Fic: "Dance 'Round This Dirty Town" (Hornblower; Racket Boys 'verse)
For widget285. Have some RB-verse Edrington, Widget. He's all wrapped up and I taped a bow to his head. No, just kidding, he wouldn't allow that.
Thanks to romanticalgirl for beta'ing and encouragement and Edrington-love.
Another little piece of 'verse backstory, fitting in just after "No Honest Man" and "Take A Fall."
Title NOT from "Atlantic City," but from "Frankie," also by Bruce. :)
"Somebody drop dead in there, Detective Edrington?"
The trouble with being the guy everybody knows was that it got damn hard to take a night off. Frankie smiled vaguely at the beat cop holding down the corner outside the Fox, protecting the fair city's theatergoers from the thugs and hooligans they preferred to pretend weren't out there. Frankie could've told them that the ones worth worrying about weren't stupid enough to show up at a place like this. The ones worth worrying about were gunning each other down in alleys and hauling crates of booze across the river from Windsor while nobody was looking.
"No bodies tonight," he said, letting his wife move past him into the lobby. Celia didn't spare the cop a glance; she never did. The rank and file were a lesser breed to her, especially the ones brain-dead enough to think a detective would bring a woman wearing a mink coat--any woman, but much less his wife--to a murder scene. Celia didn't have a scrap of sympathy for idiots. Frankie was pretty sure he'd loved that about her, once upon a time.
"Just here to see the show," he said, lingering there outside the doors. Let her have a minute to stand inside and get steamed up; it was a petty jab and beneath him, but a man needed a hobby in this life. Frankie had two, police work and annoying his wife, and since they paid him for the first one it probably didn't count. "Anything interesting going on tonight?"
"You have the privilege of sharing air with Eddie Pellew himself." The cop rocked back and forth on his heels, smiling. "Son of a bitch parked right across the street there, came strutting in like he owns the place."
"Probably owns the owner, anyway," Frankie said dryly, glancing across the street at Eddie's grandiose, slightly ridiculous car, the one he probably had spit-shined by bands of street kids every Sunday in exchange for nickels. Eddie had style, give him that.
He was surprised not to see one of the usual suspects dozing behind the wheel--old man Matthews, or Jimmy Styles, or Bracegirdle. Instead there were two guys sitting on the hood, barely more than kids, splitting a bag of peanuts and chucking the shells into the gutter.
"Fresh meat," Frankie remarked, sizing up the two and coming up snake eyes. At least a dozen contradictions in that pair, and Frankie couldn't quite decide what they averaged out to.
The cop followed his gaze and spit on the sidewalk. "Couple of punks. The blond one came walking over here to buy them their little snack, I told him to beat it. He laughed in my face, you believe that?"
"Buying peanuts isn't against the law, law time I checked, and I guess he knows it." Frankie narrowed his eyes, still watching the kids holding down Big Eddie's car. Not really kids, though the way they were elbowing each other and throwing those peanut shells looked like nothing so much as the screwball games of schoolboys. The dark-haired one, tall gangly thing, he kept flicking glances up and down the street, keeping an eye on things, never really letting his guard down. And the other one, the blondie. The set of that jaw and those fucking blue eyes, when he turned his head to look across the way at the theater and for a minute, it seemed, right at Frankie himself--yeah, that one had seen some things. Not kids, neither of 'em.
"They're punks," the cop said flatly. "Don't need 'em around here."
"Maybe not," Frankie said, tearing his eyes from Eddie's new boys and looking down at his watch. Celia was going to be past annoyed to white-hot mad and neither one of them was going to get a minute's enjoyment out of the show. "But unless they pull a piece and start shooting, leave them alone. I'll see you later, buddy."
"Enjoy your show, detective," the cop said, and Frankie moved inside, thinking that he'd probably have more fun joining those two on the hood of Eddie's car.
**
A week or two later he saw them again, outside the dime picture palace on Woodward while he was looking for witnesses to a crime specifically designed not to have any. They were either waiting for a show or loitering after coming out of one, laughing and leaning back against the building and telling lies about guns and girls and dick size, if Frankie was any judge.
He wandered over and showed his badge, not bothering to hide a smile as they straightened up and wiped the smiles off their faces, going cold like he'd thrown 'em in the river in January. "Evening, boys."
"Officer," the blondie said, shoving his hands down in the pockets of his jacket.
"Detective," the other one corrected, lifting his hat a bare half an inch and settling it back on his curls again. Frankie's smile got wider. Oh, these two were going to be loads of fun.
"That's right," he said. "Detective Edrington. And you two are Eddie Pellew's new boys."
"Don't know who gave you that idea, buddy, but they were selling something." The blondie slumped back against the brick again, just a little too artfully careless not to be checking his gun under his coat. "Never heard of anybody named Pellew. Have you, Horatio?"
The one with a name Frankie couldn't quite believe on a gangster just shrugged and ran his finger absently around the edge of his hat brim. Nice hat, Frankie thought, blocked just so. Nice suit, too. Lined up with what else he'd heard. "Don't bullshit me, kids. You're Prettyboy and Blue-eyes, and I bet you a quarter I can guess which is which." He tapped the side of his nose meaningfully, still grinning at the looks of surprise and dismay they weren't quite seasoned enough to suppress. "Not all cops are stupid, you know."
"So you got ears," Prettyboy--Horatio--said sharply, jaw setting like a damn bulldog or something. "Are we supposed to be scared?"
"Why would I want to scare you?" Frankie looked up and down the street with exaggerated care. "Not breaking any laws right now, are you? Just two snot-nosed kids waiting outside the theater for the next showing of the Shirley Temple so you can jerk off in the back row like the perverted little delinquents you are."
"This one's a mind reader, Horatio." Blondie looked like he either wanted to laugh or punch Frankie in the mouth. He'd been right as soon as he saw them outside the Fox--these two were just going to be all kinds of a good time. "But he's not making threats, huh?"
"Just making your acquaintance." Frankie wiped the grin off his face quick as a blink, enjoying the way it made Prettyboy's fingers twitch against his jacket. "And letting you know whose town you've walked into."
"We took the train," Prettyboy muttered, oddly politely, and before Frankie could catch himself, he laughed.
***
The next time he saw them, it was in an alley in the rain, terribly fucking poetic if not for all the blood and the fact that six bodies were on their way to the morgue with more likely to follow before daylight. Frankie had about nine different places he needed to be--talking to suspects, making up a report to placate Devergesse, kicking selected asses around the squad room until some goddamn work got done--and instead he was checking alleys along the dividing line between Black Charlie's side of town and Big Eddie's. One by one, methodical as hell, because that was the way to do the job. The only way.
He was looking for somebody, any one of his stoolies who could give him the dirt on what had gone wrong tonight, just what had managed to light the fuse and blow up the truce that had held the two halves of the city in a balance for nearly six months. Frankie had gotten to kind of like not having an extra load of bodies cross his desk every time two boys from different gangs looked at each other funny. Gotten to like being able to take a Saturday night off once in a while.
He didn't find any of his ears in either camp, but he did find Eddie's new boys, huddled up against the wall of the last alley on Frankie's list. Plenty of blood all over the both of 'em, and Frankie couldn't tell from a quick look where it was coming from or who. Didn't have time to give a damn, either. Needed to get what he needed to know and get moving, get on those things he needed to do.
"Hello, boys," he said, stepping into the alley. "Fancy meeting you here."
"Shit," Kennedy--his eyes and ears had given up the proper names nice and easy, in no time flat--said, head jerking up and one hand fumbling under his jacket for his gun. Hornblower had the other arm in a tight grip, and on second glance Frankie saw that he was twisting a handkerchief around his partner's upper arm. So at least some of that blood was Kennedy's. Extra little bit of info to file away, not good or bad, just...potentially useful.
"No need to panic, kids," Frankie said, watching Kennedy try to push Hornblower back, and Hornblower set his jaw, ignore him, and keep wrapping the bit of fabric tight. "Just want to ask a few questions."
"Got nothing to say to the cops," Hornblower muttered, tying off the handkerchief and finally stepping back after one last smack of Kennedy's hand. "Especially not tonight."
"Tonight is a special one," Frankie agreed, tucking his hands into his pockets and trying to ignore the ticking clock in his head. These two required an extra bit of handling. Investment of a little extra time would pay off in the long run.
"Got nothing to say," Hornblower repeated, wiping the back of his hand across his face, leaving a streak of blood on his cheek. "Didn't see anything, don't know anything."
"So I guess you two were killing hogs for fun tonight." Frankie looked pointedly at their blood-soaked shoes and spattered suits. "And Kennedy, you shot yourself?"
"Who said anything about anybody getting shot?" Kennedy asked through clenched teeth.
"Don't have time to dance all night, boys. You gonna answer my questions or am I headed back to the station?"
Hornblower snorted and shook his head. "If we answer your damn questions, we'll be going right back there with you and we know it. We're not stupid, Detective."
"And if you've bothered to ask anybody about me, which you have if you're as not-stupid as you say, then you know I'm not stupid either." He watched Kennedy's eyes cut over to Hornblower, watched Hornblower's jaw clench a fraction tighter in response. Whole novels being written in those little twitches. "And you know I make giving answers worth your while."
"You're a cop," Kennedy said, moving his wounded arm slowly and wincing. "Your job's to get bad guys like us off the street."
"My job's to take care of the city and the people," he shot back. These jackasses were going to screw around all night. "And the way I see it, that means taking down the greater of two evils and letting the lesser one walk sometimes. And I think the greater evil this time is the one who broke the peace. So who is it, boys? Which side am I taking down?"
"Any reason for us not to lie to save our own asses?" Hornblower asked, giving a downright sullen glare out from under his hat brim.
"Yeah. One. None of the three of us is stupid, and we all know it." Frankie shook his head and looked at his watch. "Speak now or forget the whole fucking thing, boys, time's a-wasting."
"Charlie's boys started it." Hornblower looked at his partner, startled, and Kennedy shrugged and kept talking. "We hit back harder, but first punch was on them."
"All right." Frankie nodded and took a step back. "Thanks for your time, gentlemen."
"You're just gonna let us go." Hornblower wiped the back of his hand across his face again, shaking his head.
"Suspicion's not a good look on you, Hornblower. Gonna put wrinkles on that pretty face if you're not careful." Frankie touched the brim of his hat in a half-salute. "Might want to have a doctor take a look at your buddy's arm. That tip's for free."
"Free advice's worth about what you pay for it," Kennedy muttered, tugging his own handkerchief out of his pocket and reaching out to wipe the streaky blood off Hornblower's cheek. "Go make the streets safe for the law-abiding, Frankie. Or whatever the fuck it is you do."
Frankie smiled slightly, touched his hat again, and walked away. Once he was out of the alley, the smile widened to a grin.
He'd never told them his first name. So they had been asking around. Smart boys.
***
It was one damn thing after another for the rest of the night, chasing down leads and then chasing down Black Charlie's boys. They really only barely got started on rounding up how many they needed to arrest in order to look good, par for the course on the first night of an investigation, but it was still threatening to think about sunrise by the time Frankie got home.
He hung up his jacket and moved into the kitchen, knowing that Celia wouldn't have left dinner out overnight but hoping maybe there was something in the pantry so he could have a few bites before he turned in. The kitchen was spotless and bare, except a single coffee cup sitting neatly on the center of the stove. He picked it up and dipped a finger in the liquid, then tasted it. Stone cold and strong enough to strip paint. Celia always poured him a cup of coffee just before she went to bed on the nights he didn't turn up for dinner. How cold it was when he got to it told him just how deep the shit was piling up over his head, and if maybe it was time to stop digging himself in deeper and start making phone calls to some of the finer retailers of furs and jewelry out there.
He shook his head and poured the stuff down the sink. He'd worry about Celia once the little gang war was dealt with. And he couldn't do that until he got some sleep.
That coffee was cold enough to tell him not to even bother testing the bedroom door; he went straight to the guest room and stripped down to his shorts, hanging his jacket over the chair and his tie over the lampshade. He let his eyes unfocus and his brain settle into the comfortable haze of exhaustion, disconnected bits and pieces of the whole damn crazy night spinning along past each other, hinting at but never quite snapping together into a whole.
One particular image came up to the surface of his mind-Kennedy wiping the blood of Hornblower's cheek. Two or three times, Frankie thought of that, as he folded his trousers carefully to keep the crease and hung them over the chair back with his jacket. Nothing too awfully remarkable about it…guy helping his buddy clean up, taking away a mark of shame or guilt in front of a cop, no reason for it to keep nagging at him this way…
He stilled, blinking slowly as that image snapped into Technicolor in his mind. Might not have the gang war on ice yet, but he had these two now. Those damn blue eyes of Kennedy's, the tips of his fingers brushing Hornblower's face under the handkerchief. Hornblower's lips parting just barely, just so.
Frankie pulled the covers back and slid into bed, his lips curving in a faint smile as he turned out the light. "Well," he muttered at the ceiling, a soft laugh breaking free. "Well, I'll be goddamned."
Thanks to romanticalgirl for beta'ing and encouragement and Edrington-love.
Another little piece of 'verse backstory, fitting in just after "No Honest Man" and "Take A Fall."
Title NOT from "Atlantic City," but from "Frankie," also by Bruce. :)
"Somebody drop dead in there, Detective Edrington?"
The trouble with being the guy everybody knows was that it got damn hard to take a night off. Frankie smiled vaguely at the beat cop holding down the corner outside the Fox, protecting the fair city's theatergoers from the thugs and hooligans they preferred to pretend weren't out there. Frankie could've told them that the ones worth worrying about weren't stupid enough to show up at a place like this. The ones worth worrying about were gunning each other down in alleys and hauling crates of booze across the river from Windsor while nobody was looking.
"No bodies tonight," he said, letting his wife move past him into the lobby. Celia didn't spare the cop a glance; she never did. The rank and file were a lesser breed to her, especially the ones brain-dead enough to think a detective would bring a woman wearing a mink coat--any woman, but much less his wife--to a murder scene. Celia didn't have a scrap of sympathy for idiots. Frankie was pretty sure he'd loved that about her, once upon a time.
"Just here to see the show," he said, lingering there outside the doors. Let her have a minute to stand inside and get steamed up; it was a petty jab and beneath him, but a man needed a hobby in this life. Frankie had two, police work and annoying his wife, and since they paid him for the first one it probably didn't count. "Anything interesting going on tonight?"
"You have the privilege of sharing air with Eddie Pellew himself." The cop rocked back and forth on his heels, smiling. "Son of a bitch parked right across the street there, came strutting in like he owns the place."
"Probably owns the owner, anyway," Frankie said dryly, glancing across the street at Eddie's grandiose, slightly ridiculous car, the one he probably had spit-shined by bands of street kids every Sunday in exchange for nickels. Eddie had style, give him that.
He was surprised not to see one of the usual suspects dozing behind the wheel--old man Matthews, or Jimmy Styles, or Bracegirdle. Instead there were two guys sitting on the hood, barely more than kids, splitting a bag of peanuts and chucking the shells into the gutter.
"Fresh meat," Frankie remarked, sizing up the two and coming up snake eyes. At least a dozen contradictions in that pair, and Frankie couldn't quite decide what they averaged out to.
The cop followed his gaze and spit on the sidewalk. "Couple of punks. The blond one came walking over here to buy them their little snack, I told him to beat it. He laughed in my face, you believe that?"
"Buying peanuts isn't against the law, law time I checked, and I guess he knows it." Frankie narrowed his eyes, still watching the kids holding down Big Eddie's car. Not really kids, though the way they were elbowing each other and throwing those peanut shells looked like nothing so much as the screwball games of schoolboys. The dark-haired one, tall gangly thing, he kept flicking glances up and down the street, keeping an eye on things, never really letting his guard down. And the other one, the blondie. The set of that jaw and those fucking blue eyes, when he turned his head to look across the way at the theater and for a minute, it seemed, right at Frankie himself--yeah, that one had seen some things. Not kids, neither of 'em.
"They're punks," the cop said flatly. "Don't need 'em around here."
"Maybe not," Frankie said, tearing his eyes from Eddie's new boys and looking down at his watch. Celia was going to be past annoyed to white-hot mad and neither one of them was going to get a minute's enjoyment out of the show. "But unless they pull a piece and start shooting, leave them alone. I'll see you later, buddy."
"Enjoy your show, detective," the cop said, and Frankie moved inside, thinking that he'd probably have more fun joining those two on the hood of Eddie's car.
**
A week or two later he saw them again, outside the dime picture palace on Woodward while he was looking for witnesses to a crime specifically designed not to have any. They were either waiting for a show or loitering after coming out of one, laughing and leaning back against the building and telling lies about guns and girls and dick size, if Frankie was any judge.
He wandered over and showed his badge, not bothering to hide a smile as they straightened up and wiped the smiles off their faces, going cold like he'd thrown 'em in the river in January. "Evening, boys."
"Officer," the blondie said, shoving his hands down in the pockets of his jacket.
"Detective," the other one corrected, lifting his hat a bare half an inch and settling it back on his curls again. Frankie's smile got wider. Oh, these two were going to be loads of fun.
"That's right," he said. "Detective Edrington. And you two are Eddie Pellew's new boys."
"Don't know who gave you that idea, buddy, but they were selling something." The blondie slumped back against the brick again, just a little too artfully careless not to be checking his gun under his coat. "Never heard of anybody named Pellew. Have you, Horatio?"
The one with a name Frankie couldn't quite believe on a gangster just shrugged and ran his finger absently around the edge of his hat brim. Nice hat, Frankie thought, blocked just so. Nice suit, too. Lined up with what else he'd heard. "Don't bullshit me, kids. You're Prettyboy and Blue-eyes, and I bet you a quarter I can guess which is which." He tapped the side of his nose meaningfully, still grinning at the looks of surprise and dismay they weren't quite seasoned enough to suppress. "Not all cops are stupid, you know."
"So you got ears," Prettyboy--Horatio--said sharply, jaw setting like a damn bulldog or something. "Are we supposed to be scared?"
"Why would I want to scare you?" Frankie looked up and down the street with exaggerated care. "Not breaking any laws right now, are you? Just two snot-nosed kids waiting outside the theater for the next showing of the Shirley Temple so you can jerk off in the back row like the perverted little delinquents you are."
"This one's a mind reader, Horatio." Blondie looked like he either wanted to laugh or punch Frankie in the mouth. He'd been right as soon as he saw them outside the Fox--these two were just going to be all kinds of a good time. "But he's not making threats, huh?"
"Just making your acquaintance." Frankie wiped the grin off his face quick as a blink, enjoying the way it made Prettyboy's fingers twitch against his jacket. "And letting you know whose town you've walked into."
"We took the train," Prettyboy muttered, oddly politely, and before Frankie could catch himself, he laughed.
***
The next time he saw them, it was in an alley in the rain, terribly fucking poetic if not for all the blood and the fact that six bodies were on their way to the morgue with more likely to follow before daylight. Frankie had about nine different places he needed to be--talking to suspects, making up a report to placate Devergesse, kicking selected asses around the squad room until some goddamn work got done--and instead he was checking alleys along the dividing line between Black Charlie's side of town and Big Eddie's. One by one, methodical as hell, because that was the way to do the job. The only way.
He was looking for somebody, any one of his stoolies who could give him the dirt on what had gone wrong tonight, just what had managed to light the fuse and blow up the truce that had held the two halves of the city in a balance for nearly six months. Frankie had gotten to kind of like not having an extra load of bodies cross his desk every time two boys from different gangs looked at each other funny. Gotten to like being able to take a Saturday night off once in a while.
He didn't find any of his ears in either camp, but he did find Eddie's new boys, huddled up against the wall of the last alley on Frankie's list. Plenty of blood all over the both of 'em, and Frankie couldn't tell from a quick look where it was coming from or who. Didn't have time to give a damn, either. Needed to get what he needed to know and get moving, get on those things he needed to do.
"Hello, boys," he said, stepping into the alley. "Fancy meeting you here."
"Shit," Kennedy--his eyes and ears had given up the proper names nice and easy, in no time flat--said, head jerking up and one hand fumbling under his jacket for his gun. Hornblower had the other arm in a tight grip, and on second glance Frankie saw that he was twisting a handkerchief around his partner's upper arm. So at least some of that blood was Kennedy's. Extra little bit of info to file away, not good or bad, just...potentially useful.
"No need to panic, kids," Frankie said, watching Kennedy try to push Hornblower back, and Hornblower set his jaw, ignore him, and keep wrapping the bit of fabric tight. "Just want to ask a few questions."
"Got nothing to say to the cops," Hornblower muttered, tying off the handkerchief and finally stepping back after one last smack of Kennedy's hand. "Especially not tonight."
"Tonight is a special one," Frankie agreed, tucking his hands into his pockets and trying to ignore the ticking clock in his head. These two required an extra bit of handling. Investment of a little extra time would pay off in the long run.
"Got nothing to say," Hornblower repeated, wiping the back of his hand across his face, leaving a streak of blood on his cheek. "Didn't see anything, don't know anything."
"So I guess you two were killing hogs for fun tonight." Frankie looked pointedly at their blood-soaked shoes and spattered suits. "And Kennedy, you shot yourself?"
"Who said anything about anybody getting shot?" Kennedy asked through clenched teeth.
"Don't have time to dance all night, boys. You gonna answer my questions or am I headed back to the station?"
Hornblower snorted and shook his head. "If we answer your damn questions, we'll be going right back there with you and we know it. We're not stupid, Detective."
"And if you've bothered to ask anybody about me, which you have if you're as not-stupid as you say, then you know I'm not stupid either." He watched Kennedy's eyes cut over to Hornblower, watched Hornblower's jaw clench a fraction tighter in response. Whole novels being written in those little twitches. "And you know I make giving answers worth your while."
"You're a cop," Kennedy said, moving his wounded arm slowly and wincing. "Your job's to get bad guys like us off the street."
"My job's to take care of the city and the people," he shot back. These jackasses were going to screw around all night. "And the way I see it, that means taking down the greater of two evils and letting the lesser one walk sometimes. And I think the greater evil this time is the one who broke the peace. So who is it, boys? Which side am I taking down?"
"Any reason for us not to lie to save our own asses?" Hornblower asked, giving a downright sullen glare out from under his hat brim.
"Yeah. One. None of the three of us is stupid, and we all know it." Frankie shook his head and looked at his watch. "Speak now or forget the whole fucking thing, boys, time's a-wasting."
"Charlie's boys started it." Hornblower looked at his partner, startled, and Kennedy shrugged and kept talking. "We hit back harder, but first punch was on them."
"All right." Frankie nodded and took a step back. "Thanks for your time, gentlemen."
"You're just gonna let us go." Hornblower wiped the back of his hand across his face again, shaking his head.
"Suspicion's not a good look on you, Hornblower. Gonna put wrinkles on that pretty face if you're not careful." Frankie touched the brim of his hat in a half-salute. "Might want to have a doctor take a look at your buddy's arm. That tip's for free."
"Free advice's worth about what you pay for it," Kennedy muttered, tugging his own handkerchief out of his pocket and reaching out to wipe the streaky blood off Hornblower's cheek. "Go make the streets safe for the law-abiding, Frankie. Or whatever the fuck it is you do."
Frankie smiled slightly, touched his hat again, and walked away. Once he was out of the alley, the smile widened to a grin.
He'd never told them his first name. So they had been asking around. Smart boys.
***
It was one damn thing after another for the rest of the night, chasing down leads and then chasing down Black Charlie's boys. They really only barely got started on rounding up how many they needed to arrest in order to look good, par for the course on the first night of an investigation, but it was still threatening to think about sunrise by the time Frankie got home.
He hung up his jacket and moved into the kitchen, knowing that Celia wouldn't have left dinner out overnight but hoping maybe there was something in the pantry so he could have a few bites before he turned in. The kitchen was spotless and bare, except a single coffee cup sitting neatly on the center of the stove. He picked it up and dipped a finger in the liquid, then tasted it. Stone cold and strong enough to strip paint. Celia always poured him a cup of coffee just before she went to bed on the nights he didn't turn up for dinner. How cold it was when he got to it told him just how deep the shit was piling up over his head, and if maybe it was time to stop digging himself in deeper and start making phone calls to some of the finer retailers of furs and jewelry out there.
He shook his head and poured the stuff down the sink. He'd worry about Celia once the little gang war was dealt with. And he couldn't do that until he got some sleep.
That coffee was cold enough to tell him not to even bother testing the bedroom door; he went straight to the guest room and stripped down to his shorts, hanging his jacket over the chair and his tie over the lampshade. He let his eyes unfocus and his brain settle into the comfortable haze of exhaustion, disconnected bits and pieces of the whole damn crazy night spinning along past each other, hinting at but never quite snapping together into a whole.
One particular image came up to the surface of his mind-Kennedy wiping the blood of Hornblower's cheek. Two or three times, Frankie thought of that, as he folded his trousers carefully to keep the crease and hung them over the chair back with his jacket. Nothing too awfully remarkable about it…guy helping his buddy clean up, taking away a mark of shame or guilt in front of a cop, no reason for it to keep nagging at him this way…
He stilled, blinking slowly as that image snapped into Technicolor in his mind. Might not have the gang war on ice yet, but he had these two now. Those damn blue eyes of Kennedy's, the tips of his fingers brushing Hornblower's face under the handkerchief. Hornblower's lips parting just barely, just so.
Frankie pulled the covers back and slid into bed, his lips curving in a faint smile as he turned out the light. "Well," he muttered at the ceiling, a soft laugh breaking free. "Well, I'll be goddamned."