Southland - Son is on a Midnight Run Like DeNiro.... (Cooper/Ben, NC-17, 1/4)
So, this is my story, and I'm tremendously proud of writing it. And if I never wrote anything after this that would be okay by me, because at least I can say I did this.
Southland
John Cooper/Ben Sherman
Rated NC-17
Word Count: 38,152
Son is on a Midnight Run Like DeNiro
or We're All Just Train Wrecks Waiting for the Crash
"Is that a lemon in your hair?" John peers at Sherman a little closer.
Ten feet away, standing before the open trunk of the squad car, Sherman pauses in unbuttoning his shirt and glares at him. "You think this is funny, don't you?" he asks, brushing ineffectually at the mess in his hair. A piece of something that might've been pasta in its first life falls out of his hair, flops onto his shoulder and then onto the pavement.
John grins. "Fuck, yes."
Sherman's mouth turns down at the corners, and he goes back to stripping in the driveway of 1325 Fargo Street.
The rookie is unhappy. Of course, John would be unhappy too if he'd had to follow a perp into a make-shift landfill in the back of a Silverlake garden, because only rich assholes call it "composting" and not "being a lazy fucker who won't take out the trash."
And as soon as John stops laughing his ass off, he's going to make sure Sherman is okay. He really is. Except that Sherman's covered in carrot peelings and wilted lettuce and there's some orange sauce on his left sleeve, and oh god, John's lung capacity isn't prepared for this.
Then again, no part of John is prepared for Sherman to just strip off his shirt and his undershirt at the same time. The bright L.A. sun streams through the pine trees lining the driveway, casting patterns on Sherman's bare chest.
Too much information.
John clears his throat. "This isn't Chippendales, kid, put some clothes on."
Sherman rolls his eyes. "Sir, if you'd rather I get fruit salad all over the car, I can put this back on." Sherman shakes his balled up shirts at John.
John smirks. "You get it dirty, you clean it up, cupcake."
"Cupcake," Sherman tugs an LAPD windbreaker out of the trunk and pulls it on over his bare chest. It's pretty pornographic. John is going to stop looking now. "That's a new one."
John makes a dismissive wave, pulling the car keys out of his pocket and jangling them in warning. "Keep mouthing off and I'm putting you in the back with Fruitcake Sally in there."
In the backseat, a 30-something animal-rights activist named Anne Halliday is waiting to be taken in for booking. Apparently she doesn't object to her neighbors' compost attracting all the local wildlife, but she objects to them putting their meat in the compost heap. Her solution was to cover said neighbors' car with blood she stole from the local Red Cross.
It's just as whacked out as it sounds. They don't even have codes to fit this one.
Once Sherman's in the car, John backs out of the driveway and takes Fargo down to Silverlake. People are going for their daily runs around the reservoir, taking babies and dogs for walks. Sherman's looking out the window, but John doesn't think he's actually seeing anything. He's been more reserved than usual today. John knows something's wrong.
If this goes on, eventually John's going to have to find out what it is.
In the backseat, Fruitcake Sally rails against the evils of steak and eggs. "When a cow pays taxes, then he can have a say, until then, shut the fuck up!" John orders.
"Of course a pig would say that," the woman retorts.
"How about you people get the human rights issues solved before you worry about the fucking animals," he snaps. "You've got gangs in L.A., kid soldiers in Somalia and fucking genocide in Darfur, so why don't you do something about a real goddamn problem instead of creating some bullshit, middle-class entitlement issue just to make you feel better about your insignificant existence?"
This only incites the woman more, but out the corner of his eye, John can see the corner of Sherman's mouth twitching as though he wants to smile.
It's better than nothing.
Being in management sucks ass.
Cesar invited John over to watch the game, but he can't ignore the way Sherman's dragging around in the locker room like somebody stole his lollipop.
After he leaves the locker room, John finds himself stalling in the hallway. He doesn't even have to ask himself what he's waiting for. When he calls Cesar to say he can't make it, Cesar just laughs. "I didn't think you were coming anyway, Cooper."
"You lack of faith hurts," John says.
"Please, the only man who works harder than you is me. I know how you roll."
John smiles into the phone. "We'll catch up soon."
"Ramon and Tom are having a party this weekend. Let me know if you want to go."
"Right." Both John and Cesar know that house parties aren't John's scene. Too many flashing lights, bad music and cheap drugs. Even the afternoon barbeques and brunches make John feel awkward, but Cesar always asks and John never accepts.
John's sliding the phone into his back pocket just as Sherman finally emerges from behind the swinging door. His hair is wet and his shirt damp at the neck. At least he's washed the lemons out.
"Kid, you need a drink?"
Sherman's head snaps up, his eyes wide when they land on John. "Uh."
John smirks. "It's not a multiple choice question."
John can fucking hear the kid thinking. "Jesus," he says. "Never mind, you're coming with me anyway. One day of you sulking is plenty."
Sherman's mouth thins into a line. "I'm not sulking," he says sharply.
John just raises an eyebrow. "The next time you lie to me, make me believe it," he says, gesturing for Sherman to follow him.
He doesn't even bother to look back to see if Sherman's behind him.
John knows he's there.
Somewhere in the clusterfuck Los Angeles calls traffic, Sherman's following behind John's car, Amy. John doesn't know why he named the Challenger Amy, just that it seemed to fit.
Instinct is a bitch though, and John passes one bar, two bars, six bars before he realizes that he's not leading the kid out for a drink, he's leading him to his goddamn house. It's not that he wants Sherman in his house, but bars lead to all kinds of stupidity and John prefers to play on his home turf.
From his car speakers, Aretha Franklin's singing that she's an 'eval gal' and in John Cooper's head, the music is floating in one ear and straight out the other.
He takes Sunset to Echo Park to Grafton and then onto Lemoyne. The Samirs are out tonight, sitting on their porch swing, and they wave to John as he passes by. Everybody in the neighborhood knows Officer Cooper.
In his rearview mirror he catches Sherman's head turning to glance at his neighbors. It's the first time John's looked back in twenty minutes. He never doubted Sherman could keep up. Hell, every time he lets Sherman off the leash for a foot chase, he finds his way back to John eventually.
He pulls into his driveway, gets out of the car and waves to Mrs. Ramirez three houses down as she’s taking out her trash. "Hola, John!" she calls over the sound of Sherman's motorcycle pulling into the driveway alongside the Challenger.
John's just unlocking the security gate when Sherman jogs up beside him. "I thought we were going to get a drink."
"Slow down there, son," John teases, opening the front door. "I have alcohol," he says, flipping on the lights. "Then again, I'm old enough to drink, but maybe you should show me your ID."
Sherman stands on the front steps for a moment, pursing his lips. John reaches back and ruffles his still damp hair. "Pull the stick out of your ass, you're done for the day," he says.
Sherman's mouth stretches into a smile. "I've got my ID for you right here," he says, reaching into back pocket before John can protest. When Sherman lifts his hand, though, he's not holding his wallet - he's flipping John the bird.
John laughs in delight. "So your nuts haven't been removed permanently," he says, dumping his bag by the door and heading for the kitchen. "Good to know."
He's in a good mood; his back has been doing all right today and he hasn't had to really take anything for it. A beer or three should get him through the night just fine.
He grabs a few Sierra Nevadas from the fridge and turns back around to find Sherman studying the pictures on his walls. "You were an ugly kid," Sherman mocks with a wry smile.
John's mouth twists at the right corner. "I'd throw this beer at your head, but I'd hate to waste good alcohol on a fuck-up like you," he says, pulling out one of his kitchen chairs and sitting down.
Sherman pauses right by the kitchen entrance. "What's in here?" he asks, pointing to the little glass terrarium against the wall that's emitting a faint fluorescent light.
"Hermit crabs. Paul, Clint and John."
Sherman chuckles. "Not a dog man?"
"I only clean up someone else's crap if I'm getting paid," John corrects as Sherman drops down on the other side of the table.
He slides a beer across the table; it leaves wet streaks on the wood. "I should've taken your ass to a bar, but I'd hate to have to explain drinking you under the table and you getting alcohol poisoning to your girlfriend."
The smile on Sherman's face falls. Ah. Of course it's woman trouble.
"What's wrong?" John coaxes. "You couldn't get it up last night and she had to pull out her plastic rabbit?" Something stormy crosses Sherman's face and then just as quickly he's back to the everyday stoicness. John hates the stoic face. "She fuck your best friend already? That was fast."
"She said she's been talking to her ex. She's moving back to New York; they're going to get back together."
John pauses with his beer halfway to his mouth. "I thought she was with you."
"So did I."
There should be a note of bitterness, but John doesn't catch it. All he hears is resignation. Defeat. Jesus, life just beats the hell out of some people.
He stands up, the chair scraping against the yellow lino. "You don't want beer," he announces, moving around Sherman to the dish cabinet. "You want me to get you drunk."
"I think I'm good," Sherman replies as John pulls out half a bottle of Johnnie Walker red.
"I was good once," John says, turning around and looking down at Sherman. "And then my wife left me, I injured my back and found out I was gay." He hands the whiskey to Sherman. "Have a drink."
Sherman's lips part just that little bit; he takes Johnnie Walker and sets it on the table anyway. John grabs a few glasses and slides them onto the table next to the bottle.
"You okay, Boo?" John asks, grabbing some Doritos from the cabinet and tossing them on the table. "You look a little constipated."
Sherman licks his lips. "You're not going to make me talk about my feelings, are you?"
John doesn't have to pretend to be offended. "The finals are on, numb nuts. You want somebody to talk to? Go see the department shrink."
Sherman's smile is so brilliant, John has to turn away in annoyance. He is not going to be charmed by some fucking jailbait, heterosexual poster boy rookie.
Not even a little bit.
At some point during the basketball game, Sherman looks at John from the sofa and smiles again. This smile is different from the one in the kitchen, more disarming. It's clearly the whiskey talking. "Everybody wants to be in love, right?" he asks. He seems almost uncertain, like maybe he missed a day at the Academy when this section was covered.
"Mighty fast to be in love there, Boy Wonder."
"I wasn't. I just. She never said there was someone else."
"They never do."
"Speaking from experience?"
"I've got all kinds of experience, kid. Doesn't mean I know anything."
"You know plenty."
John snorts into his glass. "No. I don't."
They're quiet for a minute.
Sherman's forehead creases. "Isn't that the American Dream? Being in love? Finding somebody to love you for who you are?"
John makes a derisive noise. "No, kid, the American Dream is to have a job that keeps a roof over your head and that you live long enough to collect your pension. In case you rich people don't know what a pension is-"
"Stop being an asshole, John," Sherman says, making a dismissive wave of his hand. Sherman called him 'John.' He's clearly on his way to happy drunk land. Or he better be. "You can stop pretending."
John shifts in his chair, leaning forward and narrowing his eyes. "I can stop pretending what, Jerry Springer?"
"That you don't care."
John snorts. "So you think you have me all figured out after a couple drinks? Newsflash, kid, you don't know anything about me."
Sherman's eyes fix on John a lot quicker than John would give him credit for. "You have pictures of your family and your ex-wife up on your walls. Your neighbors know you. They wave. You're respected. I don't even know anybody who lives on my street."
"You want my neighbors?" John says, trying not to listen too hard to Sherman's blathering. "Take the Grimaldis on the corner: they have ten kids and they all live at home."
Sherman carries on. "You brought me here, because you knew I was all fucked up about something. You care about transvestite shop keepers and kids with fucked-up parents. This is your whole life; taking care of everybody else. It's what makes you a good man."
A good man.
Sherman thinks he's a good man. Apart from stealing pills from his rich friends, of course.
John leans back in his chair and looks at the TV. "I didn't know you knew so many words, Sherman," he says after several moments.
He can see Sherman watching him in his periphery. Waiting, observing, wondering if he went too far.
He can keep waiting.
"She wasn't good enough for you," John finds himself saying twenty minutes later as Kobe attempts a three-pointer.
Kobe misses the shot. "You never really met her," Sherman says.
It's not quite true; John saw her at the crime scene and that was plenty. He looks over at Sherman. "Didn't have to," he says.
Sherman passes out on John's sofa. The wary look Sherman wears all day seems to disappear when he's asleep, but the signs are there. The lines on his face that'll only deepen the longer he's on the force. John stares down at him for long seconds before throwing a faded blanket over him.
He contemplates removing Sherman's shoes, thinks better of it and consoles himself by leaving a wastebasket by his head. Just in case.
Sherman's gone the next morning when John wakes up, which is fine by him. He doesn't do the morning after thing anyway. There's a note on the kitchen table.
Thanks.
-Ben
That's Sherman: brief even in his notes.
Work is work. There's no honor among thieves. Or murderers. Or crackheads and fiends. Hell, some days there's not even honor among your fellow police.
John runs into Chickie in the halls about a week after Dewey's done his best Steve McQueen. She looks tired and beat-up. Like her partner fucking kidnapped her, went on a drunken spree and flipped their car in the L.A. Basin.
Oh, wait, that happened.
She gives him a wan smile. "Hey."
He gives her an apprising look and she smiles a bit more. "You okay there?"
"I'm getting a new partner today," she says. "A transfer from the three-one."
"I thought you were gonna take some time off. Take your kid on a vacation or something."
Chickie shrugs. "Vacations don't pay for themselves."
John purses his lips. "You know anything about this new guy?"
"Yeah, the guy's a girl."
John raises an eyebrow. "Nice."
Chickie snorts softly. "She can't be much worse."
"Yeah, well, if you need me to tell somebody the facts of life, you just let me know."
She pats him on the arm. "Thanks, John."
He nods, watching her walk away. When he turns back around, Sherman's standing a few feet away, watching him. "What the fuck are you looking at?" John barks.
Sherman's smile is entirely too big for John's tone of voice. Maybe he's going soft. He'll have to correct that. He wouldn't want the kid to think he was losing his edge just because he got him drunk last week and let him sleep on his couch.
"Sweet Home Alabamy! Where the sky's always blue! Sweet Home Alabamy! Lord, I'm too drunk to remember the next bit -- hey, officer do you know how it goes?"
John glances away from the road ahead to eyeball the perp with his face pressed against the grating. "Sit the fuck back, before I come back there and make you," he orders.
They're bringing in a drunk and disorderly, who's still drunk and disorderly. At least he is if his piss-poor, drowning cat screeching and the smell of gin radiating five feet away from his body are any indication.
"I was just singin', boss, you got something against Alabama? Yeah, you prolly do. You look like you're from Texas anyhow. I fuckin' hate Texas," the man slurs.
Sherman turns around. "Shut up!" he orders.
John smirks at the windshield. "Somebody's feisty today. What's wrong? Still got a hangover?"
Sherman's cheeks color. "I - thanks, sir."
"For what?"
"Last week."
"Oooh, what happish last week?" the perp slurs.
John slams on the brakes, and the perp slams into the plastic partition behind his seat. Yes, he stopped in the middle of the intersection, but green's close enough to red. His back, however, does not approve.
Someone honks, John ignores them. Instead he slides the car into park, turns around, and looks over the seat to where the perp is crumpled up in the foot well.
"If you don't shut the fuck up right now, I'm going to fold your ass up into little pieces and put you in the trunk," he snaps.
"I'm shuttin' up," the perp bitches, struggling to sit up. "Damn, son. Always knew you Texas boys were fruity like that. G'wan argue with yer boyfriend. I'm not listenin' anyways."
John can feel the tightness in his jaw. "It's not worth it," Sherman says.
John catches movement in his periphery. Sherman's hand is resting on the seat between them. It wasn't there before. It's like he was reaching out and then thought better of it.
John turns back around and takes off just as the light flips from yellow to red.
Close enough.
Sherman's waiting in the parking lot after shift. John shakes his head. "Bar's closed tonight."
His back's been bothering him since Mr. Drunk Lynyrd Skynyrd slammed into his seat. He's done okay without the pills for the last few days, but he needs something now. It's not like he wants to need the pills, it's just that every time he tries to get off of them he ends up needing them again.
"I was thinking we could do it at my place," Sherman offers.
John's mouth twitches. He knows Sherman's not saying what it sounds like he's saying. "You wanna try that one again, junior?" he teases anyway. "What exactly were you thinking we were gonna do?" His emphasis on the word 'do' says it all.
Even in the fading daylight, John can see the flush in Sherman's cheeks. "I mean dinner. I thought we could do dinner this weekend. If you wanted."
"We just did lunch."
Sherman's bottom lip sticks out just that little bit. It's kind of endearing when he does his determined pit bull puppy routine. "If you don't want to come, just say so."
"Oh, I want," John mocks. "I definitely want." Sherman's flush is spreading. John has to get his kicks somehow. "Gotta see how the other half live," he says.
Sherman makes a scoffing noise. "I'll give the help the day off, just for you."
"Aw, don't do that," John says. "Who's going to answer your door at Wayne Manor if Alfred has the day off?"
John's still laughing when Sherman walks off. Hell, he's still laughing when he calls Cesar to tell him he can't come around this weekend.
Cesar just snorts. "You are the worst ex-boyfriend ever."
John glances around at the empty loading area. "I would've had to be your boyfriend first to be your ex," he replies in a low tone.
"Details, cabrón."
"Oh, so now you want to call me names in Spanish, pendejo?"
"It's so cute to hear your white ass speak Mexican. Really. So, seriously, what's up? This is the second time in two weeks you're canceling on me. You working overtime? I know you don't need the money, because I did your wall for free."
John laughs, heading for his car. "I know, aren't exes great that way?"
"John."
John knows that tone. Shit. "What?"
"You seeing somebody?"
"What?"
"Qué is not an answer. C'mon, you can tell Cesar all about it. It's not some twink is it? I told you those high-maintenance pretty boys aren't worth it. You need a bear. Hell, you need your dick sucked that badly, I'll take you to the Abbey."
"You've been watching Queer as Folk again, haven't you?"
"That's not the point, and you didn't answer the question."
"Did you ever think about a job in interrogation?"
"I don't need a man in uniform. I own my own business, and I already wear one. So?"
"So, what?"
"So, nothing. Who is he?"
"Nobody. It's just my partner. Sherman. His girlfriend dumped him, and he's depressed."
Which is a rather large lie on John's part since Sherman's mentioned getting dumped exactly once and hasn't mentioned it since he passed out on John's couch. In fact, since John got him drunk, Sherman's been rather Zen about the whole thing.
"Your partner, huh? You like him?"
"What's to like?" John says, hitting the remote for the Challenger. Amy beeps at him in welcome as he pops her trunk and drops in his duffle bag. "He's a rich kid playing blue collar. He's got legs like fucking Carl Lewis and a face that would make a nun think twice."
Cesar howls. "That bad, huh?"
John sighs in exasperation. "It ain't that bad."
Cesar makes derisive noise. "Next time you say it, act like you mean it."
John winds his way through Coldwater Canyon a little after two on a Sunday afternoon in June with Joe Strummer singing about the police on his back. Coldwater is a gorgeous stretch of Angelino hillside, flush with trees, fauna and money. Only people with money could afford to live somewhere that's not near grocery stores, liquor stores or the local Starbucks. Clearly they have people who deal with things like that for them.
Sherman's directions are pretty easy to follow, but they don't quite allow for long stretches of road with gated communities, roads barely passable if the nanny's SUV is parked by the curb and people who don't clearly identify their property. It's not the kind the community you want to navigate late at night if you don't know where you're going. In L.A. the richer the area, the fewer the street lights.
John's been driving just long enough to start getting really aggravated. He's just made up his mind to pull over and call Sherman when he passes by a tidy yard with a familiar figure doing something suspiciously domestic.
He throws the car into reverse, backs up twenty feet and lowers his sunglasses to watch Sherman pick up errant palm tree leaves. "I thought Alfred took care of things like that," John hollers out the driver's side window.
Sherman's head snaps up and his mouth slides into a smile. "I told you I gave Alfred the day off," he calls back.
John just shakes his head, reverses another fifteen feet and backs into Sherman's driveway. It's a not inconsiderable distance between the street and Sherman's house.
Sherman's still walking up the front lawn by the time John's cut the engine and climbed out of the car. The garage door is up, showcasing Sherman's motorcycle and a brand new silver Audi. John just shakes his head.
"I brought you beer," he says, hefting a six pack of Heineken.
Sherman smiles again. He's got half a dozen palm leaves tucked under his arm and dirt smeared across his forehead. "Glad you could make it," he says. "I was just cleaning up."
"I thought you rich folks had hired help for that."
"I don't have hired help, I am the hired help."
"Oh, so not only are you a rich bastard, you're a cheap, rich bastard," John mocks.
"I like to do things myself."
"I hadn't noticed."
Sherman rolls his eyes and nods towards the house. "C'mon, I'll show you around," he says, walking away to dump his cargo in a trash can.
John follows Sherman into the garage, eyes taking in the work bench full of dirty towels and greasy tools. There are fingerprint-smudged containers of motor oil and an economy sized container of turtle wax.
"You do your own work on your bike?" he asks, as he follows Sherman into the house.
"She's mine," Sherman says simply. "I wouldn't let anybody else touch her."
John blinks at the pronouncement. Sherman doesn't share well with others. He should know that by now.
The garage dumps them out into the kitchen. Sherman takes the beer to put in the fridge and John takes the opportunity to look around on his own. Whatever sort of opulent living John was expecting from Sherman, this isn't it.
Sherman's house is all long, flat clean surfaces and abstract art. The only photos are large, framed black and whites. There are no curios, no clutter of bills, no dishes in the sink. There's an enormous plasma screen TV attached to the wall though, and a coffee table stacked with books that look well-read.
John leans down and peers at worn copies of Catch 22 and The Autobiography of Malcolm X. Jesus. "Did you want a beer?" Sherman calls from the other room.
"As long as it doesn't turn into a theology debate," John mutters under his breath.
"John?" John looks up at his name. Sherman's got a beer in one hand and bottle of water in the other. "Beer? Water? I've got pretty much everything… juice, wine, I didn't know what you'd want with dinner."
"The Autobiography of Malcolm X?" he says, waving the dog-eared book meaningfully.
"My mom was a child of the 60s," Sherman says. "All about women's rights, civil rights and drug rights. She's a great believer in being informed, sir, - you can never be too informed."
John grins. "Drug rights?"
"Know your rights," Sherman says with a smile. "All three of them."
"Kid, if you're name-dropping The Clash to get on my good side... it's working."
Sherman bites his lip, but his pleasure is obvious. "So... drink? Food? The game'll be on soon."
"What kind of food you got?" John sniffs the air. "Something smells good," he says, following Sherman back into the kitchen. He stops dead at the food spread out on the kitchen counter: chicken wings, hamburgers, salad, potato salad, cookies, pasta salad.
He whistles low. "What'd you do? Clear out the entire grocery store? You expecting the rest of the force or something?" he asks as Sherman pops the top on a beer and holds it out.
"No, I just - I didn't know what you'd want, so I made a little of everything."
John looks from Sherman to the food and back to Sherman. "You made this?" he says, taking the bottle from Sherman's hand.
Sherman shrugs. "Yeah."
"Jesus, kid," John says taking a long pull from his beer. "You keep cooking like this and I'll be your girlfriend."
Sherman snorts and turns away to pull out plates.
John looks at the back of Sherman's head thoughtfully. At the cowlick that makes Sherman's hair grow clockwise, and then he looks down at the beer in his hand.
They can do this. This is okay.
The thing about work is that it's always there. It's the most steady, constant influence in anybody's life. Your home life may be shit, your wife may have left you and your boyfriend may be fucking someone else. Your father could be in prison, your mom six feet in the ground, but work is work, and it will never change. It will always be there and it will always be a chance to focus on something else, just for a little while.
Over the next few months John eats, sleeps, shits, goes to work and spends his shift with Ben Sherman. Sometimes he sees Sherman after work too, for dinner, or breakfast, or beers, or whatever games are on TV. Sometimes he goes to Sherman's place, sometimes Sherman comes to his place. Sometimes they go to bars, but that's pretty rare. They spend all day looking at the people of Los Angeles, you get tired of them after a while.
Eventually, John learns where the dips are on Coldwater so he doesn't scrape the bottom of his car. Eventually, Mrs. Ramirez stops raising an inquisitive eyebrow when she sees Sherman's bike parked in John's driveway.
For variety John sees Cesar every few weeks. Sometimes he goes to the Cantina and buys pills from the greasy trick that sits on the stool at the end of the bar.
This is John Cooper's life. It's not the one he thought he was going to have, but all things considered, it's not that bad. Of course there are things he'd like to change, but everybody has things they'd like to change. That's what makes it life.
The thing about the status quo though, it's that it's only the status quo as long as nothing changes. When things start to change, when people get to know each other better, they pick up on things more. They know when something's wrong.
Three days ago, John let Sherman go on a foot chase through the lovely streets of Leimert Park. Sherman ran from Vernon and 11th Ave to 54th Street and Arlington and John followed him as much as he could in the squad car, right until a little girl ran in front of the car to get her bouncing ball and nearly ended up all over his front grill.
To avoid a serious accident, John drove into a series of trash cans. The squad car was fine, the little girl was fine, the perp got caught, but John's aggravated his back severely. Heating pads, ice packs, the back brace, acupuncture, the pills, none of it's working.
He's been awake for three hours and he can already feel the sweat gathering at the base of his spine, sticking his shirt to his back. His tongue feels strange in his mouth, and he can barely sit still long enough to drive.
Sherman's been giving him the side eye since before they got in the car.
It's 8:25 a.m. now; they've been in the car since 7 a.m. John's not going to make it until the end of shift change at 4 p.m. Not without help. He knows that now.
"I'll drive," Sherman says.
John huffs out a breath. He tried yoga once, the teacher said it was all about breathing. "You think I'd let you behind the wheel, rookie? You must be out of your mind."
"I do have my driver's license," Sherman says lightly. "I'm able to drive legally in the State of California you know."
"You got a problem with my driving?" John mocks.
"No, but you don't look good."
John cuts Sherman a glance. "I don't look good?" he laughs. "Who died and made you People magazine?"
"Sir."
Sherman hasn't called him 'sir' in weeks. "I'm fine," John says.
"John, c'mon." It's not what Sherman says, it's how he's saying. He's using that tone. John has that tone. He uses it on freaked out victims and young children. His mom used it on him after his dad went on yet another bender. "Let me drive."
The anger spikes behind John's eyes before he even realizes it's there. "Don't you fucking dare pull that shit with me!" he snaps, yanking the steering wheel hard enough to send them across two lanes of traffic.
"Jesus Christ!" Sherman curses, bracing himself against the dashboard as horns blare angrily after them.
"I was doing this shit when you still thought your dad was good guy, so don't you ever think you can tell me how to do my fucking job!" John rails, pulling into the empty parking lot of a dry cleaners and throwing the car into park.
Across the car, Sherman fingers are digging into the dashboard. He stares out the window long enough to aggravate John even more, and then he's turning back. "You are not fine," he says flatly.
"Who the fuck are you to tell me if I'm fine or not?" John retorts. His leg is tapping on the floor. On it's own. God, he doesn't need this now.
"I'm your partner," Sherman says. There's a tightness around his eyes. "That's who I am."
"You're not my goddamn partner, you're a fucking rookie trainee! You do what I say, when I say. Don't you ever bullshit me like you know what you're talking about!" John slams his hand on the steering wheel, and the horn blares.
"I know plenty about you and your fucking habit." Sherman's jaw is set, his skin flushed down to the collar of his uniform. "I know you're on pills. I know your back is killing you. I know that you won't see a goddamn doctor because you're afraid of something, but I don't know what. If you'd just fucking tell me --"
"Fuck you, Sherman. Fuck you and your rich sanctimonious shit that you think you can just come here, play working man, and try to fuck up my life."
"I'm trying to help." There's a note in Sherman's voice. He's pleading.
John can feel his hands curling into fists; he turns away to wrench open the door instead. He stumbles out into the parking lot, rage and confusion coursing through his veins as he walks circles on the asphalt.
He could hit something, anything, but that's not who he is. It's not his way.
He will never be his father's son.
It doesn't make this any less difficult to deal with. There is a problem. He knows there is. It doesn't mean he wants to fucking talk about it. He just wants it to fix itself. Can't he just have this one fucking thing? Hasn't he given enough? He can't lose his job over this. He'll die if they put him behind a desk. This is all he has.
John looks out at the traffic passing by and then up at the sky. The city is overcast today, but the sun is still out.
"My mom has this friend who's an orthopedic specialist," Sherman's voice is soft behind him. "He's like an uncle to me, and he works at Cedars. I know you won't see somebody from the department, but just -- I called. He said he'd see you. If you want."
John turns sharply on his heel. "Which part of 'this is not your fucking problem' are you not understanding?" he barks.
Instead of moving away, Sherman steps forward. He's so close, John can see the lines around his eyes. "If it's your problem, it's my problem," he says without any hint of irony.
His blue eyes are intent, and when John laughs at his earnestness, it's raw and painful. His entire body shakes with it, like an earthquake. "I wish I had your fucking problems."
Sherman's mouth turns down at the corners, and he looks away for a minute. John closes his eyes and pinches his nose, he opens them when he feels a slight pressure against his chest. It's Sherman tucking a business card into his breast pocket.
"Please," he says. "Just see him once."
John sighs. He's so tired. "Why?"
"Because I'm being selfish," Sherman says with a shrug. "I finally have something good; I don't want it to get fucked up."
John snorts. "You think this is about you?"
Sherman looks at John for a very long time. It makes John's palms itch with something completely unrelated to the pills. "It's not about me, it's about us."
John waves Sherman off dismissively and walks back to the car. Both the driver's side and the passenger side doors are wide open. He climbs into the passenger side and slams the door shut behind him.
A few moments later Sherman climbs in beside him, shuts the door and shifts the car into drive.
John has azaleas and rose bushes in his front yard. The azaleas came with the house, the rose bushes were a gift from Mrs. Ramirez down the street for his assistance with her son Jose and his graffiti problem. John kept Jose from getting a record for tagging one too many neighborhood businesses, and instead got him enrolled him in a city art program.
Mrs. Ramirez brought him the bushes, and showed him how to plant them and maintain them. John's never thought of himself as a gardener, but he likes his property to look nice. Between the wall Cesar helped him put up and the flowers, it feels like a real home.
After he gets off shift, he makes a run to the grocery store, picks up his dry cleaning and then goes home. At home he changes his clothes and goes straight to the garage to get his bucket of pruning sheers, spades and other gardening miscellanea.
He's been sweating like mad all day; at least there should be something productive behind some of it. Tending to the flowers gives him something to do with his hands and the roses are high enough the he's not bending over all the time. Mrs. Ramirez even gave him a little stool. She said it was better than being on your knees all the time.
A few hours later he's settled in, deep in his groove of checking the yellow roses over branch by branch when a shadow falls across his line of sight. "Buenos días, Señora," he says, smiling before he looks up.
Mrs. Ramirez's smile is bright, her face showing only the finest of age lines. "Hola, Juanito," she replies, resplendent in a bright orange dress. Rosario Ramirez is a 57 year-old mother of four and the grandmother of two. If it weren't for her white hair, she'd easily pass for half her age.
She was the very first person to welcome John to the neighborhood when he moved in after Laura left him. The first to come to him when she had a problem. Every few months she badgers John into coming over for Sunday dinner. It's been a few months, he's probably about due.
"How are you doing, corazón?" she says, eying him appraisingly. "You look tired. You are working long hours."
"As soon as the crime stops, I'll stop working so hard," John says.
"You are a good man, John," she says, and pats his shoulder.
"You're not too bad yourself," he says. He cuts a flower to give to her.
Her smile is brilliant when he offers her the rose. It reminds John a little of Sherman, for some reason.
"Your friend is not coming over?" she asks, twirling the flower and looking around curiously.
John's mouth twitches. "My friend?"
"Yes, the one with the motorcycle. He's a nice boy; he helped me with the basura last week."
Sherman's been helping his neighbors with their trash -- John is so not surprised.
"I think he had some plans," John says vaguely, checking the back of the rose leaves for bugs.
"Oh, really?"
There's something about Mrs. Ramirez's tenor that sounds like disbelief. John looks up at her, but she's not looking at him at all. She seems far more interested in the silver Audi pulling up to the curb.
John doesn’t blame her. He's pretty surprised too.
She turns back to him with a knowing grin when Sherman gets out of the car with several shopping bags. "Sí," she says. "I know these plans."
It takes John a minute to realize what she's suggesting and for the first time in ages he can feel himself flushing just that little bit as Sherman walks up the driveway in a fitted dark blue tee shirt and grey trousers. "Hola, Benjamin," she says brightly.
"Hola, Señora," Sherman says. "Como esta?"
"Todo esta bien, mi'jo," she replies. "Pero, necessito salir porque tengo que ver Oprah."
Sherman laughs. "Pues, no te detengo," he says. "It was nice to see you again."
Mrs. Ramirez taps Sherman on the shoulder with her rose and nods to John, "Have a nice time, Juanito," she calls before walking away.
John opens his mouth and then just shakes his head and inhales deeply, the scent of the roses filling his nose. Of course Sherman speaks Spanish too. "You, uh, get lost on the way home?" he asks, setting the pruning shears down.
Sherman shifts from one foot to the other. "I have something for you."
John rubs his back. "Don't you think you've given me enough for today?" he says archly.
Sherman bites his lip and looks down, after a moment he grabs something out of the bag and offers it to John.
John flips over the plastic CD. "What's this?"
"Star Trek."
John blinks. "The movie?"
"Yeah."
"The one that's out now?"
"Yeah. I have Terminator: Salvation too, if you want to see it."
John looks at the unmarked case in his hand. "Where'd you get these?"
"Would you believe they fell off the back of a truck?"
"From somebody else, probably. From you? Not even."
Sherman scuffs his toe in the grass. "I have a friend that works for one of the agencies, they get Oscar screeners and other stuff."
John smirks. "That's quite the friend."
"Yeah, I'm supposed to be in his wedding next year."
Nicely deflected. John stands up and grabs his stuff. Clearly gardening time is over. "I'm sorry," Sherman says, following John into the garage. "I should've called first."
John sets down his bucket and looks over at Sherman. "What else did you bring me?" he asks, tapping the hand holding the bag.
They both look down at John's fingers on Sherman's wrist. It seems too obvious to pull away now.
John's mouth goes mildly dry. "So?" he prompts.
When Sherman looks up at him, there's something new in his eyes. Or maybe it's just something John hasn't been noticing. "Cake," he says quietly. "I brought you cake."
"You made me a cake?" John asks, mildly astonished.
"I made it last week," Sherman replies somewhat belatedly.
John grins broadly. He was at Sherman's this past weekend and there was no cake. There was lemonade from the lemon trees in Sherman's back yard, but there was no cake. This lie he can live with.
"Of course you did," he says magnanimously.
There's an evolution after their fight in the dry cleaners' parking lot. There's no one thing that John can put his finger on, just that things start changing. Sherman seems to smile more, his shoulders aren't as tense. He's still like John's very own pit bull puppy on the chase, but when they go out, Sherman takes more initiative. He's tugging on his leash.
He gets his LAPD driver's license, which isn't the same as his California driver's license, because you don't have to take defensive driving to drive in L.A. - although you probably should.
For another thing, the time they spend together on the weekend becomes a natural part of what John does. If they were at his place last week, they'll be at Sherman's this weekend. Times may vary, but they'll see each other once.
After shift it's almost assumed that they'll get a drink or a meal. John introduces Sherman to the 50 kinds of beer at Barney's Beanery and Sherman takes him to the 101 Diner in Hollywood and plies him with pancakes and Heineken for breakfast.
Sherman doesn't bring up John's back again, but John knows he's watching him more closely. Sherman tells him stories about his mom's ex-boyfriends: the Navy doctor who taught him the Sleeper Hold and the painter who taught him how to play the guitar.
And then there's the proximity thing.
Men are all about personal space. John, in particular, is all about personal space. He doesn't like people violating his area uninvited; it makes him tense. Apparently Sherman didn't get this memo.
At least he didn't if the way he starts sprawling all over the squad car and brushing against John is any indication. And it's not even that John thinks he's doing it deliberately, it's just that Ben Sherman with his legs spread open in the passenger seat, tapping on the roof of the car is very different from Ben Sherman closed off.
And Ben Sherman spread out on John's faded checked sofa, with his shoes off, the sleeves of his tee shirt clinging to his biceps, and laughing so hard that John can see his teeth, well, that's a different animal altogether.
"Have you ever heard of Malcolm Gladwell?" Sherman asks on a Tuesday afternoon after Labor Day.
The weather is absolutely gorgeous, which means most people should be too busy fucking, fighting and drinking to commit crime. So naturally, they've been dealing with garbage calls all fucking day
"No, who's that, your new girlfriend?"
Sherman makes a derisive snort. "He's an author. He wrote a book called Blink."
John stops for a traffic light at Fairfax and Beverly. "I'm not a big reader like you are, Einstein."
"Liar," Sherman says. "I saw that copy of Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets in your kitchen."
John watches several old women with walkers cross the street towards The Grove, before heading east on Beverly. "Books about cops don't count. That's just work research."
"What about your copy of The Art of War?"
John laughs. "Cesar gave that to me."
"Who's Cesar? Your boyfriend?" There's a strained note in Sherman's voice.
"You're going to give me shit about the gay thing now?" John says.
"No," Sherman says. "But you didn't answer my question."
Ah, there's that dogged resolve. "He's just a friend."
Sherman grunts in reply. John doesn't even know what just happened. "What about Malcolm Gladwell, Boo?" he says instead. John has no idea why he started calling Sherman 'Boo'; it just happened one day, and now, it's stuck.
"He wrote about the snap decisions people make. The assumptions that people are prone to. He says that it's better for cops to work alone than it is for them to work in pairs because they're more prone to make bad decisions because of peer pressure."
"That's bullshit," John says, stopping at another light. "When have I ever pressured you into anything?" Sherman opens his mouth. "Don't answer that question," John amends.
Sherman's smile is toothy and his eyes crinkle at the corners. John's staring too hard.
He's just opening his mouth to change the subject when an ear-piercing shriek cuts him off and a man in his underwear and red sneakers tears across the intersection in front of traffic, heading past the Eat Well, into the residential area screaming for his life.
The man is followed moments later by a half-dressed, barefoot brunette woman, and hot on her heels is a blonde woman in a flower dress holding what could only be called a carving knife.
Sherman's out of the car before John's even hit the lights.
John cuts across the intersection behind him, calling dispatch to inform them that he's got a 95K turning into a possible 245, which translates into all kinds of soap opera shit happening north-bound on Martel between Melrose and Beverly.
John's just in time to see Sherman overtake the woman in the floral dress as she swings her knife at the brunette. His heart stops when Sherman tackles the woman and the knife flies out of her hands and embeds itself in the grass.
By the time John's out of the car, Sherman has the woman in handcuffs and on her knees. The perp won't stop screaming about the man fucking that slut, and the barely dressed couple are hovering nearby, looking suspiciously guilty considering they just ran through West Hollywood mostly naked.
John points with his finger as the sound of other black and whites rents the air. "Brad and Angelina! Over there! Right now!" he orders, pointing to the safety of the squad car.
And then he sees the blood on Sherman's forearm.
"What the hell happened to you?" he says, grabbing Sherman by the elbow and pulling him closer for inspection.
Sherman's eyes are bright, his cheeks pink with exertion. "What?" he asks, looking at John in bewilderment.
John raises his hands to touch Sherman, to make sure he's okay, and then he pauses and they both see it.
John clears his throat and lowers his hands. "The next time you take down a perp with a knife, make sure to avoid the fucking knife," he snaps.
Chickie and her new partner, Maria Lu, are first on the scene. Maria is about five-two and 120 pounds of Asian muscle, but looks like she could kick the ass of a 300 lb. crackhead.
John explains the situation pretty quickly to them, but only after the EMTs have arrived to see to Sherman. "Jen, Angelina, Brad, knife," he says, pointing to the perp, the victims and the knife still embedded on someone's front lawn.
"I think that pretty much explains all of it," Chickie says thoughtfully. "I bet Jen wishes she had knifed Brad in the first place."
"I don't get the Brad thing," Maria says. "I mean I get it in Fight Club, but the whole fake Mother Theresa thing? No thanks."
"You don't like kids?" John asks automatically, staring at where Sherman's being looked at by one of the EMTs.
"I love kids," Maria says. "My sister has two. I just don't get appropriating them like they're fucking shoes. They're kids, not Jimmy Choos."
"One is plenty," Chickie says knowingly.
John nods absently. That EMT is spending a lot of time with Sherman.
Someone taps John on the bicep. "Why don't you go and see to your boy?" Maria says, nodding towards Sherman. "We got this."
Behind Maria, Chickie nods.
John tosses his thanks over his shoulder. He's already halfway to where Sherman's talking to the EMT. "He okay?" John asks the guy wearing black glasses.
"He needs some stitches," the medic says, looking up at John briefly before going back to wrapping Sherman's forearm. Behind plastic frames he's got enormous brown eyes and long lashes. "But otherwise he's fine.
"I'm fine without the stitches," Sherman protests, first to the medic and then to John.
The medic smiles broadly. He's got spiky black hair and a full mouth. He is not unattractive. "Stop being such a butch cop and go get the stitches."
"He's the butch one," Sherman says, smiling up at John. "I just work here."
The medic glances up at John again, this time with a raised eyebrow. John narrows his eyes.
"Whatever works for you," the medic says. "Just get the stitches, otherwise it could get infected and then we'd have to chop off that pretty arm of yours."
Yeah, it's just as John thought: that cocksucker is totally hitting on Sherman.
"In the car. Now," John orders.
Sherman jumps to his feet, almost taking the medic with him. He seems surprised to realize he's still being worked on. The medic finishes up and Sherman walks towards the car. After he's gone, the medic smirks up at John. "Not available," he says, his amusement clear. "I get it."
"I don't know what you're talking about," John snaps.
The medic snorts. "Right."
While Sherman's getting his stitches, John calls Cesar. They're supposed to meet up at Short Stop for drinks tonight, but John knows he's not going.
"You're calling to cancel," Cesar says before John can even say 'hey.'
John rubs the back of his neck. "It's Sherman. He got banged up."
"Sherman. Your partner? He gonna be okay?"
"He better be."
Cesar chuckles. "Does he know you care this much?"
'I don't care," John protests.
"Right." Cesar's tone sounds a lot like the medic from earlier.
"I gotta go," he says as the waiting room door swings open, and Sherman emerges with a new white bandage wrapped around his forearm.
"I hope he's okay," Cesar says.
Sherman gives John a slight nod of the head. He looks pale. He needs to eat. He needs to rest. He needs someone to look after him.
"Me too," John says before hanging up.
They stop for burritos at Sharkey's on Cahuenga. It's a general cop hangout, because it's close to the Hollywood precinct on Wilcox. It's also close to every club on the Hollywood strip and Paramount studios which means it's also popular with the club kids and movie production crews.
Sherman's sitting in the corner picking at his food, and John's three seconds away from forcing him to eat. Sherman's sullen because John's informed him that he's going home for the day to rest; John doesn't really give a shit.
The high pitched shriek of 'Ben!" gets his attention pretty fast though, and then there's a flurry of green and blue and dirty blonde hair virtually attacking Sherman.
Sherman does seem to have a way with the ladies.
John clears his throat and looks at the girl who's pretty much wrapped herself around his partner. She's awful young to be an ex.
"Who's this?" the girl asks, shooting John a bright smile.
It's Sherman's turn to clear his throat. "John Cooper. My partner."
The girl's eyes light up, and John leans back a little in his seat. "On the force," Sherman clarifies hastily. The light doesn't go out in her eyes, but the look on her face changes. She's identifying him. She knows who he is. Huh.
John nods curtly.
"Sir, this is my sister, Olivia."
John raises an eyebrow. The half-sister. Ah. Sherman may hate his dad, but apparently he's got plenty of love for his sister.
"It's really nice to finally meet you," Olivia says, extending her hand in greeting.
John shakes her hand. "Finally meet me?"
Olivia's smile is enormous, like her brother's. "He talks about you, like, all the time."
John's mouth curls at the corners and he can't seem to do anything about it. "He talks about me? What does he say?"
"I got injured today," Sherman interrupts. "Can we talk about something else?"
"You got injured?!" Olivia says, all playfulness gone as she moves back and studies Sherman intently. "What happened?" she says, grabbing his wrist to study his bandaged forearm. "Are you okay? Oh my god, what the fuck, Ben?"
"Language," Sherman says idly.
Olivia ignores him. "John, is he okay?" Her gaze is intent, concerned.
John uses his calming voice. "He'll be fine. He got involved in a domestic dispute between Jen and Angelina."
Olivia's mouth falls open. "Jen and Angelina had a bitch fight? Oh my god! Did Angelina kick her ass? I didn't see that on TMZ!"
"He doesn't mean the real Jen and Angelina," Sherman says.
Olivia pouts for a minute. "Oh, but are you okay?"
"I'm okay."
"But, like, are you really okay, because you said you were okay after that bitch Jenna fucked you all up, and that was a lie."
"Language," Sherman repeats again.
John leans forward. "What's with you and these women, Sherman? Did that one leave you for her ex, too?"
"What do you mean 'too'?" Olivia demands, rounding on Sherman. "You didn't say you were dating somebody!"
"I'm not," Sherman says. "I wasn't. I mean I thought - it doesn't matter."
"It does too matter," Olivia persists. "John'll tell me, won't you?"
John waves his hands around vaguely. "I have to work with him, and when he's all bitchy, it just makes life hard."
"I don't get bitchy," Sherman says.
"Oh, you so do," Olivia laughs. "You're like Perez Hilton."
John's confused. "Who's that?"
"He's this internet gossip queen. He, like, rules L.A. You've never heard of him?"
"I have a cell phone. That's plenty."
Olivia looks disappointed briefly, but she rallies herself admirably. "So, you know, Ben talks about you a lot."
"Liv." Sherman's using his warning voice.
"You don't mind, do you, John?" Olivia turns to Sherman. "See, he doesn't mind, Ben. I'm sure all cops love it when people talk about them. Ben talks about you, like, all the time. Did I mention that?"
John's paying rapt attention to Olivia Sherman, but his eyes keep darting to her brother. Sherman's face looks flushed. It's not just his cheeks, but down his throat. It might even go further. Not that John is thinking about that.
"You're a super hard ass," Olivia says knowingly, "but he thinks you're kind of awesome." Olivia pauses. "He didn't say you looked like this though."
John's reply is automatic. "Like what?"
Olivia grins. "Like this," she gestures. "Now I get it."
John narrows his eyes. "Get what?"
"Don't you have a party to throw?" Sherman interjects, sounding a little desperate. "Shoes to buy? A car to wreck?"
"That only happened one time," Olivia says.
"This month."
"You are way harsh, big brother."
"You've been watching too much Clueless."
Olivia puts her hands on her hips. "As if." She and Sherman laugh in tandem. They have the same teeth. It's a strange thing to notice, but that's what John does: he notices things. Like the way Olivia kisses Sherman on the cheek and hugs him before she gets to her feet.
"It's really nice to meet you, John," she says. "But I have to go, my friends are totally, like, going to come over in a minute and start hitting on my brother, and then I'll have to, like, disown them all or put them in last year's leggings."
John laughs riotously.
"Take care of him," Olivia adds, "he's the only big brother I have."
"I'll do what I can," John says lightly.
"I expect you to do better than that," Olivia says, the light tone dropping away, "because if he gets hurt, I will so not be this nice the next time I see you."
And then she turns on her little toothpick legs and walks off.
Sherman smiles sheepishly. "Family," he says with a shrug of his shoulders.
John just stares. He possibly just got threatened by a sixteen year-old girl. He has no idea what could warrant that kind of behavior.
Actually, that's another lie.
Part II
Southland
John Cooper/Ben Sherman
Rated NC-17
Word Count: 38,152
Son is on a Midnight Run Like DeNiro
or We're All Just Train Wrecks Waiting for the Crash
"Is that a lemon in your hair?" John peers at Sherman a little closer.
Ten feet away, standing before the open trunk of the squad car, Sherman pauses in unbuttoning his shirt and glares at him. "You think this is funny, don't you?" he asks, brushing ineffectually at the mess in his hair. A piece of something that might've been pasta in its first life falls out of his hair, flops onto his shoulder and then onto the pavement.
John grins. "Fuck, yes."
Sherman's mouth turns down at the corners, and he goes back to stripping in the driveway of 1325 Fargo Street.
The rookie is unhappy. Of course, John would be unhappy too if he'd had to follow a perp into a make-shift landfill in the back of a Silverlake garden, because only rich assholes call it "composting" and not "being a lazy fucker who won't take out the trash."
And as soon as John stops laughing his ass off, he's going to make sure Sherman is okay. He really is. Except that Sherman's covered in carrot peelings and wilted lettuce and there's some orange sauce on his left sleeve, and oh god, John's lung capacity isn't prepared for this.
Then again, no part of John is prepared for Sherman to just strip off his shirt and his undershirt at the same time. The bright L.A. sun streams through the pine trees lining the driveway, casting patterns on Sherman's bare chest.
Too much information.
John clears his throat. "This isn't Chippendales, kid, put some clothes on."
Sherman rolls his eyes. "Sir, if you'd rather I get fruit salad all over the car, I can put this back on." Sherman shakes his balled up shirts at John.
John smirks. "You get it dirty, you clean it up, cupcake."
"Cupcake," Sherman tugs an LAPD windbreaker out of the trunk and pulls it on over his bare chest. It's pretty pornographic. John is going to stop looking now. "That's a new one."
John makes a dismissive wave, pulling the car keys out of his pocket and jangling them in warning. "Keep mouthing off and I'm putting you in the back with Fruitcake Sally in there."
In the backseat, a 30-something animal-rights activist named Anne Halliday is waiting to be taken in for booking. Apparently she doesn't object to her neighbors' compost attracting all the local wildlife, but she objects to them putting their meat in the compost heap. Her solution was to cover said neighbors' car with blood she stole from the local Red Cross.
It's just as whacked out as it sounds. They don't even have codes to fit this one.
Once Sherman's in the car, John backs out of the driveway and takes Fargo down to Silverlake. People are going for their daily runs around the reservoir, taking babies and dogs for walks. Sherman's looking out the window, but John doesn't think he's actually seeing anything. He's been more reserved than usual today. John knows something's wrong.
If this goes on, eventually John's going to have to find out what it is.
In the backseat, Fruitcake Sally rails against the evils of steak and eggs. "When a cow pays taxes, then he can have a say, until then, shut the fuck up!" John orders.
"Of course a pig would say that," the woman retorts.
"How about you people get the human rights issues solved before you worry about the fucking animals," he snaps. "You've got gangs in L.A., kid soldiers in Somalia and fucking genocide in Darfur, so why don't you do something about a real goddamn problem instead of creating some bullshit, middle-class entitlement issue just to make you feel better about your insignificant existence?"
This only incites the woman more, but out the corner of his eye, John can see the corner of Sherman's mouth twitching as though he wants to smile.
It's better than nothing.
Being in management sucks ass.
Cesar invited John over to watch the game, but he can't ignore the way Sherman's dragging around in the locker room like somebody stole his lollipop.
After he leaves the locker room, John finds himself stalling in the hallway. He doesn't even have to ask himself what he's waiting for. When he calls Cesar to say he can't make it, Cesar just laughs. "I didn't think you were coming anyway, Cooper."
"You lack of faith hurts," John says.
"Please, the only man who works harder than you is me. I know how you roll."
John smiles into the phone. "We'll catch up soon."
"Ramon and Tom are having a party this weekend. Let me know if you want to go."
"Right." Both John and Cesar know that house parties aren't John's scene. Too many flashing lights, bad music and cheap drugs. Even the afternoon barbeques and brunches make John feel awkward, but Cesar always asks and John never accepts.
John's sliding the phone into his back pocket just as Sherman finally emerges from behind the swinging door. His hair is wet and his shirt damp at the neck. At least he's washed the lemons out.
"Kid, you need a drink?"
Sherman's head snaps up, his eyes wide when they land on John. "Uh."
John smirks. "It's not a multiple choice question."
John can fucking hear the kid thinking. "Jesus," he says. "Never mind, you're coming with me anyway. One day of you sulking is plenty."
Sherman's mouth thins into a line. "I'm not sulking," he says sharply.
John just raises an eyebrow. "The next time you lie to me, make me believe it," he says, gesturing for Sherman to follow him.
He doesn't even bother to look back to see if Sherman's behind him.
John knows he's there.
Somewhere in the clusterfuck Los Angeles calls traffic, Sherman's following behind John's car, Amy. John doesn't know why he named the Challenger Amy, just that it seemed to fit.
Instinct is a bitch though, and John passes one bar, two bars, six bars before he realizes that he's not leading the kid out for a drink, he's leading him to his goddamn house. It's not that he wants Sherman in his house, but bars lead to all kinds of stupidity and John prefers to play on his home turf.
From his car speakers, Aretha Franklin's singing that she's an 'eval gal' and in John Cooper's head, the music is floating in one ear and straight out the other.
He takes Sunset to Echo Park to Grafton and then onto Lemoyne. The Samirs are out tonight, sitting on their porch swing, and they wave to John as he passes by. Everybody in the neighborhood knows Officer Cooper.
In his rearview mirror he catches Sherman's head turning to glance at his neighbors. It's the first time John's looked back in twenty minutes. He never doubted Sherman could keep up. Hell, every time he lets Sherman off the leash for a foot chase, he finds his way back to John eventually.
He pulls into his driveway, gets out of the car and waves to Mrs. Ramirez three houses down as she’s taking out her trash. "Hola, John!" she calls over the sound of Sherman's motorcycle pulling into the driveway alongside the Challenger.
John's just unlocking the security gate when Sherman jogs up beside him. "I thought we were going to get a drink."
"Slow down there, son," John teases, opening the front door. "I have alcohol," he says, flipping on the lights. "Then again, I'm old enough to drink, but maybe you should show me your ID."
Sherman stands on the front steps for a moment, pursing his lips. John reaches back and ruffles his still damp hair. "Pull the stick out of your ass, you're done for the day," he says.
Sherman's mouth stretches into a smile. "I've got my ID for you right here," he says, reaching into back pocket before John can protest. When Sherman lifts his hand, though, he's not holding his wallet - he's flipping John the bird.
John laughs in delight. "So your nuts haven't been removed permanently," he says, dumping his bag by the door and heading for the kitchen. "Good to know."
He's in a good mood; his back has been doing all right today and he hasn't had to really take anything for it. A beer or three should get him through the night just fine.
He grabs a few Sierra Nevadas from the fridge and turns back around to find Sherman studying the pictures on his walls. "You were an ugly kid," Sherman mocks with a wry smile.
John's mouth twists at the right corner. "I'd throw this beer at your head, but I'd hate to waste good alcohol on a fuck-up like you," he says, pulling out one of his kitchen chairs and sitting down.
Sherman pauses right by the kitchen entrance. "What's in here?" he asks, pointing to the little glass terrarium against the wall that's emitting a faint fluorescent light.
"Hermit crabs. Paul, Clint and John."
Sherman chuckles. "Not a dog man?"
"I only clean up someone else's crap if I'm getting paid," John corrects as Sherman drops down on the other side of the table.
He slides a beer across the table; it leaves wet streaks on the wood. "I should've taken your ass to a bar, but I'd hate to have to explain drinking you under the table and you getting alcohol poisoning to your girlfriend."
The smile on Sherman's face falls. Ah. Of course it's woman trouble.
"What's wrong?" John coaxes. "You couldn't get it up last night and she had to pull out her plastic rabbit?" Something stormy crosses Sherman's face and then just as quickly he's back to the everyday stoicness. John hates the stoic face. "She fuck your best friend already? That was fast."
"She said she's been talking to her ex. She's moving back to New York; they're going to get back together."
John pauses with his beer halfway to his mouth. "I thought she was with you."
"So did I."
There should be a note of bitterness, but John doesn't catch it. All he hears is resignation. Defeat. Jesus, life just beats the hell out of some people.
He stands up, the chair scraping against the yellow lino. "You don't want beer," he announces, moving around Sherman to the dish cabinet. "You want me to get you drunk."
"I think I'm good," Sherman replies as John pulls out half a bottle of Johnnie Walker red.
"I was good once," John says, turning around and looking down at Sherman. "And then my wife left me, I injured my back and found out I was gay." He hands the whiskey to Sherman. "Have a drink."
Sherman's lips part just that little bit; he takes Johnnie Walker and sets it on the table anyway. John grabs a few glasses and slides them onto the table next to the bottle.
"You okay, Boo?" John asks, grabbing some Doritos from the cabinet and tossing them on the table. "You look a little constipated."
Sherman licks his lips. "You're not going to make me talk about my feelings, are you?"
John doesn't have to pretend to be offended. "The finals are on, numb nuts. You want somebody to talk to? Go see the department shrink."
Sherman's smile is so brilliant, John has to turn away in annoyance. He is not going to be charmed by some fucking jailbait, heterosexual poster boy rookie.
Not even a little bit.
At some point during the basketball game, Sherman looks at John from the sofa and smiles again. This smile is different from the one in the kitchen, more disarming. It's clearly the whiskey talking. "Everybody wants to be in love, right?" he asks. He seems almost uncertain, like maybe he missed a day at the Academy when this section was covered.
"Mighty fast to be in love there, Boy Wonder."
"I wasn't. I just. She never said there was someone else."
"They never do."
"Speaking from experience?"
"I've got all kinds of experience, kid. Doesn't mean I know anything."
"You know plenty."
John snorts into his glass. "No. I don't."
They're quiet for a minute.
Sherman's forehead creases. "Isn't that the American Dream? Being in love? Finding somebody to love you for who you are?"
John makes a derisive noise. "No, kid, the American Dream is to have a job that keeps a roof over your head and that you live long enough to collect your pension. In case you rich people don't know what a pension is-"
"Stop being an asshole, John," Sherman says, making a dismissive wave of his hand. Sherman called him 'John.' He's clearly on his way to happy drunk land. Or he better be. "You can stop pretending."
John shifts in his chair, leaning forward and narrowing his eyes. "I can stop pretending what, Jerry Springer?"
"That you don't care."
John snorts. "So you think you have me all figured out after a couple drinks? Newsflash, kid, you don't know anything about me."
Sherman's eyes fix on John a lot quicker than John would give him credit for. "You have pictures of your family and your ex-wife up on your walls. Your neighbors know you. They wave. You're respected. I don't even know anybody who lives on my street."
"You want my neighbors?" John says, trying not to listen too hard to Sherman's blathering. "Take the Grimaldis on the corner: they have ten kids and they all live at home."
Sherman carries on. "You brought me here, because you knew I was all fucked up about something. You care about transvestite shop keepers and kids with fucked-up parents. This is your whole life; taking care of everybody else. It's what makes you a good man."
A good man.
Sherman thinks he's a good man. Apart from stealing pills from his rich friends, of course.
John leans back in his chair and looks at the TV. "I didn't know you knew so many words, Sherman," he says after several moments.
He can see Sherman watching him in his periphery. Waiting, observing, wondering if he went too far.
He can keep waiting.
"She wasn't good enough for you," John finds himself saying twenty minutes later as Kobe attempts a three-pointer.
Kobe misses the shot. "You never really met her," Sherman says.
It's not quite true; John saw her at the crime scene and that was plenty. He looks over at Sherman. "Didn't have to," he says.
Sherman passes out on John's sofa. The wary look Sherman wears all day seems to disappear when he's asleep, but the signs are there. The lines on his face that'll only deepen the longer he's on the force. John stares down at him for long seconds before throwing a faded blanket over him.
He contemplates removing Sherman's shoes, thinks better of it and consoles himself by leaving a wastebasket by his head. Just in case.
Sherman's gone the next morning when John wakes up, which is fine by him. He doesn't do the morning after thing anyway. There's a note on the kitchen table.
Thanks.
-Ben
That's Sherman: brief even in his notes.
Work is work. There's no honor among thieves. Or murderers. Or crackheads and fiends. Hell, some days there's not even honor among your fellow police.
John runs into Chickie in the halls about a week after Dewey's done his best Steve McQueen. She looks tired and beat-up. Like her partner fucking kidnapped her, went on a drunken spree and flipped their car in the L.A. Basin.
Oh, wait, that happened.
She gives him a wan smile. "Hey."
He gives her an apprising look and she smiles a bit more. "You okay there?"
"I'm getting a new partner today," she says. "A transfer from the three-one."
"I thought you were gonna take some time off. Take your kid on a vacation or something."
Chickie shrugs. "Vacations don't pay for themselves."
John purses his lips. "You know anything about this new guy?"
"Yeah, the guy's a girl."
John raises an eyebrow. "Nice."
Chickie snorts softly. "She can't be much worse."
"Yeah, well, if you need me to tell somebody the facts of life, you just let me know."
She pats him on the arm. "Thanks, John."
He nods, watching her walk away. When he turns back around, Sherman's standing a few feet away, watching him. "What the fuck are you looking at?" John barks.
Sherman's smile is entirely too big for John's tone of voice. Maybe he's going soft. He'll have to correct that. He wouldn't want the kid to think he was losing his edge just because he got him drunk last week and let him sleep on his couch.
"Sweet Home Alabamy! Where the sky's always blue! Sweet Home Alabamy! Lord, I'm too drunk to remember the next bit -- hey, officer do you know how it goes?"
John glances away from the road ahead to eyeball the perp with his face pressed against the grating. "Sit the fuck back, before I come back there and make you," he orders.
They're bringing in a drunk and disorderly, who's still drunk and disorderly. At least he is if his piss-poor, drowning cat screeching and the smell of gin radiating five feet away from his body are any indication.
"I was just singin', boss, you got something against Alabama? Yeah, you prolly do. You look like you're from Texas anyhow. I fuckin' hate Texas," the man slurs.
Sherman turns around. "Shut up!" he orders.
John smirks at the windshield. "Somebody's feisty today. What's wrong? Still got a hangover?"
Sherman's cheeks color. "I - thanks, sir."
"For what?"
"Last week."
"Oooh, what happish last week?" the perp slurs.
John slams on the brakes, and the perp slams into the plastic partition behind his seat. Yes, he stopped in the middle of the intersection, but green's close enough to red. His back, however, does not approve.
Someone honks, John ignores them. Instead he slides the car into park, turns around, and looks over the seat to where the perp is crumpled up in the foot well.
"If you don't shut the fuck up right now, I'm going to fold your ass up into little pieces and put you in the trunk," he snaps.
"I'm shuttin' up," the perp bitches, struggling to sit up. "Damn, son. Always knew you Texas boys were fruity like that. G'wan argue with yer boyfriend. I'm not listenin' anyways."
John can feel the tightness in his jaw. "It's not worth it," Sherman says.
John catches movement in his periphery. Sherman's hand is resting on the seat between them. It wasn't there before. It's like he was reaching out and then thought better of it.
John turns back around and takes off just as the light flips from yellow to red.
Close enough.
Sherman's waiting in the parking lot after shift. John shakes his head. "Bar's closed tonight."
His back's been bothering him since Mr. Drunk Lynyrd Skynyrd slammed into his seat. He's done okay without the pills for the last few days, but he needs something now. It's not like he wants to need the pills, it's just that every time he tries to get off of them he ends up needing them again.
"I was thinking we could do it at my place," Sherman offers.
John's mouth twitches. He knows Sherman's not saying what it sounds like he's saying. "You wanna try that one again, junior?" he teases anyway. "What exactly were you thinking we were gonna do?" His emphasis on the word 'do' says it all.
Even in the fading daylight, John can see the flush in Sherman's cheeks. "I mean dinner. I thought we could do dinner this weekend. If you wanted."
"We just did lunch."
Sherman's bottom lip sticks out just that little bit. It's kind of endearing when he does his determined pit bull puppy routine. "If you don't want to come, just say so."
"Oh, I want," John mocks. "I definitely want." Sherman's flush is spreading. John has to get his kicks somehow. "Gotta see how the other half live," he says.
Sherman makes a scoffing noise. "I'll give the help the day off, just for you."
"Aw, don't do that," John says. "Who's going to answer your door at Wayne Manor if Alfred has the day off?"
John's still laughing when Sherman walks off. Hell, he's still laughing when he calls Cesar to tell him he can't come around this weekend.
Cesar just snorts. "You are the worst ex-boyfriend ever."
John glances around at the empty loading area. "I would've had to be your boyfriend first to be your ex," he replies in a low tone.
"Details, cabrón."
"Oh, so now you want to call me names in Spanish, pendejo?"
"It's so cute to hear your white ass speak Mexican. Really. So, seriously, what's up? This is the second time in two weeks you're canceling on me. You working overtime? I know you don't need the money, because I did your wall for free."
John laughs, heading for his car. "I know, aren't exes great that way?"
"John."
John knows that tone. Shit. "What?"
"You seeing somebody?"
"What?"
"Qué is not an answer. C'mon, you can tell Cesar all about it. It's not some twink is it? I told you those high-maintenance pretty boys aren't worth it. You need a bear. Hell, you need your dick sucked that badly, I'll take you to the Abbey."
"You've been watching Queer as Folk again, haven't you?"
"That's not the point, and you didn't answer the question."
"Did you ever think about a job in interrogation?"
"I don't need a man in uniform. I own my own business, and I already wear one. So?"
"So, what?"
"So, nothing. Who is he?"
"Nobody. It's just my partner. Sherman. His girlfriend dumped him, and he's depressed."
Which is a rather large lie on John's part since Sherman's mentioned getting dumped exactly once and hasn't mentioned it since he passed out on John's couch. In fact, since John got him drunk, Sherman's been rather Zen about the whole thing.
"Your partner, huh? You like him?"
"What's to like?" John says, hitting the remote for the Challenger. Amy beeps at him in welcome as he pops her trunk and drops in his duffle bag. "He's a rich kid playing blue collar. He's got legs like fucking Carl Lewis and a face that would make a nun think twice."
Cesar howls. "That bad, huh?"
John sighs in exasperation. "It ain't that bad."
Cesar makes derisive noise. "Next time you say it, act like you mean it."
John winds his way through Coldwater Canyon a little after two on a Sunday afternoon in June with Joe Strummer singing about the police on his back. Coldwater is a gorgeous stretch of Angelino hillside, flush with trees, fauna and money. Only people with money could afford to live somewhere that's not near grocery stores, liquor stores or the local Starbucks. Clearly they have people who deal with things like that for them.
Sherman's directions are pretty easy to follow, but they don't quite allow for long stretches of road with gated communities, roads barely passable if the nanny's SUV is parked by the curb and people who don't clearly identify their property. It's not the kind the community you want to navigate late at night if you don't know where you're going. In L.A. the richer the area, the fewer the street lights.
John's been driving just long enough to start getting really aggravated. He's just made up his mind to pull over and call Sherman when he passes by a tidy yard with a familiar figure doing something suspiciously domestic.
He throws the car into reverse, backs up twenty feet and lowers his sunglasses to watch Sherman pick up errant palm tree leaves. "I thought Alfred took care of things like that," John hollers out the driver's side window.
Sherman's head snaps up and his mouth slides into a smile. "I told you I gave Alfred the day off," he calls back.
John just shakes his head, reverses another fifteen feet and backs into Sherman's driveway. It's a not inconsiderable distance between the street and Sherman's house.
Sherman's still walking up the front lawn by the time John's cut the engine and climbed out of the car. The garage door is up, showcasing Sherman's motorcycle and a brand new silver Audi. John just shakes his head.
"I brought you beer," he says, hefting a six pack of Heineken.
Sherman smiles again. He's got half a dozen palm leaves tucked under his arm and dirt smeared across his forehead. "Glad you could make it," he says. "I was just cleaning up."
"I thought you rich folks had hired help for that."
"I don't have hired help, I am the hired help."
"Oh, so not only are you a rich bastard, you're a cheap, rich bastard," John mocks.
"I like to do things myself."
"I hadn't noticed."
Sherman rolls his eyes and nods towards the house. "C'mon, I'll show you around," he says, walking away to dump his cargo in a trash can.
John follows Sherman into the garage, eyes taking in the work bench full of dirty towels and greasy tools. There are fingerprint-smudged containers of motor oil and an economy sized container of turtle wax.
"You do your own work on your bike?" he asks, as he follows Sherman into the house.
"She's mine," Sherman says simply. "I wouldn't let anybody else touch her."
John blinks at the pronouncement. Sherman doesn't share well with others. He should know that by now.
The garage dumps them out into the kitchen. Sherman takes the beer to put in the fridge and John takes the opportunity to look around on his own. Whatever sort of opulent living John was expecting from Sherman, this isn't it.
Sherman's house is all long, flat clean surfaces and abstract art. The only photos are large, framed black and whites. There are no curios, no clutter of bills, no dishes in the sink. There's an enormous plasma screen TV attached to the wall though, and a coffee table stacked with books that look well-read.
John leans down and peers at worn copies of Catch 22 and The Autobiography of Malcolm X. Jesus. "Did you want a beer?" Sherman calls from the other room.
"As long as it doesn't turn into a theology debate," John mutters under his breath.
"John?" John looks up at his name. Sherman's got a beer in one hand and bottle of water in the other. "Beer? Water? I've got pretty much everything… juice, wine, I didn't know what you'd want with dinner."
"The Autobiography of Malcolm X?" he says, waving the dog-eared book meaningfully.
"My mom was a child of the 60s," Sherman says. "All about women's rights, civil rights and drug rights. She's a great believer in being informed, sir, - you can never be too informed."
John grins. "Drug rights?"
"Know your rights," Sherman says with a smile. "All three of them."
"Kid, if you're name-dropping The Clash to get on my good side... it's working."
Sherman bites his lip, but his pleasure is obvious. "So... drink? Food? The game'll be on soon."
"What kind of food you got?" John sniffs the air. "Something smells good," he says, following Sherman back into the kitchen. He stops dead at the food spread out on the kitchen counter: chicken wings, hamburgers, salad, potato salad, cookies, pasta salad.
He whistles low. "What'd you do? Clear out the entire grocery store? You expecting the rest of the force or something?" he asks as Sherman pops the top on a beer and holds it out.
"No, I just - I didn't know what you'd want, so I made a little of everything."
John looks from Sherman to the food and back to Sherman. "You made this?" he says, taking the bottle from Sherman's hand.
Sherman shrugs. "Yeah."
"Jesus, kid," John says taking a long pull from his beer. "You keep cooking like this and I'll be your girlfriend."
Sherman snorts and turns away to pull out plates.
John looks at the back of Sherman's head thoughtfully. At the cowlick that makes Sherman's hair grow clockwise, and then he looks down at the beer in his hand.
They can do this. This is okay.
The thing about work is that it's always there. It's the most steady, constant influence in anybody's life. Your home life may be shit, your wife may have left you and your boyfriend may be fucking someone else. Your father could be in prison, your mom six feet in the ground, but work is work, and it will never change. It will always be there and it will always be a chance to focus on something else, just for a little while.
Over the next few months John eats, sleeps, shits, goes to work and spends his shift with Ben Sherman. Sometimes he sees Sherman after work too, for dinner, or breakfast, or beers, or whatever games are on TV. Sometimes he goes to Sherman's place, sometimes Sherman comes to his place. Sometimes they go to bars, but that's pretty rare. They spend all day looking at the people of Los Angeles, you get tired of them after a while.
Eventually, John learns where the dips are on Coldwater so he doesn't scrape the bottom of his car. Eventually, Mrs. Ramirez stops raising an inquisitive eyebrow when she sees Sherman's bike parked in John's driveway.
For variety John sees Cesar every few weeks. Sometimes he goes to the Cantina and buys pills from the greasy trick that sits on the stool at the end of the bar.
This is John Cooper's life. It's not the one he thought he was going to have, but all things considered, it's not that bad. Of course there are things he'd like to change, but everybody has things they'd like to change. That's what makes it life.
The thing about the status quo though, it's that it's only the status quo as long as nothing changes. When things start to change, when people get to know each other better, they pick up on things more. They know when something's wrong.
Three days ago, John let Sherman go on a foot chase through the lovely streets of Leimert Park. Sherman ran from Vernon and 11th Ave to 54th Street and Arlington and John followed him as much as he could in the squad car, right until a little girl ran in front of the car to get her bouncing ball and nearly ended up all over his front grill.
To avoid a serious accident, John drove into a series of trash cans. The squad car was fine, the little girl was fine, the perp got caught, but John's aggravated his back severely. Heating pads, ice packs, the back brace, acupuncture, the pills, none of it's working.
He's been awake for three hours and he can already feel the sweat gathering at the base of his spine, sticking his shirt to his back. His tongue feels strange in his mouth, and he can barely sit still long enough to drive.
Sherman's been giving him the side eye since before they got in the car.
It's 8:25 a.m. now; they've been in the car since 7 a.m. John's not going to make it until the end of shift change at 4 p.m. Not without help. He knows that now.
"I'll drive," Sherman says.
John huffs out a breath. He tried yoga once, the teacher said it was all about breathing. "You think I'd let you behind the wheel, rookie? You must be out of your mind."
"I do have my driver's license," Sherman says lightly. "I'm able to drive legally in the State of California you know."
"You got a problem with my driving?" John mocks.
"No, but you don't look good."
John cuts Sherman a glance. "I don't look good?" he laughs. "Who died and made you People magazine?"
"Sir."
Sherman hasn't called him 'sir' in weeks. "I'm fine," John says.
"John, c'mon." It's not what Sherman says, it's how he's saying. He's using that tone. John has that tone. He uses it on freaked out victims and young children. His mom used it on him after his dad went on yet another bender. "Let me drive."
The anger spikes behind John's eyes before he even realizes it's there. "Don't you fucking dare pull that shit with me!" he snaps, yanking the steering wheel hard enough to send them across two lanes of traffic.
"Jesus Christ!" Sherman curses, bracing himself against the dashboard as horns blare angrily after them.
"I was doing this shit when you still thought your dad was good guy, so don't you ever think you can tell me how to do my fucking job!" John rails, pulling into the empty parking lot of a dry cleaners and throwing the car into park.
Across the car, Sherman fingers are digging into the dashboard. He stares out the window long enough to aggravate John even more, and then he's turning back. "You are not fine," he says flatly.
"Who the fuck are you to tell me if I'm fine or not?" John retorts. His leg is tapping on the floor. On it's own. God, he doesn't need this now.
"I'm your partner," Sherman says. There's a tightness around his eyes. "That's who I am."
"You're not my goddamn partner, you're a fucking rookie trainee! You do what I say, when I say. Don't you ever bullshit me like you know what you're talking about!" John slams his hand on the steering wheel, and the horn blares.
"I know plenty about you and your fucking habit." Sherman's jaw is set, his skin flushed down to the collar of his uniform. "I know you're on pills. I know your back is killing you. I know that you won't see a goddamn doctor because you're afraid of something, but I don't know what. If you'd just fucking tell me --"
"Fuck you, Sherman. Fuck you and your rich sanctimonious shit that you think you can just come here, play working man, and try to fuck up my life."
"I'm trying to help." There's a note in Sherman's voice. He's pleading.
John can feel his hands curling into fists; he turns away to wrench open the door instead. He stumbles out into the parking lot, rage and confusion coursing through his veins as he walks circles on the asphalt.
He could hit something, anything, but that's not who he is. It's not his way.
He will never be his father's son.
It doesn't make this any less difficult to deal with. There is a problem. He knows there is. It doesn't mean he wants to fucking talk about it. He just wants it to fix itself. Can't he just have this one fucking thing? Hasn't he given enough? He can't lose his job over this. He'll die if they put him behind a desk. This is all he has.
John looks out at the traffic passing by and then up at the sky. The city is overcast today, but the sun is still out.
"My mom has this friend who's an orthopedic specialist," Sherman's voice is soft behind him. "He's like an uncle to me, and he works at Cedars. I know you won't see somebody from the department, but just -- I called. He said he'd see you. If you want."
John turns sharply on his heel. "Which part of 'this is not your fucking problem' are you not understanding?" he barks.
Instead of moving away, Sherman steps forward. He's so close, John can see the lines around his eyes. "If it's your problem, it's my problem," he says without any hint of irony.
His blue eyes are intent, and when John laughs at his earnestness, it's raw and painful. His entire body shakes with it, like an earthquake. "I wish I had your fucking problems."
Sherman's mouth turns down at the corners, and he looks away for a minute. John closes his eyes and pinches his nose, he opens them when he feels a slight pressure against his chest. It's Sherman tucking a business card into his breast pocket.
"Please," he says. "Just see him once."
John sighs. He's so tired. "Why?"
"Because I'm being selfish," Sherman says with a shrug. "I finally have something good; I don't want it to get fucked up."
John snorts. "You think this is about you?"
Sherman looks at John for a very long time. It makes John's palms itch with something completely unrelated to the pills. "It's not about me, it's about us."
John waves Sherman off dismissively and walks back to the car. Both the driver's side and the passenger side doors are wide open. He climbs into the passenger side and slams the door shut behind him.
A few moments later Sherman climbs in beside him, shuts the door and shifts the car into drive.
John has azaleas and rose bushes in his front yard. The azaleas came with the house, the rose bushes were a gift from Mrs. Ramirez down the street for his assistance with her son Jose and his graffiti problem. John kept Jose from getting a record for tagging one too many neighborhood businesses, and instead got him enrolled him in a city art program.
Mrs. Ramirez brought him the bushes, and showed him how to plant them and maintain them. John's never thought of himself as a gardener, but he likes his property to look nice. Between the wall Cesar helped him put up and the flowers, it feels like a real home.
After he gets off shift, he makes a run to the grocery store, picks up his dry cleaning and then goes home. At home he changes his clothes and goes straight to the garage to get his bucket of pruning sheers, spades and other gardening miscellanea.
He's been sweating like mad all day; at least there should be something productive behind some of it. Tending to the flowers gives him something to do with his hands and the roses are high enough the he's not bending over all the time. Mrs. Ramirez even gave him a little stool. She said it was better than being on your knees all the time.
A few hours later he's settled in, deep in his groove of checking the yellow roses over branch by branch when a shadow falls across his line of sight. "Buenos días, Señora," he says, smiling before he looks up.
Mrs. Ramirez's smile is bright, her face showing only the finest of age lines. "Hola, Juanito," she replies, resplendent in a bright orange dress. Rosario Ramirez is a 57 year-old mother of four and the grandmother of two. If it weren't for her white hair, she'd easily pass for half her age.
She was the very first person to welcome John to the neighborhood when he moved in after Laura left him. The first to come to him when she had a problem. Every few months she badgers John into coming over for Sunday dinner. It's been a few months, he's probably about due.
"How are you doing, corazón?" she says, eying him appraisingly. "You look tired. You are working long hours."
"As soon as the crime stops, I'll stop working so hard," John says.
"You are a good man, John," she says, and pats his shoulder.
"You're not too bad yourself," he says. He cuts a flower to give to her.
Her smile is brilliant when he offers her the rose. It reminds John a little of Sherman, for some reason.
"Your friend is not coming over?" she asks, twirling the flower and looking around curiously.
John's mouth twitches. "My friend?"
"Yes, the one with the motorcycle. He's a nice boy; he helped me with the basura last week."
Sherman's been helping his neighbors with their trash -- John is so not surprised.
"I think he had some plans," John says vaguely, checking the back of the rose leaves for bugs.
"Oh, really?"
There's something about Mrs. Ramirez's tenor that sounds like disbelief. John looks up at her, but she's not looking at him at all. She seems far more interested in the silver Audi pulling up to the curb.
John doesn’t blame her. He's pretty surprised too.
She turns back to him with a knowing grin when Sherman gets out of the car with several shopping bags. "Sí," she says. "I know these plans."
It takes John a minute to realize what she's suggesting and for the first time in ages he can feel himself flushing just that little bit as Sherman walks up the driveway in a fitted dark blue tee shirt and grey trousers. "Hola, Benjamin," she says brightly.
"Hola, Señora," Sherman says. "Como esta?"
"Todo esta bien, mi'jo," she replies. "Pero, necessito salir porque tengo que ver Oprah."
Sherman laughs. "Pues, no te detengo," he says. "It was nice to see you again."
Mrs. Ramirez taps Sherman on the shoulder with her rose and nods to John, "Have a nice time, Juanito," she calls before walking away.
John opens his mouth and then just shakes his head and inhales deeply, the scent of the roses filling his nose. Of course Sherman speaks Spanish too. "You, uh, get lost on the way home?" he asks, setting the pruning shears down.
Sherman shifts from one foot to the other. "I have something for you."
John rubs his back. "Don't you think you've given me enough for today?" he says archly.
Sherman bites his lip and looks down, after a moment he grabs something out of the bag and offers it to John.
John flips over the plastic CD. "What's this?"
"Star Trek."
John blinks. "The movie?"
"Yeah."
"The one that's out now?"
"Yeah. I have Terminator: Salvation too, if you want to see it."
John looks at the unmarked case in his hand. "Where'd you get these?"
"Would you believe they fell off the back of a truck?"
"From somebody else, probably. From you? Not even."
Sherman scuffs his toe in the grass. "I have a friend that works for one of the agencies, they get Oscar screeners and other stuff."
John smirks. "That's quite the friend."
"Yeah, I'm supposed to be in his wedding next year."
Nicely deflected. John stands up and grabs his stuff. Clearly gardening time is over. "I'm sorry," Sherman says, following John into the garage. "I should've called first."
John sets down his bucket and looks over at Sherman. "What else did you bring me?" he asks, tapping the hand holding the bag.
They both look down at John's fingers on Sherman's wrist. It seems too obvious to pull away now.
John's mouth goes mildly dry. "So?" he prompts.
When Sherman looks up at him, there's something new in his eyes. Or maybe it's just something John hasn't been noticing. "Cake," he says quietly. "I brought you cake."
"You made me a cake?" John asks, mildly astonished.
"I made it last week," Sherman replies somewhat belatedly.
John grins broadly. He was at Sherman's this past weekend and there was no cake. There was lemonade from the lemon trees in Sherman's back yard, but there was no cake. This lie he can live with.
"Of course you did," he says magnanimously.
There's an evolution after their fight in the dry cleaners' parking lot. There's no one thing that John can put his finger on, just that things start changing. Sherman seems to smile more, his shoulders aren't as tense. He's still like John's very own pit bull puppy on the chase, but when they go out, Sherman takes more initiative. He's tugging on his leash.
He gets his LAPD driver's license, which isn't the same as his California driver's license, because you don't have to take defensive driving to drive in L.A. - although you probably should.
For another thing, the time they spend together on the weekend becomes a natural part of what John does. If they were at his place last week, they'll be at Sherman's this weekend. Times may vary, but they'll see each other once.
After shift it's almost assumed that they'll get a drink or a meal. John introduces Sherman to the 50 kinds of beer at Barney's Beanery and Sherman takes him to the 101 Diner in Hollywood and plies him with pancakes and Heineken for breakfast.
Sherman doesn't bring up John's back again, but John knows he's watching him more closely. Sherman tells him stories about his mom's ex-boyfriends: the Navy doctor who taught him the Sleeper Hold and the painter who taught him how to play the guitar.
And then there's the proximity thing.
Men are all about personal space. John, in particular, is all about personal space. He doesn't like people violating his area uninvited; it makes him tense. Apparently Sherman didn't get this memo.
At least he didn't if the way he starts sprawling all over the squad car and brushing against John is any indication. And it's not even that John thinks he's doing it deliberately, it's just that Ben Sherman with his legs spread open in the passenger seat, tapping on the roof of the car is very different from Ben Sherman closed off.
And Ben Sherman spread out on John's faded checked sofa, with his shoes off, the sleeves of his tee shirt clinging to his biceps, and laughing so hard that John can see his teeth, well, that's a different animal altogether.
"Have you ever heard of Malcolm Gladwell?" Sherman asks on a Tuesday afternoon after Labor Day.
The weather is absolutely gorgeous, which means most people should be too busy fucking, fighting and drinking to commit crime. So naturally, they've been dealing with garbage calls all fucking day
"No, who's that, your new girlfriend?"
Sherman makes a derisive snort. "He's an author. He wrote a book called Blink."
John stops for a traffic light at Fairfax and Beverly. "I'm not a big reader like you are, Einstein."
"Liar," Sherman says. "I saw that copy of Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets in your kitchen."
John watches several old women with walkers cross the street towards The Grove, before heading east on Beverly. "Books about cops don't count. That's just work research."
"What about your copy of The Art of War?"
John laughs. "Cesar gave that to me."
"Who's Cesar? Your boyfriend?" There's a strained note in Sherman's voice.
"You're going to give me shit about the gay thing now?" John says.
"No," Sherman says. "But you didn't answer my question."
Ah, there's that dogged resolve. "He's just a friend."
Sherman grunts in reply. John doesn't even know what just happened. "What about Malcolm Gladwell, Boo?" he says instead. John has no idea why he started calling Sherman 'Boo'; it just happened one day, and now, it's stuck.
"He wrote about the snap decisions people make. The assumptions that people are prone to. He says that it's better for cops to work alone than it is for them to work in pairs because they're more prone to make bad decisions because of peer pressure."
"That's bullshit," John says, stopping at another light. "When have I ever pressured you into anything?" Sherman opens his mouth. "Don't answer that question," John amends.
Sherman's smile is toothy and his eyes crinkle at the corners. John's staring too hard.
He's just opening his mouth to change the subject when an ear-piercing shriek cuts him off and a man in his underwear and red sneakers tears across the intersection in front of traffic, heading past the Eat Well, into the residential area screaming for his life.
The man is followed moments later by a half-dressed, barefoot brunette woman, and hot on her heels is a blonde woman in a flower dress holding what could only be called a carving knife.
Sherman's out of the car before John's even hit the lights.
John cuts across the intersection behind him, calling dispatch to inform them that he's got a 95K turning into a possible 245, which translates into all kinds of soap opera shit happening north-bound on Martel between Melrose and Beverly.
John's just in time to see Sherman overtake the woman in the floral dress as she swings her knife at the brunette. His heart stops when Sherman tackles the woman and the knife flies out of her hands and embeds itself in the grass.
By the time John's out of the car, Sherman has the woman in handcuffs and on her knees. The perp won't stop screaming about the man fucking that slut, and the barely dressed couple are hovering nearby, looking suspiciously guilty considering they just ran through West Hollywood mostly naked.
John points with his finger as the sound of other black and whites rents the air. "Brad and Angelina! Over there! Right now!" he orders, pointing to the safety of the squad car.
And then he sees the blood on Sherman's forearm.
"What the hell happened to you?" he says, grabbing Sherman by the elbow and pulling him closer for inspection.
Sherman's eyes are bright, his cheeks pink with exertion. "What?" he asks, looking at John in bewilderment.
John raises his hands to touch Sherman, to make sure he's okay, and then he pauses and they both see it.
John clears his throat and lowers his hands. "The next time you take down a perp with a knife, make sure to avoid the fucking knife," he snaps.
Chickie and her new partner, Maria Lu, are first on the scene. Maria is about five-two and 120 pounds of Asian muscle, but looks like she could kick the ass of a 300 lb. crackhead.
John explains the situation pretty quickly to them, but only after the EMTs have arrived to see to Sherman. "Jen, Angelina, Brad, knife," he says, pointing to the perp, the victims and the knife still embedded on someone's front lawn.
"I think that pretty much explains all of it," Chickie says thoughtfully. "I bet Jen wishes she had knifed Brad in the first place."
"I don't get the Brad thing," Maria says. "I mean I get it in Fight Club, but the whole fake Mother Theresa thing? No thanks."
"You don't like kids?" John asks automatically, staring at where Sherman's being looked at by one of the EMTs.
"I love kids," Maria says. "My sister has two. I just don't get appropriating them like they're fucking shoes. They're kids, not Jimmy Choos."
"One is plenty," Chickie says knowingly.
John nods absently. That EMT is spending a lot of time with Sherman.
Someone taps John on the bicep. "Why don't you go and see to your boy?" Maria says, nodding towards Sherman. "We got this."
Behind Maria, Chickie nods.
John tosses his thanks over his shoulder. He's already halfway to where Sherman's talking to the EMT. "He okay?" John asks the guy wearing black glasses.
"He needs some stitches," the medic says, looking up at John briefly before going back to wrapping Sherman's forearm. Behind plastic frames he's got enormous brown eyes and long lashes. "But otherwise he's fine.
"I'm fine without the stitches," Sherman protests, first to the medic and then to John.
The medic smiles broadly. He's got spiky black hair and a full mouth. He is not unattractive. "Stop being such a butch cop and go get the stitches."
"He's the butch one," Sherman says, smiling up at John. "I just work here."
The medic glances up at John again, this time with a raised eyebrow. John narrows his eyes.
"Whatever works for you," the medic says. "Just get the stitches, otherwise it could get infected and then we'd have to chop off that pretty arm of yours."
Yeah, it's just as John thought: that cocksucker is totally hitting on Sherman.
"In the car. Now," John orders.
Sherman jumps to his feet, almost taking the medic with him. He seems surprised to realize he's still being worked on. The medic finishes up and Sherman walks towards the car. After he's gone, the medic smirks up at John. "Not available," he says, his amusement clear. "I get it."
"I don't know what you're talking about," John snaps.
The medic snorts. "Right."
While Sherman's getting his stitches, John calls Cesar. They're supposed to meet up at Short Stop for drinks tonight, but John knows he's not going.
"You're calling to cancel," Cesar says before John can even say 'hey.'
John rubs the back of his neck. "It's Sherman. He got banged up."
"Sherman. Your partner? He gonna be okay?"
"He better be."
Cesar chuckles. "Does he know you care this much?"
'I don't care," John protests.
"Right." Cesar's tone sounds a lot like the medic from earlier.
"I gotta go," he says as the waiting room door swings open, and Sherman emerges with a new white bandage wrapped around his forearm.
"I hope he's okay," Cesar says.
Sherman gives John a slight nod of the head. He looks pale. He needs to eat. He needs to rest. He needs someone to look after him.
"Me too," John says before hanging up.
They stop for burritos at Sharkey's on Cahuenga. It's a general cop hangout, because it's close to the Hollywood precinct on Wilcox. It's also close to every club on the Hollywood strip and Paramount studios which means it's also popular with the club kids and movie production crews.
Sherman's sitting in the corner picking at his food, and John's three seconds away from forcing him to eat. Sherman's sullen because John's informed him that he's going home for the day to rest; John doesn't really give a shit.
The high pitched shriek of 'Ben!" gets his attention pretty fast though, and then there's a flurry of green and blue and dirty blonde hair virtually attacking Sherman.
Sherman does seem to have a way with the ladies.
John clears his throat and looks at the girl who's pretty much wrapped herself around his partner. She's awful young to be an ex.
"Who's this?" the girl asks, shooting John a bright smile.
It's Sherman's turn to clear his throat. "John Cooper. My partner."
The girl's eyes light up, and John leans back a little in his seat. "On the force," Sherman clarifies hastily. The light doesn't go out in her eyes, but the look on her face changes. She's identifying him. She knows who he is. Huh.
John nods curtly.
"Sir, this is my sister, Olivia."
John raises an eyebrow. The half-sister. Ah. Sherman may hate his dad, but apparently he's got plenty of love for his sister.
"It's really nice to finally meet you," Olivia says, extending her hand in greeting.
John shakes her hand. "Finally meet me?"
Olivia's smile is enormous, like her brother's. "He talks about you, like, all the time."
John's mouth curls at the corners and he can't seem to do anything about it. "He talks about me? What does he say?"
"I got injured today," Sherman interrupts. "Can we talk about something else?"
"You got injured?!" Olivia says, all playfulness gone as she moves back and studies Sherman intently. "What happened?" she says, grabbing his wrist to study his bandaged forearm. "Are you okay? Oh my god, what the fuck, Ben?"
"Language," Sherman says idly.
Olivia ignores him. "John, is he okay?" Her gaze is intent, concerned.
John uses his calming voice. "He'll be fine. He got involved in a domestic dispute between Jen and Angelina."
Olivia's mouth falls open. "Jen and Angelina had a bitch fight? Oh my god! Did Angelina kick her ass? I didn't see that on TMZ!"
"He doesn't mean the real Jen and Angelina," Sherman says.
Olivia pouts for a minute. "Oh, but are you okay?"
"I'm okay."
"But, like, are you really okay, because you said you were okay after that bitch Jenna fucked you all up, and that was a lie."
"Language," Sherman repeats again.
John leans forward. "What's with you and these women, Sherman? Did that one leave you for her ex, too?"
"What do you mean 'too'?" Olivia demands, rounding on Sherman. "You didn't say you were dating somebody!"
"I'm not," Sherman says. "I wasn't. I mean I thought - it doesn't matter."
"It does too matter," Olivia persists. "John'll tell me, won't you?"
John waves his hands around vaguely. "I have to work with him, and when he's all bitchy, it just makes life hard."
"I don't get bitchy," Sherman says.
"Oh, you so do," Olivia laughs. "You're like Perez Hilton."
John's confused. "Who's that?"
"He's this internet gossip queen. He, like, rules L.A. You've never heard of him?"
"I have a cell phone. That's plenty."
Olivia looks disappointed briefly, but she rallies herself admirably. "So, you know, Ben talks about you a lot."
"Liv." Sherman's using his warning voice.
"You don't mind, do you, John?" Olivia turns to Sherman. "See, he doesn't mind, Ben. I'm sure all cops love it when people talk about them. Ben talks about you, like, all the time. Did I mention that?"
John's paying rapt attention to Olivia Sherman, but his eyes keep darting to her brother. Sherman's face looks flushed. It's not just his cheeks, but down his throat. It might even go further. Not that John is thinking about that.
"You're a super hard ass," Olivia says knowingly, "but he thinks you're kind of awesome." Olivia pauses. "He didn't say you looked like this though."
John's reply is automatic. "Like what?"
Olivia grins. "Like this," she gestures. "Now I get it."
John narrows his eyes. "Get what?"
"Don't you have a party to throw?" Sherman interjects, sounding a little desperate. "Shoes to buy? A car to wreck?"
"That only happened one time," Olivia says.
"This month."
"You are way harsh, big brother."
"You've been watching too much Clueless."
Olivia puts her hands on her hips. "As if." She and Sherman laugh in tandem. They have the same teeth. It's a strange thing to notice, but that's what John does: he notices things. Like the way Olivia kisses Sherman on the cheek and hugs him before she gets to her feet.
"It's really nice to meet you, John," she says. "But I have to go, my friends are totally, like, going to come over in a minute and start hitting on my brother, and then I'll have to, like, disown them all or put them in last year's leggings."
John laughs riotously.
"Take care of him," Olivia adds, "he's the only big brother I have."
"I'll do what I can," John says lightly.
"I expect you to do better than that," Olivia says, the light tone dropping away, "because if he gets hurt, I will so not be this nice the next time I see you."
And then she turns on her little toothpick legs and walks off.
Sherman smiles sheepishly. "Family," he says with a shrug of his shoulders.
John just stares. He possibly just got threatened by a sixteen year-old girl. He has no idea what could warrant that kind of behavior.
Actually, that's another lie.
Part II