Gross Misrepresentations
by Nathan Alderman
Ray Vecchio heard them coming halfway down the hallway.
Hot, sticky summer air seeped into the District 27 squad
room from the dark outside, and
the tiny tin fan on Ray's desk wasn't moving much of it
around. The little hand on the squad
clock stretched toward two, but the room was packed; word
on the wire had the Capelli
family moving a big shipment of china white down across
the lake tomorrow morning, and
there were preparations to be made. The crowd didn't do
much for the temperature.
Ray ran his fingers absentmindedly over the surface of
his desk blotter, tapping on all the
numbers of the vintage Buick dealers he'd called about
a replacement. He didn't even want
to think about insurance rates right now. What, blowing
the car up wasn't enough, they had
to set it on fire and drive it into the lake? Never give
anyone else the keys again, Ray swore
to himself.
The coffee on his desk sat untouched in its styrofoam
cup, which was okay-- he was pretty
sure Frannie had spit in it sometime between him asking
her for it in his usual courteous
manner and her placing it on his desk with a look that
said "I hope you burn your tongue."
He could have used it, though-- at this hour the paperwork
was all starting to blur together
into one gray mass, and Ray was about to pass out face-first
in it.
Then, over the phones and the gossip and the five different
radios playing three different
stations, and the rustling of paper and the orders and
questions and file cabinet drawers
slamming open and shut... he heard clicking.
Nails on linoleum. Dog nails. No, check that-- wolf nails.
Then the voices.
One, more Chicago than Chicago: "I'm telling you
Fraser, it never happened."
Another, clipped and polished: "Yes, well, are you
certain, Ray? Because I seem to
recall--"
And there they were, walking into the squad room. Stanley
"Ray" Kowalski, in leather
jacket, sweaty T-shirt and jeans. And Benton Fraser, Supermountie,
in comic-book red
serge. Diefenbaker the wolf skipped any introductions
and beelined for the snack machines.
"Where the hell have you guys been?" Ray shouted.
"Last I heard you were sledding off into
the Yukon."
"Territories, Ray," the Mountie said calmly
as Ray walked up to them. It was like he'd been
gone a couple hours, not three months. "Oh, and congratulations
on your marriage.
Shouldn't you be in Florida?"
"What?" blurted Ray.
"Your marriage," the Mountie explained. "To
Stella."
"What?" said Kowalski.
"And the bowling alley in Florida," the Mountie
added serenely.
"Benny, what are you talking about?" Ray marveled.
"I didn't marry Stella."
Kowalski resumed breathing and unclenched his fists.
"I didn't move to Florida," Ray continued, "and
why on Earth would I open a bowling
alley?"
"I don't know, Ray," Fraser replied. "It's
your bowling alley."
"What's this about you and Stella?" Kowalski
asked suspiciously.
"Wait, Ray, are you absolutely positive you didn't
get married?" Fraser asked.
"Yes!" Vecchio replied. "Geez, Benny, what
do you take me for? Like I'm going to meet
some girl, get married and go running off to Florida to
set pins for cranky retirees? How
long have you known me, Fraser?"
Fraser considered. "I guess you're right, Ray."
"Thank you," said Ray.
"You sure you didn't marry Stella?" Kowalski
asked, just to be certain.
"Of course not." Ray told him. "We're engaged."
Kowalski clenched his fists again.
"Well, I'm very happy for you, Ray," the Mountie
said. "And how is Francesca taking
motherhood?"
"What?" Vecchio nearly choked.
"You know," Fraser went on, "Francesca
and her eight immaculate conceptions?"
Kowalski intervened. "'Scuse him. Sgt. Preston here
kinda got hit on the head by a big
chunk of ice while we were up North. He was delirious
the whole way back. You ever put
up with a delirious Mountie, Vecchio?"
"Yeah. Did he sing?"
"Oh, God, yes." Kowalski rolled his eyes in
disgust. "The Ballad of Somebody or Other. I
think in Canada, if you like discover a rock, you get
a ballad. Maybe it's a law or
something."
"So Turnbull didn't get hit by a bus?" Fraser
asked suddenly.
"No," the two Rays said.
"Oh dear," Fraser pondered. "I guess I'll
have to cancel those flowers I sent. But Ray, we
found the hand of Franklin, didn't we?"
"That was your hand, Fraser," Kowalski told
him. "It got half-buried in the snow and you
started looking at it and going, 'We found it, we found
it.' And then you started singing "O,
Canada."
"I did?"
"Several times. Loudly."
"That chunk of ice that hit him on the head,"
Ray asked. "Has that worn off yet?"
"God only knows," Kowalski replied.
"And Inspector Thatcher's not in Iraq?" Fraser
asked.
"Don't I wish," Ray grimaced. "Nah, she's
still here. She's been working with us on this
whole Capelli sting. Or more specifically, she's been
telling us how to work. "
"Yes, that sounds like her all right," the Mountie
replied. Was there a note of fondness in his
voice?
"Hey Fraser, that reminds me," asked Kowalski,
"that last night in camp, did you and
Thatcher-- um, well-- you know--"
"I beg your pardon, Ray?"
"Never mind." Kowalski studied the water stains
on the ceiling tiles.
"And Dewey and Huey didn't open a comedy club?"
Fraser asked.
"Not unless it opened and closed in the span of one
evening," Vecchio responded.
"Hmmm. Well, I suppose that's possible. And you didn't
cough up a golden bullet?"
"Exactly how hard did that chunk of ice hit you,
Fraser?"
"I'm not sure, Ray. I believe I was unconscious at
the time. But Lieutenant Welsh is still
here?"
"You kidding me? I'm sure he's going to be real happy
to see you two. He's probably
stocking up on Pepto-Bismol already."
"I wasn't, like, supposed to come back here or nothin'
after we finished that case up in
Canada, was I?" Kowalski asked, rubbing the back
of his neck with one hand. "Cause I
kinda figured I'd get reassigned anyway..."
Ray just indicated a desk pushed up next to his own. As
Kowalksi approached, he could
see a freshly minted nameplate: DET. RAY KOWALSKI. That,
and stacks and stacks of
paperwork.
"Welsh decided I needed another partner, preferably
one who actually had citizenship in this
country," Ray explained. "Assuming you ever
came back, anyway. It's all yours if you want
it."
"Wait-- you, uh, you aren't mad about the car?"
Kowalski asked. "'Cause I was meaning to
tell you about it. Really."
"Course not," Ray lied. He hoped Kowalski enjoyed
losing at poker. "And you, you aren't
mad about Stella? We were going to telegraph, but we didn't
know where to reach you..."
"Course not," Kowalski lied. After all, they
weren't married _yet._
"Partners?" Ray asked, extending his hand reluctantly.
"Ah, what the heck," Kowalski replied. "I
guess so. Partners."
They shook hands.
"Well," Fraser remarked to Diefenbaker, watching
the two Rays bicker over whose stuff
was on what side of the desks, "if none of that ever
happened, then why on earth did I write
it all down in my journal?"
Diefenbaker ignored him in favor of the two-pack of cellophane-wrapped
twinkies.
"I don't suppose..." Fraser wondered. He looked
around. "Dad?" he asked.
Nothing. The sounds of the squad room. A phone rang in
one of the offices away down the
hallway.
"No, " Fraser sighed. "I guess not."
Diefenbaker whimpered sympathetically.
Across the room, Welsh stuck his head out of his office
door and bellowed, "Vecchio!"
Both Rays turned.
"Get in here! Yeah, both of you. Kowalski, where
the hell have you been?" Welsh turned
his head and saw the Mountie.
"What, are you still hanging around here?" he
asked. "Don't you have something Canadian
to do?" Which of course meant: welcome back. "Wait,
don't answer that. I don't got all
night. You might as well get in here, too. I think somebody
wants to talk to you."
He moved aside to reveal Thatcher, framed in the doorway,
her face as close to being lit up
as bureaucratic protocol would allow. She was trying very
hard not to look beautiful, and
failing miserably.
Their eyes met for a long moment.
"Understood," Fraser said quietly, and followed
the two Rays into the office.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Nathan Alderman "Progress has always been
Northwestern University made by people who took
n-alderman@nwu.edu ICQ: 8457866 unpopular positions."
http://charlotte.at.nwu.edu/nma912 -- Adlai E. Stevenson
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