it?" Zeke said with a note of eagerness in his voice.
"I got this one at All-Good, but Bisco had 'em, too. Same guy makes 'em, follows the bands like us," Dee said.
"So it ain't like anyone can just snag one off of EBay, right?"
"Nope. I'd kill to sell 'em here. They can go for fifty bucks a pop," Cliff replied.
"Hah, I got mine for thirty. Phil loves me," Dee said with an impish grin. "It's the blond hair. He LOVES blonds."
Zeke made a side smile, took another drag and went on. "Phil. He a good guy?"
"Oh yea. One of the best around," Ash said. "I was at last year's All-Good when this chick went into labor. The walk back to the parking lot was ridiculous, and she wasn't a classic case. The kid was practically jumping out, so Phil rolled his sleeves up, dropped down and delivered it like a pro. Total hero."
"He's been around since the height of Haight-Ashbury," Dee said, sighing wistfully. "I was meant for the sixties, damn it..."
"This might be an even stupider question, but do you know where he is? Does he have a card, or... something?"
"Mmm, no. He only goes to festivals to sell, travels a lot. Like Dee said, he was a California-guy, but I don't think he has an address. Just his big-ass van," Cliff said.
"But... what's this about, anyway?" Dee asked.
Zeke felt a ball of tension in his throat, this question being asked. He couldn't come right out and give details, even as a detective. Not as comprehensive as he'd like, anyway. "Like I said, we've got a couple cases. Someone--had that laser pointer, and I've been trying to connect the dots, find out about the festivals, that stuff."
"Dots," Dee said, waving the pointer around with an even wider smile.
"Hah, yea, that's a cool piece. Maybe I'll have to drop by a fest and see if Phil's around to snag one," Zeke said.
Dee now gave him an appraising stare. "I got a bunch--for parties and times like these. Wanna buy one?"
~*~
He'd gone above and beyond, breaking rules along the way, but Zeke was starting not to care. When his shift was over, he jetted down to Albany Street to the coroner's office. Knowing that no new cases had brought any of his co-workers down, he felt safe enough to walk in and go to the front desk. Sherry, the desk girl, looked up at him and smiled. "Hey, Zeke. What's goin' on?"
"Not much. Just got off shift, wanted to see if Casey was around," he said.
"Oh. Yea, he is, in his office. Why?"
Zeke had prepared his lies, of course. "Eh, he's kinda become my tennis buddy. I wanted to see when his next day off was, maybe get together so I could kick HIS ass, instead of him wiping the courts with mine," he replied. Sherry cocked an eyebrow and chuckled.
"Well, that's rare. The guy NEVER socializes. Anyway, go ahead on in." She leaned over behind her and pressed the door button.
Zeke gave her a winning smile, thanked her and headed over to the buzzing doorway. Now in the hall, he took the pointer from his pocket and made a beeline for the office door marked 'Head Coroner'. While Freeman was top-dog here, they all had to share space. Zeke gave it a knock.
"C'mon in," Casey's voice called out. Zeke clicked the pointer on, turned the knob and opened the door a crack to stick his hand inside. After a few wrist-flicks aiming the lights towards the ceiling, he heard Casey gasp. "Whoooa... Tyler?"
Zeke opened the door fully and stepped in. "I told Sherry we're tennis-buds, so stick to that story so we don't get into deep shit," he said.
Casey stood up from the desk in a shot, rounded it and took the pointer from Zeke's hand. "Fuck, where'd you find it??"
"Smoke shop on Commonwealth. I decided to spend lunch talking to a bunch of dead-heads," Zeke replied. "They get this weird-cool stuff at festivals, I was right."
"Hah, duh. Shit..." Casey smiled as he twirled the lights around the ceiling, changing the speed with the little knob on the side. "Did you find out about the biscuit clue?"
"Disco Biscuits, a band. Don't ask, the names they come up with..." Zeke said. "They started a festival out in New York, Camp Bisco. Tons of others, of course, but New York's close."
"That's probably where our girls went. When was it?"
"In July. But, there've been others. One smaller one was just a few weeks ago in Oneida, near the lake. Last of the season, I guess."
Casey gave Zeke a look of awe. "You... are motherfucking amazing."
Zeke chuckled heartily. "Yea, well..."
"I mean that. Seriously. I called Walsh today to see if there'd been updates." Casey rolled his eyes as he went over to his desk again. As he collected papers and folders, he shook his head and said, "I guess McMahon DID go to a few shops to investigate the used-clothes angle, but she came up with squat. You take one jaunt to a hippie-dippy shop and BAM, you've got it."
"We don't know if this is 'it', though."
"But it's the right direction, at any rate. So where can I get one of these, anyway?"
"Festivals. One guy makes 'em, and ONLY one guy. This was a private sell."
"Aw..."
Again, Zeke had to chuckle. He drew out another pointer and turned it on. "Got two. Knew you'd beg me for one until I screamed."
"Serious?" Casey said in a soft voice.
"Yea, why not? The chick who sold it to me got one-hundred percent profit, but it's worth it."
"How much?"
Zeke watched the young man go to his messenger bag to draw out a wallet. "N'aw, don't worry about it. Consider it a 'thank you' for calling Walsh," he said.
Casey looked up from his rummaging around; he blinked slowly as he straightened. "Thanks. Not... that often someone gets me something."
"'Welcome," Zeke said, his smile dimming.
"So, tennis buds. I'll stick to that story, though... well, DID you wanna meet up some time again? I don't come across a ton of tennis partners to play with," Casey said.
It was sad, really. Casey knew what people thought of him, and while he carried enough self-confidence in him to spit back as he had during the social-blunder back at the station, it had to affect him. Zeke wasn't too far off from being a social-miscreant, himself. "That'd be cool. You share the same off-days as me, right?"
"Yea, Wednesdays, anyway."
"Me too. I'll get myself a kick-ass tennis racket to kick YOUR ass with," Zeke said. Casey let out a musical laugh.
"Sounds good!" he said. The pointer was put in his pocket and his bag was zipped up. "I'm done here. But first thing tomorrow, I'm calling Walsh to let him know of our new 'discoveries'."
"Oh--um, leave me outta it. I've been paranoid all day, thinking someone saw me investigating when I shouldn't be," Zeke said.
"But it was your work, Zeke."
"Please, Case, don't. Just say you found stuff online or something. You could get into trouble, too, y'know."
"Well, okay. At least no credit goes to the Keystone Cops for it," Casey said. He went over to the door and opened it, letting them both walk together down the hall. Zeke saw him glancing quick to him a few times, his smile small, almost shy. "I know--that I keep saying this stuff, but--but you really are different, Zeke."
"Hah, maybe." Zeke shrugged; Casey shook his head slowly.
"You are. I'd be willing to bet my new toy and this week's paycheck that when you're on the beat, you get people talking. Because people trust you, even if you're a cop," he said.
"Kinda. I guess."
"You're downplaying yourself, I know it."
"Maybe. Again," Zeke said. Now past the main door, they both gave Sherry a wave goodbye, making sure to talk about the courts at the Common loud enough for her to hear. At least now it wasn't a lie--completely, anyway.
~*~
Zeke washed his hands after the best piss ever; damn Tim and his not wanting to stop for a bathroom-break. After grabbing a paper towel, Zeke stared into the mirror to push back the hair going into his eyes. For a cop, he was letting himself go in the haircut-department. He was starting to like it, if he were to be honest. Any time now, Walsh would be shoving him into a barber shop, but until then, Zeke was going to enjoy 'letting loose' a little.
He was just about to leave when Mike and Joe walked in and headed over to the urinals. Zeke gave them a small smile. "Hey guys... quiet night," he said.
"Thank fuck for that," Mike replied. As he went to the one nearest the stalls, Joe going to the other end, Mike unzipped, stood close and shot a smile to Zeke over his shoulder. "Freeman stopped by while you were gone, give Walsh a few updates."
"Yea? Anything on the victim yet?"
"N'aw. Just a few clues, something about laser pointers. She said Freak-o had found shit online or something," Mike said.
'Freak-o'. Zeke stiffened and tried keeping his expression even. "Yea, he may as well give up the coroner role and be a top detective," Zeke said, hoping he didn't sound as defensive as he felt. "He finds shit out."
Small chuckles went off at that. "Sure," Mike said.
Thinking that was it, Zeke tossed the paper towel into the trash and headed to the door. Before he could leave, however, Joe cleared his throat. "Hey Zeke... just to let you know, Free left a note on your desk," he said.
"Oh... yea?" Zeke said.
"Mmm." Joe finished relieving himself, zipped up and went over to the sinks, closely followed by Mike. "It wasn't from her, though."
Zeke swallowed. "Who, then?"
The men sighed, exchanged amused glances and looked to Zeke. "What's goin' on with you and Connor?" Joe asked outright. Zeke parted his lips and blinked furiously.
"Not--much. We just started hanging out a bit, I dunno," Zeke said.
"Yea, tennis and stuff. Right." Mike's smile dimmed into one of mock-understanding. "Look, you should know a few things before hanging out with the guy."
"Like what?" Zeke replied in an almost-spit. He wasn't liking their expressions, nor the way they got their kicks in taunting the young coroner.
"Well... word's gone 'round that he's got a few other weird kinks." Mike clucked his tongue a moment before going on. "We were just talking to Dan. He was working Columbus the other night, Sunday I think. And he swears up and down that he saw freak-boy hanging around Club Cafe."
Zeke stilled; Club Cafe. While he didn't delve into the social night-life, he knew what that place was about. He'd considered going once, but bailed; all he'd needed was for any of his fellow officers to see him hanging around a gay bar. "Yea... so?" he eventually replied.
"Oh, come on, you know what that club caters to. We're just... warnin' ya," Mike said.
"Never know what 'those people' do, especially a weird-o like Connor--"
"Y'know, I'm getting real sick of that shit. The freak comments, weird-o, whatever else," Zeke cut Joe off to say. "He's just a guy, all right? And like Dan couldn't have mistaken him for someone else."
The men looked lost for words as they stared back at Zeke. Mike was the first to speak, shaking his head quickly. "How many times have we asked you to come out after work, or on days off? You always say 'no thanks', and fine, you don't wanna have a guy's-night-out, big deal. But... really, Tyler, Connor?"
"Don't think the office ain't buzzing about it, Zeke. You've gotta watch it," Joe said.
"Y'know... I hated high school. It was a stupid little shit-hole, with shit-talking dickweeds and cold bitches who climbed the social ladder by stepping on other people. I left that crap behind--have you?" Zeke replied. He knew he sounded confrontational, but didn't care. If he was going to be talked about, he'd give them reason to.
"Wow... hah, forget we said anything. Didn't know he was such a 'good friend' of yours," Joe replied.
"Yea, man. Have fun tomorrow," Mike added before the two of them sauntered over to the door and left. Zeke stared ahead at the wall, unmoving for the moment. He needed to let this sink in...
At least they hadn't started throwing the word 'fag' around. He didn't know what he'd have done if they did.
~*~
Zeke--
Looks like it might rain tomorrow. Here's my number if we have to reschedule: 555-8841
--Casey
A simple, innocuous note could do so much. The looks Zeke was getting around the office held barely-disguised amusement, suspicion or both. He didn't know whether to be thankful that it was a slow night devoid of major crime or if he'd have rather been busting down doors and making arrests left and right. The latter would have taken him away from the others and their taunting expressions.
Tim hadn't said anything about it all, for which Zeke was thankful. By the time he clocked out, Zeke was ready to burst. He couldn't drive home fast enough--but when he got there, yet MORE frustration boiled up in seeing Bobby, once again leaning on Zeke's apartment building. "Not again," he grumbled out loud. Considering their spat at the cafe the week before, this was the last thing he wanted to deal with. Seeing as he couldn't sleep in the car, however, Zeke grunted his way out, shut the door and walked around the car to the curb. He stopped once on the walk. "Yea?" he said.
Bobby made a shaky sigh and sniffed, hard. "'Was gonna call, but... I ran outta minutes."
"Yea, on your phone. What do you want?"
"I, um... ran outta minutes cos'... I called Mom. I didn't wanna bug you, wanted to see--"
"You called Mom?" Zeke interrupted. "How'd you do that??"
"I had her number."
Something hot and hard formed in Zeke's chest. "Oh yea? Funny. I don't have it."
Bobby finally looked to Zeke, giving him a blank stare. After a moment his eyes darted back down to his shifting feet. "I--called Grandma a while back and she gave it to me. It's not like I call her every day, and she doesn't pick up a lot of--"
"What do you want, Bobby?"
"I..." Bobby took a deep breath as if trying to calm himself down. "...She can't take me in. Or won't, whatever. She wouldn't even tell me where she was staying. She told me to go to you."
"For what..." Zeke went to ask, but already knew. Sure enough, Bobby's expression shifted to one of hopeless begging.
"I tried the homeless shelters, but most of 'em are full, can't take me in. The ones that HAVE, fuck, Zeke, it's disgusting. I didn't sleep a wink, these guys, they were watchin' me..." Bobby stopped talking light-speed to swallow and shake his head. "...Swear to god, I haven't taken anything for a whole week. Can't afford it, for fuck's sake. I'm jonesin' like a bitch, but I'm trying--I really am. I gotta have somewhere to stay. I'm fuckin' begging you, Zeke."
Zeke felt like he was going to shake apart, fall to pieces right then and there. On one hand, Bobby couldn't be trusted, he lied, stole, and who the hell knew what he could bring into Zeke's place? One call to the cops and Zeke's job was on the line, never mind the possibility of making detective. But on the other... this was his brother. Blood bound them together, and the giver of that blood couldn't have cared less about either of them. Bobby had no-where and no-one else to go to. "Bobby... this has gotta stop," Zeke finally replied. "I mean that. It's hard out there, I know you've had it rough, but..."
"I know, I know."
"No. You don't, that's the trouble."
Bobby hissed in a long, hot breath. "Just say 'no' and get it over with--"
"You can stay, all right? I'll let you stay--temporarily, you're on probation with me," Zeke cut in to say. Bobby shut up to let him go on. "And it won't be a hand-out, either. You're gonna go get checked out at a clinic, maybe join a group, whatever."
"Zeke, I can't do rehab, I don't got medical or shit..."
"Ain't SAYIN' that, but you're gonna get help. There's a free clinic a few blocks from here, and you're gonna go to it. And most importantly--you bring just one grain of coke in my place--"
"I TOLD you, I've been clean, man!" Bobby blurted.
"You've said that before." Zeke paused; as Bobby scoffed and shook his head, Zeke continued. "I've got a lot going on. I'm gonna be up for review, trying to make detective. It's a BFD for me, and I don't want anything fucking that up."
Bobby nodded slowly. "'K," he said in a soft voice.
"Okay. You've got two weeks to get your shit together, get clean, job-hunt, everything. And I hate housework; you can earn your keep by cleaning the apartment up, do dishes, whatever," Zeke said. "And if you can prove that you ARE filling out job-apps and a piss test shows you're on the up-and-up, maybe you can stay longer. I don't care if you're flipping burgers, as long as you're working your way up. But I need. You. To prove it."
"Promise, Zeke. Okay? I'll do it, I'll do it all."
Zeke made a slow nod, groaned and got out his keys. "All right. Come on," he said. Before he could get to the front door, Bobby got in his way to wrap his arms around him, tight.
"Thanks, big bro," he said; the tears in his voice seemed to convince Zeke that this wasn't a scam--he really, really needed him right now. Zeke held him back with one arm, trying to relax.
~*~
Whether or not Bobby's devotion to Zeke's house rules stuck, Zeke was pleased to find the young man scrubbing dishes when he left his bedroom at noon. "Mornin'," he said; Bobby turned to look at Zeke over his shoulder with a small smile.
"Not mornin'... it's lunch time," he said.
"Whatever." Zeke yawned his way to the fridge and dug out the orange juice. He took a few gulps straight from the carton then let it go with a satisfied gasp. "I'm gonna head out in a few; weather looks good enough for my tennis game."
"Tennis?" Bobby said with a note of amusement. "Since when?"
"Since I actually had a friend to play it with. It's good to exercise--you should try it some time," Zeke replied.
"Hey man, I've been walking the streets a whole week. Never mind the fact that I'm thin as a rail; YOU need the exercise, going by that gut you've got going on."
Zeke looked down at his stomach and frowned. "It's baby-fat."
Bobby outright hooted. "Oh, right! Sure, you're what, twenty-five?"
"Twenty-six."
"I was close."
Zeke smirked and headed back down the hall to the bathroom, calling, "Bring home copies of apps and clinic papers. Dunno when I'll be back. My number's on the fridge just in case."
"'K! Gonna make some eggs first," Bobby shouted back. "Promise, I won't burn the building down!"
Zeke cringed. Joking or not, that was always a feasible possibility.
~*~
For the first fifteen minutes he and Casey were readying for their 'match', Zeke's mind was back home, worrying. He couldn't voice it, especially with how Casey was rambling about the good weather, how they'd lucked, whatever else. Now that they were on the court, however, Zeke did his best to concentrate on the game. Knowing that Casey was good, he prepared himself better this time around with a good stretching-session and half of his large water bottle.
It was Casey who scored first, of course, but not without a fight. When their volleying ended with a sharp smack of the ball against the fence behind Zeke, Casey was panting past his broad smile. "Not as easy with you this time around," he said.
"Just reading your game better," Zeke said as he retrieved the ball.
"You're still playing the class of 2003's tennis star, though. I've got plenty of tricks up my sleeve," Casey said with a wink. Zeke grinned, bounced the ball a few times then made an expert serve; not expert enough to thwart a return, however, but Casey had to struggle yet again. After a few powerful strikes from both of them, Zeke watched with glee as Casey missed--it was only by inches, but the sound of the ball hitting the fence on Casey's side was like music.
"Hah! You just got served."
"Like hell..."
~*~
"That... was a fight."
Zeke plopped down on the bench, feeling like his chest was about to explode. The after-game cigarette he'd planned on would have to wait until he caught his breath. "You... still won," he said between pants.
"By one. Not exactly a landslide," Casey replied.
The water he handed over was taken with a grateful hand. Zeke popped the nozzle up and drank some down; the cooler full of ice that Casey had brought was a god-send. After a few large but careful gulps, the bottle was drawn back and a relieved groan was punched out of Zeke's lips. "Good game, good game," he said.
"Yea. Maybe next time, you'll own it--maybe."
Zeke smiled; with his breathing skills returning, he reached down to his bag and dug out his cigarettes. "Yep, time for some nicotine--" he went to say, but stopped when he heard his cell ringing. He reached into his pocket; the caller ID showed his number. Worry filled him as he hit 'talk'. "Bobby?"
"Hey yea, what's up?"
There weren't any alarms or sirens in the background, easing Zeke's mind. "Not much, just finished a game."
"Cool. So hey, yea... I went out to the clinic. Things seems all right... AND I threw an app in at the coffee shop down the way," Bobby said. "The Rite Aid I stopped in at only have online-apps, though. Mind if I use your computer?"
"No, that's all right," Zeke replied.
"What's the password to get in?"
"Oh... Capital-S, Smart, six, zero, Capital T, Toad."
Bobby chuckled. "Never would guessed THAT..."
Zeke smiled as he heard the clacking of keys. "That's kinda the point of passwords," he said.
"Yea, yea. Talk to you when you get back."
"'K, see ya." Zeke hung up the phone then sank against the fence. "Sorry 'bout that."
"No problem. Roomie?" Casey asked. Zeke swallowed.
"No. Well... yea, I guess. My brother, Bobby," Zeke said in a low voice. Realizing he hadn't set up his fix, he drew out his lighter, lit up, took a drag then let it out in a rush. "He's staying with me a bit."
"Oh. That's cool. I don't have any siblings... wish I did," Casey replied.
"Hah, count yourself lucky."
"Is... he okay?"
The question made Zeke's small smile disappear. He could easily say, 'Yea, wanna get another game going?' to avoid it, but... since when did he have anyone to talk about it with? "He's a mess. Always has been. Lots of dysfunction in my family... more than usual," Zeke said. "He's actually my half-brother, different dads. Mom wasn't a 'mom'. That shit."
Casey nodded slowly. "Sorry to hear that."
"Nothing I ain't used to, by now," Zeke said. "He's... trouble. Drug issues, depression, whatever else. No job, no home..."
"Damn... REAL sorry to hear that," Casey said. He took a gulp of water as Zeke made a listless shrug and continued staring up at the treetops and sky. After a sigh, Casey said, "No family's perfect, though. My dad? Hah... he was military. He expected me to be the same, but... look at me."
Zeke did, and he had to grin. Good at tennis or no, the young man was about the size of a stamp. "Dads do that," Zeke said.
"Yea. When I couldn't do stuff, sports... I mean, tennis wasn't a 'real sport', not to him. He wanted me to be this big, buff football player. I was one disappointment after another." Casey gnawed his lower lip a moment. "I never stepped outta line, but just dropping a dish earned an afternoon of push-ups."
Zeke shook his head. "Nice guy."
"Oh yea, real creampuff. Anyway..." Casey shook his hand dismissively and his smile returned. "You wanna have another round or go out for some food?"
"We've been at it for hours. I vote food."
"Seconded."
~*~
The hot dog cart at the edge of the park had suited them just fine, offering franks of all kinds with as many fixings as they could ask for. While they differed when it came to mustard, they'd almost cleaned the poor server's onions out in one go. That and the cold colas went down easy, filling their tired bodies with protein and carbs.
As they shared casual conversation, Zeke noticed the lack of work coming up. This wasn't the time to discuss rape and murder, nor the victims that had received such things. Instead, Zeke found himself sharing stories about his growing up, leading to more correlations between the two when Casey revealed that he, too, had secretly harbored a love for Barbie and Ken straight into middle school. Of course, that didn't come without unpleasantness...
"My science study-partner found 'em... he told everyone," Casey revealed, following up with the repercussions in school over it. While Zeke hadn't been bullied and tormented, he'd seen enough to know how it worked. Casey spoke of it casually enough, but it was easy to tell how it stuck. "I was the class freak, of course," Casey said with a sigh. "Not that I minded. I was... hell, am."
Zeke bit his small smile. "Nothing wrong with being a bit freaky."
"Mmm." Casey hummed, finished his drink and looked to Zeke with a knowing smile. "I know the stuff that goes around the office. What they say... so yea. It's followed me into my adult life."
This brought some discomfort, of course. Nevertheless, Zeke shrugged. "Don't let it get to you. They're just the typical guys that talk shit. I stuck up for you yesterday."
"Oh yea?" Casey brightened, his face beaming. "Thanks."
"No prob."
"What were they saying now?"
Hoo boy... Zeke sniffed and tried shrugging again, coming out as an awkward jerk. "Typical bullshit, the 'freak' comments, whatever. It gets boring after a while. And... don't get it ALL wrong, you've got respect from 'em, even if they say stupid stuff."
Casey nodded slowly. "Thanks... for being honest."
"Not gonna lie to you."
"A lot do. But you're the first person I've worked with that's ever wanted to hang out. Y'know?" Casey said. "Hang out with me, meaning."
"Yea. The guys ask me to go with them to the bars, but... I think it's more outta duty than actually wanting me around. They're... okay. They try. Whatever," Zeke said.
Casey sighed, smiled and looked to his watch. "Wow... five-thirty, already?"
"Hey, we've been here a while."
"I know... didn't feel like it, though. You want to get going, maybe head over to my place? Watch movies, something?"
Zeke thought it over; well, what was the harm? "Yea, sure. I should run home quick though, check on Bobby. Where do you live?"
Casey's bright expression glowed. "In Cambridge, right off of twenty-eight; fifty-six Winter Street."
"Cool. What time--seven-ish?"
"Sure."
Zeke smiled, gathered up his things and walked with Casey back to the lot. As Casey chattered about his gigantic movie collection ("You can bring one too, if you want. I go for romantic comedies."), Zeke kept taking glances to him. He found himself smiling and enjoying the fact that he had a real, honest-to-goodness friend. Finally.
~*~
"I'm home!" Zeke called into the darkening apartment. He could see light coming from the living room from his computer set-up, but no Bobby sat at it. It was deathly quiet. "Hey--Bobby? You here?" he yelled, but jumped when he saw Bobby come out from the hallway, looking rushed. "Hey, what's..." Zeke went to ask, but stopped dead when Bobby turned to him with an icy expression. "...Up?"
Bobby only sniffed and stormed into the living room. Zeke blinked furiously and followed him. On the couch sat the duffel bag he'd gotten him; Bobby was shoving his things into it in a flurry of movement. "Hey... hey, what the hell's wrong?"
Bobby whirled around on his heels and pointed towards the computer, saying nothing. When Zeke turned to look, he paled at what sat on the screen. A shaky sigh escaped Bobby's lips. "Didn't know you were a fuckin' fag."
The images of naked men on naked men, come-splashed stomachs made Zeke's insides lurch. He turned back to Bobby, wide-eyed and flustered. "The fuck... were you looking around in my folders for?"
"Got bored."
"What, you ran outta internet??"
Bobby stood straighter, his expression fiery. "What the fuck are you doing, looking at disgusting shit like that?? Huh?? Are you really a goddamned queer, Zeke?"
Zeke couldn't seem to find the words to say, causing Bobby to huff and sniff angrily. "Guess that's my answer." Bobby turned back to his bag to zip it closed. Breathing became difficult as Zeke rushed in.
"Don't you fucking call me a fag, asshole. After everything I've done for you--"
"You haven't done shit! Not when it mattered!"
"Oh, here we go a-GAIN, the 'wah, poor me!' act from Bobby Wilcowski..." Zeke said in a growl. "FUCK you and your blame game. You don't like that I like dick? Then get the fuck out."
"That's what I'm doing, if you couldn't fucking tell already," Bobby retorted. "And don't act like you're a motherfucking saint, someone I should worship for handing me a place to sleep every now and a-fucking-gain. If a drug dealer did it for me before, you ain't special. Especially if you take cock in your ass--"
Zeke wasn't thinking as he grabbed the front of Bobby's shirt, brought him over to the wall and slammed him up against it. The look of shock and fear in Bobby's face as he leaned in made Zeke growl inches away from his face. "I don't care WHAT you think, you little fucking prick! You say I ruined your life, huh, wasn't around? Huh? Yea, cos' I LOVED being 'daddy' to you when yours bailed on us and Mom fucked off, LOVED it."
"Get y-your hands off of me, f-fag--"
"Yea, call me that all you fuckin' want, know why? Because your opinion means shit to me." Zeke gave him another shove then let him go. The young man almost fell on the floor in a heap, knees buckling. He caught himself before he did; eyes were set on Zeke, a mix of fear and anger swelling like waves in the brown. Zeke stepped away quick, grabbed Bobby's bag and tossed it at his chest. "Go get some drugs laced with rat poison, will ya? Do us ALL a fuckin' favor."
"Yea, maybe I will," Bobby coldly replied.
"Good. I see you on my motherfuckin' doorstep again and I'll make you a PART of it."
With one last snarl and "Fuckin' faggot," Bobby was rushing to the door, throwing it open and slamming it closed behind him. Zeke stared at it, fists and jaw clenching. It wasn't until his phone rang that he looked away. Flustered and confused, he grabbed it from his pocket and flipped it open. "Forget something??" he spat into it.
"Huh?"
Zeke blinked; the action caused tears he didn't realize he had to fall. "Who's this?"
"Casey. I was calling to ask if you like kettle-corn. I have a machine to make it."
Shit. Zeke shook his head and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. "Yea, listen--I can't come tonight."
"Oh. Why not? Everything okay?" Casey asked.
"No, obviously not. I don't feel like talking about it, let's catch up some other time."
"Oh... okay. What about tomorrow? I have it off--"
"Jesus, NO, not in the fuckin' mood!" Zeke interrupted in one of the angriest voices he'd ever heard come out of him. It couldn't be helped; if Casey wanted to be oblivious...
"I'm sorry," Casey said in a small voice, almost a whisper. "I'll... see ya."
Instant guilt slammed into Zeke, hearing the hurt on the other end. Before Casey could hang up, he quickly blurted, "Casey, I'm sorry. Sorry... not you, it was--my fucking brother." He waited a moment; before he could worry that he hadn't said that in time, he heard a sigh.
"Had a fight?" Casey asked.
"Yea. Yea, kinda hardcore this time," Zeke replied in a heavy, tired breath. He put his hand to his wet cheeks, wiping them away as he stumbled to the couch and flopped down on it. "He said shit, I said shit... Jesus. I just can't deal with him..."
"I'm sorry, Zeke. And... sorry if I annoyed you. I didn't mean to."
A tiny smile sneaked onto Zeke's face. "No, you didn't. Well... okay, a little bit. But you didn't know."
"I'm good at making social blunders," Casey cheekily replied. As Zeke chuckled lightly, Casey made another sigh. "Look, you're sure you don't wanna come by? Drown your sorrows in kettle-corn and homemade sangria?"
Zeke raised his eyebrows. "Sangria, huh?"
"Best you'll ever have, yup."
The idea of hanging around Casey, who sounded all-too-willing to let him blubber about his troubles and distract him from them sounded better than anything else, right now. Zeke nodded. "Yea, I'll come over. I gotta chill... it'd suck to be alone right now."
"Good. See ya in a bit, then."
"'K." Zeke took the phone away from his ear, snapped it closed and let out a long, heavy breath. Driving through Boston wasn't going to be fantastic, but the sangrias probably were.
Banner by aliensouldream
Title: Beantown Blue--5
Pairing/Characters: Casey, Zeke (pairing?)
Rating: Hard R
Genre: AU
Warning(s): various crimes (murder, rape specifically), some grisly images, heavy angst
Author's Note: This story isn't of the fluffy variety, and is chock-full of AU. Nevertheless, I won't be getting too, too nasty with it. I also don't know the ins-and-outs of detective work, murder investigations, etc., but I'm doing my best.
Disclaimer: Don't own!
Synopsis: Set in present-time Boston, MA., Zeke's life as a police officer intertwines with a certain intriguing coroner's.
Previous Parts
There was a cloud hanging over Zeke the next day. It didn't matter that the weather had been perfect, a sunny seventy-one degrees that left the streets a pleasant breezy-warm when he started his shift. He'd gotten enough sleep, taken his vitamins and had a hearty dose of nicotine before heading into the station, but his brain was focused on other things.
Biscuits. Fucking hippies. Zeke waited in the squad car for Tim, who needed a pack of his own smokes ("I don't smoke that fancy crap," he'd teased Zeke when Zeke had offered one of his to get him by) and a piss. His eyes were open but unfocused, lips sipping coffee on automatic. His concentration wasn't on being 'ready for anything', but dwindling back to the night before, all the things he and Casey had talked about. Being with Casey, altogether. Though it still felt odd that he was 'hanging out' with the resident weirdo, it also felt cool. Dangerous, even; secret meetings that no one needed to know about. Zeke was getting information and processing it the way a detective needed to--and Casey saw it, honed in on it with all the confidence in the world. Zeke couldn't remember the last time anyone had made him feel this important, and he barely knew the guy. No one knew him, not like this...
"Sorry, it turned into a number two."
Zeke's attention was snagged by Tim, who now returned behind the wheel, grunting and groaning. "S'okay," Zeke said.
"Break-time soon. Where you wanna chow?" Tim asked as he pulled away from the curb. Zeke shrugged.
"Eh."
Frowning a little, Tim stole a glance at Zeke. "You okay, man? You've been pretty blah today."
"Yea. I know, just been thinkin'."
"'Bout what?"
Zeke put his ankle up on his knee and shrugged. "Our newest victim, there."
"Ah. Yea, it's been under my skin a little. Can't let it get to deep, though," Tim said. "Maybe you'll make Detective before it's closed. Bet you'd find 'im."
"Man, everyone's pulling for me," Zeke said with a smile.
"When you got it, you got it. And you got it. So. Lunch?"
Zeke thought it over a moment. Dinner last night had been divine, but he still felt full from it. "A quick stop for me, I think. I gotta start watching what I shove in my face."
"Not me--I'm hitting some serious grub. Woke up too late to have a REAL breakfast. Coffee and a bite of toast don't cut it," Tim said.
As they drove along, Zeke pondered his options; but when Tim turned off of Kenmore onto Commonwealth, he perked up. The 'Sugar Daddy Smoke Shop' was down the way. Not a consignment shop on Casey's list, but... Zeke cleared his throat and tried his best to look casual in pointing at the small convenience store two doors down from the place. "Just drop me off here, come back and pick me up when you're done."
"You sure?" Tim asked.
"Yea, I'm good."
Though Tim looked a little confused, he shrugged back and slowed to a stop in front of the store. Zeke gave him a smile, a 'See ya', and got out of the car. To look legit, he wandered into the Indian-run store as Tim continued on his way.
One bottle of Pepsi and dollar-scratchie later, Zeke went back out onto the street. The road was packed with the lunch-rush, making it impossible and im-passable. Zeke stopped a few paces away from Sugar Daddy's and looked down on himself. 'Yea, they're gonna LOVE me,' he thought as he took in the sight of Boston-Blues and badges. He had a good nature, understanding and youth on his side, however, so he stood straighter, strode over to the door and walked in.
Tinkling, musical bells announced his arrival. A beaded curtain blocked the view from inside; he stepped past it, getting a little frustrated when one string caught onto his badge and tugged him back. Once freed, Zeke walked in with a meandering, nonthreatening pace. He heard people talking and laughing, then saw a young man behind the counter full of pipes, packets of "vitamin supplements" and other sketchy paraphernalia stand up. "How can I--" he started, but stopped dead. His beard-lined smile faded and he groaned. "Dude, how many times are you guys gonna come by before you get bored with us?"
"Shit, a cop?"
"Again?"
Zeke tried his best to smile as he approached the counter. Two more people, another young man and woman sat in the corner next to glistening, colorful bongs. The girl was stamping out a cigarette, wearing a concerned expression. Zeke cleared his throat, looking to the wall behind the counter-guy. A perfect 'in' sat there. "You sell Djarums?" he asked, pointing to his brand of smokes. The young man cocked an eyebrow, shrugged and plucked a pack from its box. "Two, please. It's been a long day."
The group watched the transaction with careful, wary looks. After handing over the cash, Zeke smirked at the girl. "Smoking indoors can get you in serious shit, y'know."
Before anyone could protest or makes excuses, Zeke tore open one of the packs, plucked a cigarette from the inside and lit it. More looks were exchanged until the counter worker nodded. "Have a nice day, Officer."
"Actually... if you got a minute, I'd--"
"Look, we don't have a pot-farm out back. Wanna look? You guys love checking," the other young man spat. Zeke cocked an eyebrow his way.
"I'd like to ask a few questions," he finished. Another long pause...
"Like what?" Counter-boy said.
Zeke stood straight as he puffed away. Get into serious shit, indeed; but like hell if these guys would say anything about it, without giving themselves away. "A few cases have popped up involving the crowd you guys run around in," Zeke said. "I know shit-all about hippie-culture and wondered if you'd help me out."
More wary glances were made, until the counter-boy made a lone chuckle, leaned on the shelf behind him and shook his head. "Okay, I know MY shit when it comes to law enforcement. You're a street-beater, not a detective," he said.
"I'm working on that." Wanting things to be more friendly and personal, he held out his hand. "Name's Zeke--and you are?"
How many pauses were there going to be? Zeke tried keeping his patience, knowing who he was talking to. Finally, counter-boy sniffed and took the extended hand to shake lightly. "Cliff. That's Ash and Dee," he said, nodding to each person respectively. They gave curt nods; Zeke nodded back.
"A'right. So, lemmee ask... and don't give me shit if I sound stupid, but do you guys know a band with the name 'biscuit' in it?"
"Um... yea," Dee said with a chuckle. She gave him a look that yelled, 'are you dumb?' "Disco."
"Disco...?"
"Disco Biscuits," Cliff finished for the girl. "Dee loves 'em, but they're too tech-y for me."
"Tech-y?" God, Zeke felt dumber than a box of hammers, even if it wasn't warranted.
"Yea, they're kinda like Phish, only with a techno edge. I had my first camping trip in July," Dee said. Zeke had to chuckle.
"'K, keep in mind that this is Greek to me. Camping is?"
"Camp Bisco. It's a huge music festival out in New York, they hold it every year. It was the ninth anniversary this summer," Ash chimed in.
Things were starting to fall into place; the mechanics of Zeke's mind whirred, fighting for the right questions to keep asking this new well of information. "I know enough about that stuff; it's very community-like, right?" he asked.
"Oh, yea. You meet people from all over the country. I've been all over the map myself," Cliff said. "New York and Colorado specifically. That's where the magic happens the most."
"Cool. Lots of festivals--they sell weird shit there, I've seen," Zeke said.
The questioning, wary looks returned, this time accompanied by wry grins. "Yeeea, Officer Zeke. Don't worry, we avoided the brown acid," Ash said.
"Hah, no, I meant cool things, toys, whatever. Like... have you guys ever seen these really awesome laser-pointers, like... disco balls, lots of rainbow-lights--" Zeke stopped dead when a sphere of colors, little dots of dancing light appeared on the ceiling above them. 'Holy shit--that IS cool,' he thought as he looked down at Dee, who was swaying the device around and wearing a broad smile.
"I keep it on me at all times. I once went to a party with a bunch of people who had 'em, we tripped-out like you wouldn't believe," she said.
"Where'd you get it?" Zeke said with a note of eagerness in his voice.
"I got this one at All-Good, but Bisco had 'em, too. Same guy makes 'em, follows the bands like us," Dee said.
"So it ain't like anyone can just snag one off of EBay, right?"
"Nope. I'd kill to sell 'em here. They can go for fifty bucks a pop," Cliff replied.
"Hah, I got mine for thirty. Phil loves me," Dee said with an impish grin. "It's the blond hair. He LOVES blonds."
Zeke made a side smile, took another drag and went on. "Phil. He a good guy?"
"Oh yea. One of the best around," Ash said. "I was at last year's All-Good when this chick went into labor. The walk back to the parking lot was ridiculous, and she wasn't a classic case. The kid was practically jumping out, so Phil rolled his sleeves up, dropped down and delivered it like a pro. Total hero."
"He's been around since the height of Haight-Ashbury," Dee said, sighing wistfully. "I was meant for the sixties, damn it..."
"This might be an even stupider question, but do you know where he is? Does he have a card, or... something?"
"Mmm, no. He only goes to festivals to sell, travels a lot. Like Dee said, he was a California-guy, but I don't think he has an address. Just his big-ass van," Cliff said.
"But... what's this about, anyway?" Dee asked.
Zeke felt a ball of tension in his throat, this question being asked. He couldn't come right out and give details, even as a detective. Not as comprehensive as he'd like, anyway. "Like I said, we've got a couple cases. Someone--had that laser pointer, and I've been trying to connect the dots, find out about the festivals, that stuff."
"Dots," Dee said, waving the pointer around with an even wider smile.
"Hah, yea, that's a cool piece. Maybe I'll have to drop by a fest and see if Phil's around to snag one," Zeke said.
Dee now gave him an appraising stare. "I got a bunch--for parties and times like these. Wanna buy one?"
~*~
He'd gone above and beyond, breaking rules along the way, but Zeke was starting not to care. When his shift was over, he jetted down to Albany Street to the coroner's office. Knowing that no new cases had brought any of his co-workers down, he felt safe enough to walk in and go to the front desk. Sherry, the desk girl, looked up at him and smiled. "Hey, Zeke. What's goin' on?"
"Not much. Just got off shift, wanted to see if Casey was around," he said.
"Oh. Yea, he is, in his office. Why?"
Zeke had prepared his lies, of course. "Eh, he's kinda become my tennis buddy. I wanted to see when his next day off was, maybe get together so I could kick HIS ass, instead of him wiping the courts with mine," he replied. Sherry cocked an eyebrow and chuckled.
"Well, that's rare. The guy NEVER socializes. Anyway, go ahead on in." She leaned over behind her and pressed the door button.
Zeke gave her a winning smile, thanked her and headed over to the buzzing doorway. Now in the hall, he took the pointer from his pocket and made a beeline for the office door marked 'Head Coroner'. While Freeman was top-dog here, they all had to share space. Zeke gave it a knock.
"C'mon in," Casey's voice called out. Zeke clicked the pointer on, turned the knob and opened the door a crack to stick his hand inside. After a few wrist-flicks aiming the lights towards the ceiling, he heard Casey gasp. "Whoooa... Tyler?"
Zeke opened the door fully and stepped in. "I told Sherry we're tennis-buds, so stick to that story so we don't get into deep shit," he said.
Casey stood up from the desk in a shot, rounded it and took the pointer from Zeke's hand. "Fuck, where'd you find it??"
"Smoke shop on Commonwealth. I decided to spend lunch talking to a bunch of dead-heads," Zeke replied. "They get this weird-cool stuff at festivals, I was right."
"Hah, duh. Shit..." Casey smiled as he twirled the lights around the ceiling, changing the speed with the little knob on the side. "Did you find out about the biscuit clue?"
"Disco Biscuits, a band. Don't ask, the names they come up with..." Zeke said. "They started a festival out in New York, Camp Bisco. Tons of others, of course, but New York's close."
"That's probably where our girls went. When was it?"
"In July. But, there've been others. One smaller one was just a few weeks ago in Oneida, near the lake. Last of the season, I guess."
Casey gave Zeke a look of awe. "You... are motherfucking amazing."
Zeke chuckled heartily. "Yea, well..."
"I mean that. Seriously. I called Walsh today to see if there'd been updates." Casey rolled his eyes as he went over to his desk again. As he collected papers and folders, he shook his head and said, "I guess McMahon DID go to a few shops to investigate the used-clothes angle, but she came up with squat. You take one jaunt to a hippie-dippy shop and BAM, you've got it."
"We don't know if this is 'it', though."
"But it's the right direction, at any rate. So where can I get one of these, anyway?"
"Festivals. One guy makes 'em, and ONLY one guy. This was a private sell."
"Aw..."
Again, Zeke had to chuckle. He drew out another pointer and turned it on. "Got two. Knew you'd beg me for one until I screamed."
"Serious?" Casey said in a soft voice.
"Yea, why not? The chick who sold it to me got one-hundred percent profit, but it's worth it."
"How much?"
Zeke watched the young man go to his messenger bag to draw out a wallet. "N'aw, don't worry about it. Consider it a 'thank you' for calling Walsh," he said.
Casey looked up from his rummaging around; he blinked slowly as he straightened. "Thanks. Not... that often someone gets me something."
"'Welcome," Zeke said, his smile dimming.
"So, tennis buds. I'll stick to that story, though... well, DID you wanna meet up some time again? I don't come across a ton of tennis partners to play with," Casey said.
It was sad, really. Casey knew what people thought of him, and while he carried enough self-confidence in him to spit back as he had during the social-blunder back at the station, it had to affect him. Zeke wasn't too far off from being a social-miscreant, himself. "That'd be cool. You share the same off-days as me, right?"
"Yea, Wednesdays, anyway."
"Me too. I'll get myself a kick-ass tennis racket to kick YOUR ass with," Zeke said. Casey let out a musical laugh.
"Sounds good!" he said. The pointer was put in his pocket and his bag was zipped up. "I'm done here. But first thing tomorrow, I'm calling Walsh to let him know of our new 'discoveries'."
"Oh--um, leave me outta it. I've been paranoid all day, thinking someone saw me investigating when I shouldn't be," Zeke said.
"But it was your work, Zeke."
"Please, Case, don't. Just say you found stuff online or something. You could get into trouble, too, y'know."
"Well, okay. At least no credit goes to the Keystone Cops for it," Casey said. He went over to the door and opened it, letting them both walk together down the hall. Zeke saw him glancing quick to him a few times, his smile small, almost shy. "I know--that I keep saying this stuff, but--but you really are different, Zeke."
"Hah, maybe." Zeke shrugged; Casey shook his head slowly.
"You are. I'd be willing to bet my new toy and this week's paycheck that when you're on the beat, you get people talking. Because people trust you, even if you're a cop," he said.
"Kinda. I guess."
"You're downplaying yourself, I know it."
"Maybe. Again," Zeke said. Now past the main door, they both gave Sherry a wave goodbye, making sure to talk about the courts at the Common loud enough for her to hear. At least now it wasn't a lie--completely, anyway.
~*~
Zeke washed his hands after the best piss ever; damn Tim and his not wanting to stop for a bathroom-break. After grabbing a paper towel, Zeke stared into the mirror to push back the hair going into his eyes. For a cop, he was letting himself go in the haircut-department. He was starting to like it, if he were to be honest. Any time now, Walsh would be shoving him into a barber shop, but until then, Zeke was going to enjoy 'letting loose' a little.
He was just about to leave when Mike and Joe walked in and headed over to the urinals. Zeke gave them a small smile. "Hey guys... quiet night," he said.
"Thank fuck for that," Mike replied. As he went to the one nearest the stalls, Joe going to the other end, Mike unzipped, stood close and shot a smile to Zeke over his shoulder. "Freeman stopped by while you were gone, give Walsh a few updates."
"Yea? Anything on the victim yet?"
"N'aw. Just a few clues, something about laser pointers. She said Freak-o had found shit online or something," Mike said.
'Freak-o'. Zeke stiffened and tried keeping his expression even. "Yea, he may as well give up the coroner role and be a top detective," Zeke said, hoping he didn't sound as defensive as he felt. "He finds shit out."
Small chuckles went off at that. "Sure," Mike said.
Thinking that was it, Zeke tossed the paper towel into the trash and headed to the door. Before he could leave, however, Joe cleared his throat. "Hey Zeke... just to let you know, Free left a note on your desk," he said.
"Oh... yea?" Zeke said.
"Mmm." Joe finished relieving himself, zipped up and went over to the sinks, closely followed by Mike. "It wasn't from her, though."
Zeke swallowed. "Who, then?"
The men sighed, exchanged amused glances and looked to Zeke. "What's goin' on with you and Connor?" Joe asked outright. Zeke parted his lips and blinked furiously.
"Not--much. We just started hanging out a bit, I dunno," Zeke said.
"Yea, tennis and stuff. Right." Mike's smile dimmed into one of mock-understanding. "Look, you should know a few things before hanging out with the guy."
"Like what?" Zeke replied in an almost-spit. He wasn't liking their expressions, nor the way they got their kicks in taunting the young coroner.
"Well... word's gone 'round that he's got a few other weird kinks." Mike clucked his tongue a moment before going on. "We were just talking to Dan. He was working Columbus the other night, Sunday I think. And he swears up and down that he saw freak-boy hanging around Club Cafe."
Zeke stilled; Club Cafe. While he didn't delve into the social night-life, he knew what that place was about. He'd considered going once, but bailed; all he'd needed was for any of his fellow officers to see him hanging around a gay bar. "Yea... so?" he eventually replied.
"Oh, come on, you know what that club caters to. We're just... warnin' ya," Mike said.
"Never know what 'those people' do, especially a weird-o like Connor--"
"Y'know, I'm getting real sick of that shit. The freak comments, weird-o, whatever else," Zeke cut Joe off to say. "He's just a guy, all right? And like Dan couldn't have mistaken him for someone else."
The men looked lost for words as they stared back at Zeke. Mike was the first to speak, shaking his head quickly. "How many times have we asked you to come out after work, or on days off? You always say 'no thanks', and fine, you don't wanna have a guy's-night-out, big deal. But... really, Tyler, Connor?"
"Don't think the office ain't buzzing about it, Zeke. You've gotta watch it," Joe said.
"Y'know... I hated high school. It was a stupid little shit-hole, with shit-talking dickweeds and cold bitches who climbed the social ladder by stepping on other people. I left that crap behind--have you?" Zeke replied. He knew he sounded confrontational, but didn't care. If he was going to be talked about, he'd give them reason to.
"Wow... hah, forget we said anything. Didn't know he was such a 'good friend' of yours," Joe replied.
"Yea, man. Have fun tomorrow," Mike added before the two of them sauntered over to the door and left. Zeke stared ahead at the wall, unmoving for the moment. He needed to let this sink in...
At least they hadn't started throwing the word 'fag' around. He didn't know what he'd have done if they did.
~*~
Zeke--
Looks like it might rain tomorrow. Here's my number if we have to reschedule: 555-8841
--Casey
A simple, innocuous note could do so much. The looks Zeke was getting around the office held barely-disguised amusement, suspicion or both. He didn't know whether to be thankful that it was a slow night devoid of major crime or if he'd have rather been busting down doors and making arrests left and right. The latter would have taken him away from the others and their taunting expressions.
Tim hadn't said anything about it all, for which Zeke was thankful. By the time he clocked out, Zeke was ready to burst. He couldn't drive home fast enough--but when he got there, yet MORE frustration boiled up in seeing Bobby, once again leaning on Zeke's apartment building. "Not again," he grumbled out loud. Considering their spat at the cafe the week before, this was the last thing he wanted to deal with. Seeing as he couldn't sleep in the car, however, Zeke grunted his way out, shut the door and walked around the car to the curb. He stopped once on the walk. "Yea?" he said.
Bobby made a shaky sigh and sniffed, hard. "'Was gonna call, but... I ran outta minutes."
"Yea, on your phone. What do you want?"
"I, um... ran outta minutes cos'... I called Mom. I didn't wanna bug you, wanted to see--"
"You called Mom?" Zeke interrupted. "How'd you do that??"
"I had her number."
Something hot and hard formed in Zeke's chest. "Oh yea? Funny. I don't have it."
Bobby finally looked to Zeke, giving him a blank stare. After a moment his eyes darted back down to his shifting feet. "I--called Grandma a while back and she gave it to me. It's not like I call her every day, and she doesn't pick up a lot of--"
"What do you want, Bobby?"
"I..." Bobby took a deep breath as if trying to calm himself down. "...She can't take me in. Or won't, whatever. She wouldn't even tell me where she was staying. She told me to go to you."
"For what..." Zeke went to ask, but already knew. Sure enough, Bobby's expression shifted to one of hopeless begging.
"I tried the homeless shelters, but most of 'em are full, can't take me in. The ones that HAVE, fuck, Zeke, it's disgusting. I didn't sleep a wink, these guys, they were watchin' me..." Bobby stopped talking light-speed to swallow and shake his head. "...Swear to god, I haven't taken anything for a whole week. Can't afford it, for fuck's sake. I'm jonesin' like a bitch, but I'm trying--I really am. I gotta have somewhere to stay. I'm fuckin' begging you, Zeke."
Zeke felt like he was going to shake apart, fall to pieces right then and there. On one hand, Bobby couldn't be trusted, he lied, stole, and who the hell knew what he could bring into Zeke's place? One call to the cops and Zeke's job was on the line, never mind the possibility of making detective. But on the other... this was his brother. Blood bound them together, and the giver of that blood couldn't have cared less about either of them. Bobby had no-where and no-one else to go to. "Bobby... this has gotta stop," Zeke finally replied. "I mean that. It's hard out there, I know you've had it rough, but..."
"I know, I know."
"No. You don't, that's the trouble."
Bobby hissed in a long, hot breath. "Just say 'no' and get it over with--"
"You can stay, all right? I'll let you stay--temporarily, you're on probation with me," Zeke cut in to say. Bobby shut up to let him go on. "And it won't be a hand-out, either. You're gonna go get checked out at a clinic, maybe join a group, whatever."
"Zeke, I can't do rehab, I don't got medical or shit..."
"Ain't SAYIN' that, but you're gonna get help. There's a free clinic a few blocks from here, and you're gonna go to it. And most importantly--you bring just one grain of coke in my place--"
"I TOLD you, I've been clean, man!" Bobby blurted.
"You've said that before." Zeke paused; as Bobby scoffed and shook his head, Zeke continued. "I've got a lot going on. I'm gonna be up for review, trying to make detective. It's a BFD for me, and I don't want anything fucking that up."
Bobby nodded slowly. "'K," he said in a soft voice.
"Okay. You've got two weeks to get your shit together, get clean, job-hunt, everything. And I hate housework; you can earn your keep by cleaning the apartment up, do dishes, whatever," Zeke said. "And if you can prove that you ARE filling out job-apps and a piss test shows you're on the up-and-up, maybe you can stay longer. I don't care if you're flipping burgers, as long as you're working your way up. But I need. You. To prove it."
"Promise, Zeke. Okay? I'll do it, I'll do it all."
Zeke made a slow nod, groaned and got out his keys. "All right. Come on," he said. Before he could get to the front door, Bobby got in his way to wrap his arms around him, tight.
"Thanks, big bro," he said; the tears in his voice seemed to convince Zeke that this wasn't a scam--he really, really needed him right now. Zeke held him back with one arm, trying to relax.
~*~
Whether or not Bobby's devotion to Zeke's house rules stuck, Zeke was pleased to find the young man scrubbing dishes when he left his bedroom at noon. "Mornin'," he said; Bobby turned to look at Zeke over his shoulder with a small smile.
"Not mornin'... it's lunch time," he said.
"Whatever." Zeke yawned his way to the fridge and dug out the orange juice. He took a few gulps straight from the carton then let it go with a satisfied gasp. "I'm gonna head out in a few; weather looks good enough for my tennis game."
"Tennis?" Bobby said with a note of amusement. "Since when?"
"Since I actually had a friend to play it with. It's good to exercise--you should try it some time," Zeke replied.
"Hey man, I've been walking the streets a whole week. Never mind the fact that I'm thin as a rail; YOU need the exercise, going by that gut you've got going on."
Zeke looked down at his stomach and frowned. "It's baby-fat."
Bobby outright hooted. "Oh, right! Sure, you're what, twenty-five?"
"Twenty-six."
"I was close."
Zeke smirked and headed back down the hall to the bathroom, calling, "Bring home copies of apps and clinic papers. Dunno when I'll be back. My number's on the fridge just in case."
"'K! Gonna make some eggs first," Bobby shouted back. "Promise, I won't burn the building down!"
Zeke cringed. Joking or not, that was always a feasible possibility.
~*~
For the first fifteen minutes he and Casey were readying for their 'match', Zeke's mind was back home, worrying. He couldn't voice it, especially with how Casey was rambling about the good weather, how they'd lucked, whatever else. Now that they were on the court, however, Zeke did his best to concentrate on the game. Knowing that Casey was good, he prepared himself better this time around with a good stretching-session and half of his large water bottle.
It was Casey who scored first, of course, but not without a fight. When their volleying ended with a sharp smack of the ball against the fence behind Zeke, Casey was panting past his broad smile. "Not as easy with you this time around," he said.
"Just reading your game better," Zeke said as he retrieved the ball.
"You're still playing the class of 2003's tennis star, though. I've got plenty of tricks up my sleeve," Casey said with a wink. Zeke grinned, bounced the ball a few times then made an expert serve; not expert enough to thwart a return, however, but Casey had to struggle yet again. After a few powerful strikes from both of them, Zeke watched with glee as Casey missed--it was only by inches, but the sound of the ball hitting the fence on Casey's side was like music.
"Hah! You just got served."
"Like hell..."
~*~
"That... was a fight."
Zeke plopped down on the bench, feeling like his chest was about to explode. The after-game cigarette he'd planned on would have to wait until he caught his breath. "You... still won," he said between pants.
"By one. Not exactly a landslide," Casey replied.
The water he handed over was taken with a grateful hand. Zeke popped the nozzle up and drank some down; the cooler full of ice that Casey had brought was a god-send. After a few large but careful gulps, the bottle was drawn back and a relieved groan was punched out of Zeke's lips. "Good game, good game," he said.
"Yea. Maybe next time, you'll own it--maybe."
Zeke smiled; with his breathing skills returning, he reached down to his bag and dug out his cigarettes. "Yep, time for some nicotine--" he went to say, but stopped when he heard his cell ringing. He reached into his pocket; the caller ID showed his number. Worry filled him as he hit 'talk'. "Bobby?"
"Hey yea, what's up?"
There weren't any alarms or sirens in the background, easing Zeke's mind. "Not much, just finished a game."
"Cool. So hey, yea... I went out to the clinic. Things seems all right... AND I threw an app in at the coffee shop down the way," Bobby said. "The Rite Aid I stopped in at only have online-apps, though. Mind if I use your computer?"
"No, that's all right," Zeke replied.
"What's the password to get in?"
"Oh... Capital-S, Smart, six, zero, Capital T, Toad."
Bobby chuckled. "Never would guessed THAT..."
Zeke smiled as he heard the clacking of keys. "That's kinda the point of passwords," he said.
"Yea, yea. Talk to you when you get back."
"'K, see ya." Zeke hung up the phone then sank against the fence. "Sorry 'bout that."
"No problem. Roomie?" Casey asked. Zeke swallowed.
"No. Well... yea, I guess. My brother, Bobby," Zeke said in a low voice. Realizing he hadn't set up his fix, he drew out his lighter, lit up, took a drag then let it out in a rush. "He's staying with me a bit."
"Oh. That's cool. I don't have any siblings... wish I did," Casey replied.
"Hah, count yourself lucky."
"Is... he okay?"
The question made Zeke's small smile disappear. He could easily say, 'Yea, wanna get another game going?' to avoid it, but... since when did he have anyone to talk about it with? "He's a mess. Always has been. Lots of dysfunction in my family... more than usual," Zeke said. "He's actually my half-brother, different dads. Mom wasn't a 'mom'. That shit."
Casey nodded slowly. "Sorry to hear that."
"Nothing I ain't used to, by now," Zeke said. "He's... trouble. Drug issues, depression, whatever else. No job, no home..."
"Damn... REAL sorry to hear that," Casey said. He took a gulp of water as Zeke made a listless shrug and continued staring up at the treetops and sky. After a sigh, Casey said, "No family's perfect, though. My dad? Hah... he was military. He expected me to be the same, but... look at me."
Zeke did, and he had to grin. Good at tennis or no, the young man was about the size of a stamp. "Dads do that," Zeke said.
"Yea. When I couldn't do stuff, sports... I mean, tennis wasn't a 'real sport', not to him. He wanted me to be this big, buff football player. I was one disappointment after another." Casey gnawed his lower lip a moment. "I never stepped outta line, but just dropping a dish earned an afternoon of push-ups."
Zeke shook his head. "Nice guy."
"Oh yea, real creampuff. Anyway..." Casey shook his hand dismissively and his smile returned. "You wanna have another round or go out for some food?"
"We've been at it for hours. I vote food."
"Seconded."
~*~
The hot dog cart at the edge of the park had suited them just fine, offering franks of all kinds with as many fixings as they could ask for. While they differed when it came to mustard, they'd almost cleaned the poor server's onions out in one go. That and the cold colas went down easy, filling their tired bodies with protein and carbs.
As they shared casual conversation, Zeke noticed the lack of work coming up. This wasn't the time to discuss rape and murder, nor the victims that had received such things. Instead, Zeke found himself sharing stories about his growing up, leading to more correlations between the two when Casey revealed that he, too, had secretly harbored a love for Barbie and Ken straight into middle school. Of course, that didn't come without unpleasantness...
"My science study-partner found 'em... he told everyone," Casey revealed, following up with the repercussions in school over it. While Zeke hadn't been bullied and tormented, he'd seen enough to know how it worked. Casey spoke of it casually enough, but it was easy to tell how it stuck. "I was the class freak, of course," Casey said with a sigh. "Not that I minded. I was... hell, am."
Zeke bit his small smile. "Nothing wrong with being a bit freaky."
"Mmm." Casey hummed, finished his drink and looked to Zeke with a knowing smile. "I know the stuff that goes around the office. What they say... so yea. It's followed me into my adult life."
This brought some discomfort, of course. Nevertheless, Zeke shrugged. "Don't let it get to you. They're just the typical guys that talk shit. I stuck up for you yesterday."
"Oh yea?" Casey brightened, his face beaming. "Thanks."
"No prob."
"What were they saying now?"
Hoo boy... Zeke sniffed and tried shrugging again, coming out as an awkward jerk. "Typical bullshit, the 'freak' comments, whatever. It gets boring after a while. And... don't get it ALL wrong, you've got respect from 'em, even if they say stupid stuff."
Casey nodded slowly. "Thanks... for being honest."
"Not gonna lie to you."
"A lot do. But you're the first person I've worked with that's ever wanted to hang out. Y'know?" Casey said. "Hang out with me, meaning."
"Yea. The guys ask me to go with them to the bars, but... I think it's more outta duty than actually wanting me around. They're... okay. They try. Whatever," Zeke said.
Casey sighed, smiled and looked to his watch. "Wow... five-thirty, already?"
"Hey, we've been here a while."
"I know... didn't feel like it, though. You want to get going, maybe head over to my place? Watch movies, something?"
Zeke thought it over; well, what was the harm? "Yea, sure. I should run home quick though, check on Bobby. Where do you live?"
Casey's bright expression glowed. "In Cambridge, right off of twenty-eight; fifty-six Winter Street."
"Cool. What time--seven-ish?"
"Sure."
Zeke smiled, gathered up his things and walked with Casey back to the lot. As Casey chattered about his gigantic movie collection ("You can bring one too, if you want. I go for romantic comedies."), Zeke kept taking glances to him. He found himself smiling and enjoying the fact that he had a real, honest-to-goodness friend. Finally.
~*~
"I'm home!" Zeke called into the darkening apartment. He could see light coming from the living room from his computer set-up, but no Bobby sat at it. It was deathly quiet. "Hey--Bobby? You here?" he yelled, but jumped when he saw Bobby come out from the hallway, looking rushed. "Hey, what's..." Zeke went to ask, but stopped dead when Bobby turned to him with an icy expression. "...Up?"
Bobby only sniffed and stormed into the living room. Zeke blinked furiously and followed him. On the couch sat the duffel bag he'd gotten him; Bobby was shoving his things into it in a flurry of movement. "Hey... hey, what the hell's wrong?"
Bobby whirled around on his heels and pointed towards the computer, saying nothing. When Zeke turned to look, he paled at what sat on the screen. A shaky sigh escaped Bobby's lips. "Didn't know you were a fuckin' fag."
The images of naked men on naked men, come-splashed stomachs made Zeke's insides lurch. He turned back to Bobby, wide-eyed and flustered. "The fuck... were you looking around in my folders for?"
"Got bored."
"What, you ran outta internet??"
Bobby stood straighter, his expression fiery. "What the fuck are you doing, looking at disgusting shit like that?? Huh?? Are you really a goddamned queer, Zeke?"
Zeke couldn't seem to find the words to say, causing Bobby to huff and sniff angrily. "Guess that's my answer." Bobby turned back to his bag to zip it closed. Breathing became difficult as Zeke rushed in.
"Don't you fucking call me a fag, asshole. After everything I've done for you--"
"You haven't done shit! Not when it mattered!"
"Oh, here we go a-GAIN, the 'wah, poor me!' act from Bobby Wilcowski..." Zeke said in a growl. "FUCK you and your blame game. You don't like that I like dick? Then get the fuck out."
"That's what I'm doing, if you couldn't fucking tell already," Bobby retorted. "And don't act like you're a motherfucking saint, someone I should worship for handing me a place to sleep every now and a-fucking-gain. If a drug dealer did it for me before, you ain't special. Especially if you take cock in your ass--"
Zeke wasn't thinking as he grabbed the front of Bobby's shirt, brought him over to the wall and slammed him up against it. The look of shock and fear in Bobby's face as he leaned in made Zeke growl inches away from his face. "I don't care WHAT you think, you little fucking prick! You say I ruined your life, huh, wasn't around? Huh? Yea, cos' I LOVED being 'daddy' to you when yours bailed on us and Mom fucked off, LOVED it."
"Get y-your hands off of me, f-fag--"
"Yea, call me that all you fuckin' want, know why? Because your opinion means shit to me." Zeke gave him another shove then let him go. The young man almost fell on the floor in a heap, knees buckling. He caught himself before he did; eyes were set on Zeke, a mix of fear and anger swelling like waves in the brown. Zeke stepped away quick, grabbed Bobby's bag and tossed it at his chest. "Go get some drugs laced with rat poison, will ya? Do us ALL a fuckin' favor."
"Yea, maybe I will," Bobby coldly replied.
"Good. I see you on my motherfuckin' doorstep again and I'll make you a PART of it."
With one last snarl and "Fuckin' faggot," Bobby was rushing to the door, throwing it open and slamming it closed behind him. Zeke stared at it, fists and jaw clenching. It wasn't until his phone rang that he looked away. Flustered and confused, he grabbed it from his pocket and flipped it open. "Forget something??" he spat into it.
"Huh?"
Zeke blinked; the action caused tears he didn't realize he had to fall. "Who's this?"
"Casey. I was calling to ask if you like kettle-corn. I have a machine to make it."
Shit. Zeke shook his head and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. "Yea, listen--I can't come tonight."
"Oh. Why not? Everything okay?" Casey asked.
"No, obviously not. I don't feel like talking about it, let's catch up some other time."
"Oh... okay. What about tomorrow? I have it off--"
"Jesus, NO, not in the fuckin' mood!" Zeke interrupted in one of the angriest voices he'd ever heard come out of him. It couldn't be helped; if Casey wanted to be oblivious...
"I'm sorry," Casey said in a small voice, almost a whisper. "I'll... see ya."
Instant guilt slammed into Zeke, hearing the hurt on the other end. Before Casey could hang up, he quickly blurted, "Casey, I'm sorry. Sorry... not you, it was--my fucking brother." He waited a moment; before he could worry that he hadn't said that in time, he heard a sigh.
"Had a fight?" Casey asked.
"Yea. Yea, kinda hardcore this time," Zeke replied in a heavy, tired breath. He put his hand to his wet cheeks, wiping them away as he stumbled to the couch and flopped down on it. "He said shit, I said shit... Jesus. I just can't deal with him..."
"I'm sorry, Zeke. And... sorry if I annoyed you. I didn't mean to."
A tiny smile sneaked onto Zeke's face. "No, you didn't. Well... okay, a little bit. But you didn't know."
"I'm good at making social blunders," Casey cheekily replied. As Zeke chuckled lightly, Casey made another sigh. "Look, you're sure you don't wanna come by? Drown your sorrows in kettle-corn and homemade sangria?"
Zeke raised his eyebrows. "Sangria, huh?"
"Best you'll ever have, yup."
The idea of hanging around Casey, who sounded all-too-willing to let him blubber about his troubles and distract him from them sounded better than anything else, right now. Zeke nodded. "Yea, I'll come over. I gotta chill... it'd suck to be alone right now."
"Good. See ya in a bit, then."
"'K." Zeke took the phone away from his ear, snapped it closed and let out a long, heavy breath. Driving through Boston wasn't going to be fantastic, but the sangrias probably were.