(no subject)
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"Bow tie."
"Necktie."
"Nah. Bow. Black." John Beston gestures through the act of knotting, looping over and under and through. "Bow."
"Around a fucking goat?"
"How d'you keep it from eating the tie?" Ken Yamaguchi wants to know, eyes half-masted behind the curl of smoke.
John considers through a prism of amber and froth. "Tie it close," he says, and hooks his elbow over the Buick's roof, beer bottle dangled in the loop of thumb and forefinger. His breath curls through the periphery of his gaze and fades, dissipating into the alley's frame. "Goats aren't double-jointed."
"I'm double-jointed."
"You're a freaking contortionist."
"Tucci," says Chris from his lazy slouch against the other side of the car, "can lick his own balls. Only kind of action he can get."
"Makes sense. The guy's some kind of barn animal."
"Fuck me," Tucci says. "I'm standing right here."
Ken turns his mild, dreamy-eyed gaze onto his partner. "You lick your own balls?"
John grins while Sal Tucci dips his heavy brows over the swig of beer. "Only reason he's not still a virgin."
"Technically." Chris closes his eyes, tipping the black-crowned head back to bathe in street light.
"I get plenty of action," Tucci says, flicking the bottle's cap against the precinct wall. It ricochets and spins, twirling hysterically until Ken's foot reaches out to tap it to a standstill. "I've got women lined up around the corner for what I got to sell."
"Bald balls," John says. "That much licking--"
"New York women like bald balls?"
"Bald bastards. Look at Lazzaro."
"Watch it," John warns, a grin curling over to lap at his gravel bass. "Chris doesn't like it when people talk smack about his sister."
Chris yawns. "Show Ken your tongue, Tucci."
"It got hair on it?" Ken asks with placid innocence.
"Show him your hands," Tucci slaps back, cigarette sketching a crude letter in the corner of his mouth. "You can braid the hair growing off his palms."
"Screw you," Chris tells the spill of light against the dark, baritone an indifferent drawl.
Tucci lifts his lip in an exaggerated sneer. "Altar boy."
The snow piled high against the brick walls throws its fluorescence against the men, casting their shadows into muddy, tangled puddles. John Beston turns on along the line of his rib against the car roof, folding his elbows in a loose knot. The beer bottle clinks against the metal. He watches his partner light a cigarette behind the blade of his glove, and extends his own hand in demand. Chris passes it over without a word and goes back to watching the sheen through his eyelids.
Ken stirs, tossing back the last of his beer, and checks his watch. "I got to go," he tells John. "Taking the wife out for dinner."
"Once a year," says Tucci. "Once every goddamn year."
"This is why you're not married," Ken says, straightening. He lifts his head in casual, easy farewell -- a glance tips back to Chris Rossi, unreadable -- and shoves his gloved hand into his pocket. "It's too damn cold."
Beston's gaze follows his, and bumps off of Chris's clear, mocking regard. "Divorced three times," he tells Ken. "I remembered every Valentine's day."
"Tell them how many of them you were with your wife for," Chris suggests. A trill shivers through the alley, a cell's serenade. Chris dips into his pocket with a gloved hand, groping for the phone.
Tucci leers, attempting to look dissipated. With his blunt, amiable features, the result makes him look like a constipated platypus. "Spent them with a hooker?"
John's bass drawl is sardonic. "So you've met my first wife?"
"Yeah," says Chris, on the phone. "Rossi. --Yeah. What?"
"Three times?" Ken echoes, stooping to stub his cigarette out against dirty ice. "Three different women?"
John shrugs, draining his own bottle to the dregs. "I'm always on the lookout for an ex-Mrs. Beston."
"You stole that line," Tucci says. "That was in a movie."
"I don't watch movies."
"I remember that movie," Ken says.
"See? The Jap backs me up."
"It was the guy from The Fly. And the dinosaurs. Something ... Park. Jurassic--"
"He's your partner," John says. He fists his temple, the cold, tight stretch of his gloves comparatively warm against his skin. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Chris, and the stark profile against the dark backdrop of wall. The younger man closes his eyes, eyelids shadowed and bruised. John glances at Tucci. "The kid thinks monkeys fly out of your ass."
The other detective blows on his hands, washing them in impermanent heat. "You think monkeys fly out of my ass, Ken?" Tucci demands.
Ken glances at his watch again. "I think any guy who learns how to lick his own balls has something coming out his ass, yeah."
"You ever have an endoscopy, man? Young guy like you? Some doctor with lube shoves a tube this big up your ass. Monkeys would be a step up. At least they'd be coming out."
Chris, leaning against the car, says a flattened, "Don't worry about it. Thanks. Appreciate the call." He straightens, dropping the phone back in his pocket, and reclaims his bottle from the car roof.
John glances at him. "Who was it?"
"Florist." Chris breathes over the mouth of his beer, an exhalation that flutes a low, mellow echo across the glass. "Forgot to cancel the flowers."
Ken thrusts his hands in his pockets, and looks. "Flowers?"
"Canto." The explanation is brief. Succinct.
Tucci looks vaguely incredulous. John sucks in a breath.
Chris's mouth twists. "Thought this time I wouldn't forget about Valentine's." He answers their expressions, and their mute, masculine sympathy. "Ordered the flowers when we started dating. Anyway."
"Shit," says Ken.
Chris shrugs, shoulders tight. "Should've remembered," he says, baritone harsh. "You ever get the cabby on the Jetson thing, Tucci?"
"Talked to his boss. Nothing useful. He's supposed to be on-shift in the morning, if one of his buddies doesn't call him. Address turned out to be in the middle of the East River."
"We had one of those." Chris begins to prowl, restless, his coat flaring around his pace, back and forth. "Remember, John? That guy, Jesus. His daughter just had a baby. Turned out he was dyslexic, and always got his address backwards. This guy was absolutely convinced I was black. Kept trying to tell me that Rossi was an old Nigerian family out in--" His voice trails off, ragged; his eyes flicker, too bright.
"Chris--" John begins. Tucci moves suddenly, dropping his cigarette.
The smash of Chris's fist into the car door is desperately violent. The impact jags a sharp, vicious spiderweb across the Buick's window. Ice splinters across the car's roof. The fist slams in again. And again. The other men leap at him, arms reaching to restrain, to hold.
"Chris."
"Fuck," Chris breathes, white-faced, and rolls against the door to stare up at the sky. His arm hugs his fist to his ribs, cradling the bloodied knuckles. "I think I broke my hand."
They give him the gift of space, looking tactfully down at feet, and the speckling of ash against gritty ice. Chris exhales and stirs into motion, carving a long, stiff-legged path away from the car. Snow crunches underfoot. John makes a movement as though to follow, then stops himself short, chafing at some invisible leash. The three men say nothing, watching him go.
"Colonoscopy," Ken says at last, breaking the silence. "You mean a colonoscopy."
"Endoscopy."
"Colonoscopy."
"Fuck you, Jap. The man stuck a tube up my ass. I know what it was called. You don't forget a thing like that."
"What was the doctor's name?" Ken asks.
Tucci beetles his brows. "Doc ... something."
John pops the top off another bottle. "You know what the tube was called, but you didn't catch the name of the guy who deployed the sucker?"
"Deploy-- some guy lubes up and starts going for your asshole, you don't want to be on a first name basis with him. You know the name of the last guy who did you?"
John arches a brow at Tucci, and flicks the bottlecap at the other detective. "You were so good, Sal," he says, dragging his voice into soulful melancholy. "Tender and giving, like a New Zealand sheep."
Tucci sighs. "Asshole."
"Bow tie."
"Necktie."
"Nah. Bow. Black." John Beston gestures through the act of knotting, looping over and under and through. "Bow."
"Around a fucking goat?"
"How d'you keep it from eating the tie?" Ken Yamaguchi wants to know, eyes half-masted behind the curl of smoke.
John considers through a prism of amber and froth. "Tie it close," he says, and hooks his elbow over the Buick's roof, beer bottle dangled in the loop of thumb and forefinger. His breath curls through the periphery of his gaze and fades, dissipating into the alley's frame. "Goats aren't double-jointed."
"I'm double-jointed."
"You're a freaking contortionist."
"Tucci," says Chris from his lazy slouch against the other side of the car, "can lick his own balls. Only kind of action he can get."
"Makes sense. The guy's some kind of barn animal."
"Fuck me," Tucci says. "I'm standing right here."
Ken turns his mild, dreamy-eyed gaze onto his partner. "You lick your own balls?"
John grins while Sal Tucci dips his heavy brows over the swig of beer. "Only reason he's not still a virgin."
"Technically." Chris closes his eyes, tipping the black-crowned head back to bathe in street light.
"I get plenty of action," Tucci says, flicking the bottle's cap against the precinct wall. It ricochets and spins, twirling hysterically until Ken's foot reaches out to tap it to a standstill. "I've got women lined up around the corner for what I got to sell."
"Bald balls," John says. "That much licking--"
"New York women like bald balls?"
"Bald bastards. Look at Lazzaro."
"Watch it," John warns, a grin curling over to lap at his gravel bass. "Chris doesn't like it when people talk smack about his sister."
Chris yawns. "Show Ken your tongue, Tucci."
"It got hair on it?" Ken asks with placid innocence.
"Show him your hands," Tucci slaps back, cigarette sketching a crude letter in the corner of his mouth. "You can braid the hair growing off his palms."
"Screw you," Chris tells the spill of light against the dark, baritone an indifferent drawl.
Tucci lifts his lip in an exaggerated sneer. "Altar boy."
The snow piled high against the brick walls throws its fluorescence against the men, casting their shadows into muddy, tangled puddles. John Beston turns on along the line of his rib against the car roof, folding his elbows in a loose knot. The beer bottle clinks against the metal. He watches his partner light a cigarette behind the blade of his glove, and extends his own hand in demand. Chris passes it over without a word and goes back to watching the sheen through his eyelids.
Ken stirs, tossing back the last of his beer, and checks his watch. "I got to go," he tells John. "Taking the wife out for dinner."
"Once a year," says Tucci. "Once every goddamn year."
"This is why you're not married," Ken says, straightening. He lifts his head in casual, easy farewell -- a glance tips back to Chris Rossi, unreadable -- and shoves his gloved hand into his pocket. "It's too damn cold."
Beston's gaze follows his, and bumps off of Chris's clear, mocking regard. "Divorced three times," he tells Ken. "I remembered every Valentine's day."
"Tell them how many of them you were with your wife for," Chris suggests. A trill shivers through the alley, a cell's serenade. Chris dips into his pocket with a gloved hand, groping for the phone.
Tucci leers, attempting to look dissipated. With his blunt, amiable features, the result makes him look like a constipated platypus. "Spent them with a hooker?"
John's bass drawl is sardonic. "So you've met my first wife?"
"Yeah," says Chris, on the phone. "Rossi. --Yeah. What?"
"Three times?" Ken echoes, stooping to stub his cigarette out against dirty ice. "Three different women?"
John shrugs, draining his own bottle to the dregs. "I'm always on the lookout for an ex-Mrs. Beston."
"You stole that line," Tucci says. "That was in a movie."
"I don't watch movies."
"I remember that movie," Ken says.
"See? The Jap backs me up."
"It was the guy from The Fly. And the dinosaurs. Something ... Park. Jurassic--"
"He's your partner," John says. He fists his temple, the cold, tight stretch of his gloves comparatively warm against his skin. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Chris, and the stark profile against the dark backdrop of wall. The younger man closes his eyes, eyelids shadowed and bruised. John glances at Tucci. "The kid thinks monkeys fly out of your ass."
The other detective blows on his hands, washing them in impermanent heat. "You think monkeys fly out of my ass, Ken?" Tucci demands.
Ken glances at his watch again. "I think any guy who learns how to lick his own balls has something coming out his ass, yeah."
"You ever have an endoscopy, man? Young guy like you? Some doctor with lube shoves a tube this big up your ass. Monkeys would be a step up. At least they'd be coming out."
Chris, leaning against the car, says a flattened, "Don't worry about it. Thanks. Appreciate the call." He straightens, dropping the phone back in his pocket, and reclaims his bottle from the car roof.
John glances at him. "Who was it?"
"Florist." Chris breathes over the mouth of his beer, an exhalation that flutes a low, mellow echo across the glass. "Forgot to cancel the flowers."
Ken thrusts his hands in his pockets, and looks. "Flowers?"
"Canto." The explanation is brief. Succinct.
Tucci looks vaguely incredulous. John sucks in a breath.
Chris's mouth twists. "Thought this time I wouldn't forget about Valentine's." He answers their expressions, and their mute, masculine sympathy. "Ordered the flowers when we started dating. Anyway."
"Shit," says Ken.
Chris shrugs, shoulders tight. "Should've remembered," he says, baritone harsh. "You ever get the cabby on the Jetson thing, Tucci?"
"Talked to his boss. Nothing useful. He's supposed to be on-shift in the morning, if one of his buddies doesn't call him. Address turned out to be in the middle of the East River."
"We had one of those." Chris begins to prowl, restless, his coat flaring around his pace, back and forth. "Remember, John? That guy, Jesus. His daughter just had a baby. Turned out he was dyslexic, and always got his address backwards. This guy was absolutely convinced I was black. Kept trying to tell me that Rossi was an old Nigerian family out in--" His voice trails off, ragged; his eyes flicker, too bright.
"Chris--" John begins. Tucci moves suddenly, dropping his cigarette.
The smash of Chris's fist into the car door is desperately violent. The impact jags a sharp, vicious spiderweb across the Buick's window. Ice splinters across the car's roof. The fist slams in again. And again. The other men leap at him, arms reaching to restrain, to hold.
"Chris."
"Fuck," Chris breathes, white-faced, and rolls against the door to stare up at the sky. His arm hugs his fist to his ribs, cradling the bloodied knuckles. "I think I broke my hand."
They give him the gift of space, looking tactfully down at feet, and the speckling of ash against gritty ice. Chris exhales and stirs into motion, carving a long, stiff-legged path away from the car. Snow crunches underfoot. John makes a movement as though to follow, then stops himself short, chafing at some invisible leash. The three men say nothing, watching him go.
"Colonoscopy," Ken says at last, breaking the silence. "You mean a colonoscopy."
"Endoscopy."
"Colonoscopy."
"Fuck you, Jap. The man stuck a tube up my ass. I know what it was called. You don't forget a thing like that."
"What was the doctor's name?" Ken asks.
Tucci beetles his brows. "Doc ... something."
John pops the top off another bottle. "You know what the tube was called, but you didn't catch the name of the guy who deployed the sucker?"
"Deploy-- some guy lubes up and starts going for your asshole, you don't want to be on a first name basis with him. You know the name of the last guy who did you?"
John arches a brow at Tucci, and flicks the bottlecap at the other detective. "You were so good, Sal," he says, dragging his voice into soulful melancholy. "Tender and giving, like a New Zealand sheep."
Tucci sighs. "Asshole."