Fic: The Code
Title: The Code
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (bookverse)
Rating and word count: R, about 1600 words
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Richard Stevenson.
A/N: A couple of weeks ago, I asked
nyteflyer for some random words. Among others, she gave me “traffic” and “smell.” This story sprang from those two words. Now, if I can just get that zine story done …
I was just thinking I’d have to leave a message when Timmy answered his phone.
“How are you, Don?”
I pulled up at a stop sign. “Pretty formal, aren’t we? Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No.”
“So, what’s happening?”
“Not much. I got stuck in traffic this morning.”
Shit. Timmy always walked to work.
I glanced both ways, didn’t see a cop or an approaching car, so I shot through the intersection. Knowing somebody was probably listening, I carefully chose my next words. “Sorry to hear it. Look, I won’t be home for at least an hour. Got a few leads to follow up.”
“Take your time. And don’t forget to pick up a couple of steaks.”
“Sure.”
A couple of steaks meant I had two guys to worry about. Fortunately, Timmy had sounded more annoyed than distressed, so I knew he was alright. But that state of affairs might not last.
I tucked the Blackberry back into my pocket and took a sharp right at the intersection two blocks from Crow Street. A left turn took me down the alley that ran parallel to our back yard. I parked the car two houses down, got out and had a look around. There were no strange cars parked in our driveway, but I recognized the truck idling near Mrs. Snow’s garage. The cab was obscured by a lilac bush, but there was no mistaking the giant dent I’d put in the truck’s side panel. It was shaped like the front end of Timmy’s Impala.
My gun drawn, I sidled up to the truck, peeked around the lilac bush and saw Bobby Moran, an Albany lowlife whose older brother I’d helped put away for the next twenty years. Bobby was draped over the steering wheel, asleep at the switch.
There was no point in waking him just yet. I crouched by the right rear tire and fiddled with the valve, creating a slow leak he wouldn’t notice until it was too late.
Leaving Bobby to his dreams, I snuck through Mrs. Snow’s backyard to the west side of our house, using a row of lilac bushes for cover. The first thing I had to do was locate Timmy. I had a pretty good idea who was with him, but I had to be sure before I could plan my attack.
With my back against the siding, I inched toward the kitchen windows. A glance inside revealed Timmy standing at the stove, stirring something in a frying pan. Judging from the look on his face, whatever was in the pan wasn’t a dish he’d voluntarily prepare.
At the table, sprawling in my chair, was Reggie Moran. He had a gun trained on Timmy, but from his relaxed posture, I decided he wasn’t too serious about it. Timmy and I had led him to believe he had time to kill before my arrival, giving him a false sense of confidence and me the advantage.
Since Reggie’s back was to the short hallway that led to the living room, it would be a relatively easy matter to get the drop on him. All I had to do was go through my own front door, slip down the hallway and knock the son-of-a-bitch over the head.
I debated whether to call the cops and decided I wouldn’t - not yet. I wanted to take care of Reggie, then make sure Bobby couldn’t escape. After that I’d let the cops in on it.
I climbed the front steps, eased open the front door and went inside. The odor of burnt onions made me want to gag. I felt sorry for Timmy, having to stand over that stench.
Reggie was yapping on about what he was going to do to Timmy and his “cocksucking boyfriend.” Timmy didn’t respond; I assumed he was surreptitiously adding rat poison to whatever it was he was cooking.
It shouldn’t have been so easy, but that was the Moran brothers for you. They were loyal as dogs but stupid to a fault. Before Reggie knew I was behind him, I raised the butt of my gun and struck him on the back of the head. He grunted, dropped his gun and slumped against the table.
Timmy shut off the burner, put a lid on whatever he was cooking and turned to face me.
“Thank God. I was about to vomit.” He opened the junk drawer and handed me a length of clothesline. “He demanded I put an entire onion in his scrambled eggs. And he wanted it burnt.”
“Some people have no taste.” I tied Reggie’s wrists together, then looped the rope around the slats in the chair. “Give me thirty seconds, then call Bowman. Reggie’s little brother is in the getaway vehicle. The tire should be flat by now, but let’s not take a chance on him getting away.”
I checked my knots and looked up at Timmy. “You’ll be OK with him?”
“If he tries anything I’ll hit him with the frying pan.”
“Don’t hurt him too much. We’ll need him for the trial.”
I gave Timmy a quick, hard kiss, then headed back out the front door, returning to Bobby’s truck by way of the lilac bushes. The truck was still idling, but the back end was listing to starboard. The tire was almost flat.
Squatting down, I scooted along the side of the truck, took a deep breath, stood up and pointed my gun through the passenger window.
“Hey, Bobby.”
Bobby yelped, reached for the gun on the seat beside him, then appeared to think better of it.
“I wouldn’t. I really wouldn’t.”
“You asshole.” Sweat broke out on his forehead. “Where’s Reggie?”
“Timmy’s fixing him dinner. Put your hands on the wheel and leave them there.”
He opened his mouth to say something, but I told him to shut up. I’d had enough of the Moran family. Keeping my gun trained on Bobby, I opened the door and grabbed his gun. I tossed it into the yard, then climbed inside the cab.
“Don’t be a hero, Bobby.” I aimed my gun at his ample gut, then reached over to turn off the ignition. I tossed the keys through the window and settled back in my seat.
“Why didn’t you guys just get on with your lives?” Sirens sounded in the distance. “Twenty years from now, give or take a few years for good behavior, and Jack will be out for good. You three morons could have ridden into the sunset together.”
“Fuck you.”
“You wish.” A police car rolled down the alley. “You two will be in stir longer than old Jack. But hey - maybe you boys can room together. It’ll be just like college, minus the co-eds.”
Another cruiser pulled into my driveway. As the cops got out of their car, Timmy opened the back door and gestured them inside. He followed them back inside the house, probably demanding Reggie be charged with some culinary infraction.
“Put the gun away, cowboy.” Bowman opened the driver’s side door and yanked Bobby out of his seat. Grabbing Bobby by the neck, Bowman shoved him against the hood, cuffed him and ordered a uniform to “read this asshole his rights.”
“You goin’ through the Moran brothers one by one?” Bowman’s chuckle sounded like a rusty hinge. “They got a sister, too, but that probably doesn’t interest you.”
“I hear she’s got a girlfriend.” I holstered my gun and got out of the truck. “Come on up to the house. Timmy’s got dinner waiting.”
“Your girlfriend said you fixed the truck tire, knocked Reggie over the head and then went after Bobby,” Bowman said as we climbed the back steps. Timmy was there, holding the door for us. “How the hell did you even know they were here?”
Reggie Moran was moaning and groaning and threatening to sue me for putting a dent in his head.
“I’m sure it’s an improvement,” Timmy told him.
We watched as the two cops escorted Reggie out the door.
“Well?” Bowman said once Reggie was tucked safely in the back seat of the cruiser. “How did you know?”
Timmy said, “We have a code. But it’s a secret code, known only to homosexuals.”
Bowman gaped at him.
“If you like, we can tell you what it is,” I said. “Then you’ll be one of us.”
Bowman held up his hands. “Forget I asked.”
“You sure?” I put my arm around Timmy’s waist. “It might come in handy.”
Bowman advised me to go fuck myself, then told us to get our asses down to the station so we could give our statements. Timmy told him we’d be down in the morning and not one minute sooner. Bowman said something about our parentage then took off, the screen door hitting him on the ass on his way out.
I pulled Timmy into my arms and kissed his neck, right underneath his collar. “I’m sorry about all this.”
“Don’t worry about it. I realized I was in no danger when they started whispering about who was supposed to have loaded the gun.”
I laughed, relieved that he was okay and doubly relieved that he wasn’t pissed off at me for involving him in yet another case.
“So, tell me more about this homosexual code.”
Timmy rubbed his nose against my cheek. “You don’t know about the code?”
“Nope.”
“I’ll have to show it to you.”
“Where is it?”
“Under my pillow, right next to my gay agenda.”
*Crossposted from Dreamwidth*
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (bookverse)
Rating and word count: R, about 1600 words
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Richard Stevenson.
A/N: A couple of weeks ago, I asked
nyteflyer for some random words. Among others, she gave me “traffic” and “smell.” This story sprang from those two words. Now, if I can just get that zine story done …
I was just thinking I’d have to leave a message when Timmy answered his phone.
“How are you, Don?”
I pulled up at a stop sign. “Pretty formal, aren’t we? Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No.”
“So, what’s happening?”
“Not much. I got stuck in traffic this morning.”
Shit. Timmy always walked to work.
I glanced both ways, didn’t see a cop or an approaching car, so I shot through the intersection. Knowing somebody was probably listening, I carefully chose my next words. “Sorry to hear it. Look, I won’t be home for at least an hour. Got a few leads to follow up.”
“Take your time. And don’t forget to pick up a couple of steaks.”
“Sure.”
A couple of steaks meant I had two guys to worry about. Fortunately, Timmy had sounded more annoyed than distressed, so I knew he was alright. But that state of affairs might not last.
I tucked the Blackberry back into my pocket and took a sharp right at the intersection two blocks from Crow Street. A left turn took me down the alley that ran parallel to our back yard. I parked the car two houses down, got out and had a look around. There were no strange cars parked in our driveway, but I recognized the truck idling near Mrs. Snow’s garage. The cab was obscured by a lilac bush, but there was no mistaking the giant dent I’d put in the truck’s side panel. It was shaped like the front end of Timmy’s Impala.
My gun drawn, I sidled up to the truck, peeked around the lilac bush and saw Bobby Moran, an Albany lowlife whose older brother I’d helped put away for the next twenty years. Bobby was draped over the steering wheel, asleep at the switch.
There was no point in waking him just yet. I crouched by the right rear tire and fiddled with the valve, creating a slow leak he wouldn’t notice until it was too late.
Leaving Bobby to his dreams, I snuck through Mrs. Snow’s backyard to the west side of our house, using a row of lilac bushes for cover. The first thing I had to do was locate Timmy. I had a pretty good idea who was with him, but I had to be sure before I could plan my attack.
With my back against the siding, I inched toward the kitchen windows. A glance inside revealed Timmy standing at the stove, stirring something in a frying pan. Judging from the look on his face, whatever was in the pan wasn’t a dish he’d voluntarily prepare.
At the table, sprawling in my chair, was Reggie Moran. He had a gun trained on Timmy, but from his relaxed posture, I decided he wasn’t too serious about it. Timmy and I had led him to believe he had time to kill before my arrival, giving him a false sense of confidence and me the advantage.
Since Reggie’s back was to the short hallway that led to the living room, it would be a relatively easy matter to get the drop on him. All I had to do was go through my own front door, slip down the hallway and knock the son-of-a-bitch over the head.
I debated whether to call the cops and decided I wouldn’t - not yet. I wanted to take care of Reggie, then make sure Bobby couldn’t escape. After that I’d let the cops in on it.
I climbed the front steps, eased open the front door and went inside. The odor of burnt onions made me want to gag. I felt sorry for Timmy, having to stand over that stench.
Reggie was yapping on about what he was going to do to Timmy and his “cocksucking boyfriend.” Timmy didn’t respond; I assumed he was surreptitiously adding rat poison to whatever it was he was cooking.
It shouldn’t have been so easy, but that was the Moran brothers for you. They were loyal as dogs but stupid to a fault. Before Reggie knew I was behind him, I raised the butt of my gun and struck him on the back of the head. He grunted, dropped his gun and slumped against the table.
Timmy shut off the burner, put a lid on whatever he was cooking and turned to face me.
“Thank God. I was about to vomit.” He opened the junk drawer and handed me a length of clothesline. “He demanded I put an entire onion in his scrambled eggs. And he wanted it burnt.”
“Some people have no taste.” I tied Reggie’s wrists together, then looped the rope around the slats in the chair. “Give me thirty seconds, then call Bowman. Reggie’s little brother is in the getaway vehicle. The tire should be flat by now, but let’s not take a chance on him getting away.”
I checked my knots and looked up at Timmy. “You’ll be OK with him?”
“If he tries anything I’ll hit him with the frying pan.”
“Don’t hurt him too much. We’ll need him for the trial.”
I gave Timmy a quick, hard kiss, then headed back out the front door, returning to Bobby’s truck by way of the lilac bushes. The truck was still idling, but the back end was listing to starboard. The tire was almost flat.
Squatting down, I scooted along the side of the truck, took a deep breath, stood up and pointed my gun through the passenger window.
“Hey, Bobby.”
Bobby yelped, reached for the gun on the seat beside him, then appeared to think better of it.
“I wouldn’t. I really wouldn’t.”
“You asshole.” Sweat broke out on his forehead. “Where’s Reggie?”
“Timmy’s fixing him dinner. Put your hands on the wheel and leave them there.”
He opened his mouth to say something, but I told him to shut up. I’d had enough of the Moran family. Keeping my gun trained on Bobby, I opened the door and grabbed his gun. I tossed it into the yard, then climbed inside the cab.
“Don’t be a hero, Bobby.” I aimed my gun at his ample gut, then reached over to turn off the ignition. I tossed the keys through the window and settled back in my seat.
“Why didn’t you guys just get on with your lives?” Sirens sounded in the distance. “Twenty years from now, give or take a few years for good behavior, and Jack will be out for good. You three morons could have ridden into the sunset together.”
“Fuck you.”
“You wish.” A police car rolled down the alley. “You two will be in stir longer than old Jack. But hey - maybe you boys can room together. It’ll be just like college, minus the co-eds.”
Another cruiser pulled into my driveway. As the cops got out of their car, Timmy opened the back door and gestured them inside. He followed them back inside the house, probably demanding Reggie be charged with some culinary infraction.
“Put the gun away, cowboy.” Bowman opened the driver’s side door and yanked Bobby out of his seat. Grabbing Bobby by the neck, Bowman shoved him against the hood, cuffed him and ordered a uniform to “read this asshole his rights.”
“You goin’ through the Moran brothers one by one?” Bowman’s chuckle sounded like a rusty hinge. “They got a sister, too, but that probably doesn’t interest you.”
“I hear she’s got a girlfriend.” I holstered my gun and got out of the truck. “Come on up to the house. Timmy’s got dinner waiting.”
“Your girlfriend said you fixed the truck tire, knocked Reggie over the head and then went after Bobby,” Bowman said as we climbed the back steps. Timmy was there, holding the door for us. “How the hell did you even know they were here?”
Reggie Moran was moaning and groaning and threatening to sue me for putting a dent in his head.
“I’m sure it’s an improvement,” Timmy told him.
We watched as the two cops escorted Reggie out the door.
“Well?” Bowman said once Reggie was tucked safely in the back seat of the cruiser. “How did you know?”
Timmy said, “We have a code. But it’s a secret code, known only to homosexuals.”
Bowman gaped at him.
“If you like, we can tell you what it is,” I said. “Then you’ll be one of us.”
Bowman held up his hands. “Forget I asked.”
“You sure?” I put my arm around Timmy’s waist. “It might come in handy.”
Bowman advised me to go fuck myself, then told us to get our asses down to the station so we could give our statements. Timmy told him we’d be down in the morning and not one minute sooner. Bowman said something about our parentage then took off, the screen door hitting him on the ass on his way out.
I pulled Timmy into my arms and kissed his neck, right underneath his collar. “I’m sorry about all this.”
“Don’t worry about it. I realized I was in no danger when they started whispering about who was supposed to have loaded the gun.”
I laughed, relieved that he was okay and doubly relieved that he wasn’t pissed off at me for involving him in yet another case.
“So, tell me more about this homosexual code.”
Timmy rubbed his nose against my cheek. “You don’t know about the code?”
“Nope.”
“I’ll have to show it to you.”
“Where is it?”
“Under my pillow, right next to my gay agenda.”
*Crossposted from Dreamwidth*