(Type a title for your page here) Title: Strange Odds Author: AJ Dannehl Rating: RRS (Really Really Silly) Pairings: None Season: somewhere in seasons 1 or 2 Spoiler: None Disclaimer: Everyone knows who owns Ray, Benny, Turnbull, and Due South; i own the other characters in this little exercise. This is written not for profit (oh, please!), only for entertainment of myself and whoever chooses to read this. ***** “Hiya, Benny!” Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP, looked up from the desk at his friend’s entrance. Ray Vecchio bounced into the Canadian Consulate in a manner that would have highly irritated Inspector Thatcher. The Inspector, perhaps fortunately, was absent. “Good afternoon, Ray. I’ll be finished with this,” the Mountie said, indicating a neat stack of paperwork in front of him, “in just a moment.” “No need to hurry,” Ray assured him magnanimously. “Where’s the wolf?” Fraser sighed. “He’s not speaking to me.” “What ‘cha do now?” “I merely,” Fraser said, a bit petulantly, “noted that his waistline was perhaps a bit...rotund, and so suggested that he curtail some of his snacking and engage in more physical activity. So not only did he sulk, he refused to accompany me to work today. Willie kindly agreed to watch him today.” Ray grinned. “Guys’ Night Out, then. How’s a bit of basketball then a pizza sound?” “That sounds perfectly fine, Ray.” “Great. What time d’ya think...damn, Turnbull! What the hell are you dressed for?” “Drawing class, Detective,” Turnbull answered, offering his sketch pad and box of drawing tools as evidence. Inspecting the younger Mountie’s attire, Fraser was again grateful that the Inspector was in Ottawa for a conference. Turnbull’s cut-off khaki shorts, faded polo shirt, sneakers and athletic socks, while appropriate for an art class, would most definitely not meet with the Inspector’s approval, especially displayed in the Consulate. “Professor Taylor requires a number of in situ drawings from nature. Some of my classmates kindly allow me to ride with them when we travel to produce them. The drawings, I mean.” Vecchio rolled his eyes heavenwards. “What is it with you Mounties, anyways?” he whined rhetorically. “Always moochin’ rides from people. What, they don’t let you drive anything in Canada but dog sleds?” “Now, Ray,” Fraser began reproving his friend, “you are just being silly. You yourself should be able to recall a number of times when I dro--” His lecturer was interrupted by the Consulate’s doors opening, so he gave it up as a lost cause. Not that Ray would listen in the normal course of events anyway, but especially not now: the Italian’s attention was claimed by the pretty young woman who had just entered the foyer. “Ah, Constable Fraser, Detective Vecchio!” Turnbull said excitedly. “This is my friend, Michelle Vernet. She’s Professor Taylor’s graduate assistant.” “We’d better get a move on,” Michelle, after the round of handshakes and usual social niceties ended said, looking at Turnbulll. “Sasquatch’s on his sixth.” “Ah,” Turnbull said, with the look on his face that most people considered as representing his mental capacity as somewhat less than a dead otter’s: entirely zero. “Synchronized count?” he asked, looking at his Mountie-issued watch. “Three-ten,” Michelle said, looking at the lefty’s watch on her right wrist. Turnbull nodded decidedly, tapping his own watch. “I call four-fourteen with a sketchbook.” “Oh, no, amigo,” Michelle shook her own head with equal determination, sending her dark-brown ponytail swishing. “No way it’ll go that long. Besides, it’s impossible for you to call it that precisely. Better settle for something after four, compadre.” “Oh, God,” Ray moaned, rubbing his scalp. “She talks Turnbull-speak.” “I went to the University of Alberta at Edmonton,” Michelle said as if in explanation. Evidently it was for Ray, for he flashed an understanding grin. Explaining further, for Fraser’s benefit, she continued, “That’s where I met Renny.” “Renny,” Ray echoed, one eyebrow quirked. Turnbull returned the Detective’s gaze, unruffled. “You sure you wanna cut it that close, Ren?” Michelle asked her friend. “Four... what time did you say?” “Four-fourteen,” Turnbull reminded her. “With a sketchbook,” Fraser added. “With a sketchbook,” Turnbull repeated. “Ohh-Kay,” Michelle agreed, still appearing doubtful. With a sigh, she shrugged, then asked Ray and Fraser, “Why don’t y’all join us tonight for pizza and to see how this all turns out?” “We would not wish to intrude,” Fraser said, ignoring Vecchio’s expression of disagreement. “It would be no intrusion, Constable Fraser,” Turnbull said. “Intrusion? Y’all are invited,” Michelle reassured the older Mountie. “Eight o’clock at Cascio’s OK?” “I know where that is,” Ray said, nodding, then looked narrowly at his friend. “Benny?” “That would be fine, Ray.” “Great!” Michelle smiled first at Fraser, then at Vecchio. Perhaps a little more warmly at Ray, maybe... With that, the two artists turned and headed for the door. Ray and Benny could hear their conversation, still in Turnbull-speak, until the Consulate doors closed. Ray turned to look at Benny. “Mounties!” the cop snorted, shaking his head despairingly. “What is it with you guys, anyway? And what the hell were they talkin’ about?” Fraser, having no answer for either question, kept quiet. * It was a little after eight o’clock when Ray and Benny arrived at Cascio’s Real Italian Cuisine and Pizzeria: Dine In or Take Out. Upon entering, they easily spotted Turnbull and his friends and so went to join them, weaving their way carefully between the packed tables and hurrying waiters. After another round of introductions, places were found for them. With some judicious maneuvering (aided and abetted by Turnbull, to Fraser’s amusement), Ray managed to find himself next to Michelle. Neither seemed inclined to fuss about the arrangement. “Everyone here now?” Anthony, the waiter asked as he served glasses of water all around. Seeing nods of consent, he went on. “Your order’ll be ready soon. Two giant sweep-the-kitchens, one large all-meat, a large mushroom and black olives and a large double pepperoni, right?” Various people nodded. “Great! Drinks?” He rapidly wrote down the various orders, tore the page from the order pad, then asked, “Who’s this week’s winner?” “Take a guess, dammit,” a gigantic young man complained mildly. His imposing size, head of thick, wildly curling brown hair and equally thick brown beard easily ex plained the nickname “Sasquatch”. “Renny again?” The waiter was impressed. “Third time. Nice streak ya got goin’, Ren. If you ever play the ponies, spot me a few tips, OK?” “Do you mean,” a worried Fraser asked, “that you are engaged in some sort of gambling operation? All of you?” The last was obviously aimed at Turnbull. “You an’ Turnbull wanna cuff ‘em while i read ‘em their rights?” Ray, accepting a glass of soda from the waiter’s tray asked, poker faced. “Whoa, you guys cops or something?” a guy wearing a Mr. Bubble T shirt and whose name Ray could not immediately recall asked. The questioner looked decidedly worried. “They’re Canadian and out of their jurisdiction,” Ray explained, indicating the two Mounties. “I’m Chicago, but off-duty.” Mr. Bubble looked relieved. “Well, Ray,” Fraser said, rubbing his eyebrow and blinking rapidly a couple of times, “I think that, while what you just said is factual, none of us, as law enforcement officials, are ever truly beyond the scope of our respective responsibilities. For example, look at the time when our airplane was hijacked and we crashed in Canada. Whilst both of us were officially on holiday--” “A good time was had by none,” Ray interrupted. “And nobody really cares, Benny.” From the expression on Fraser’s face it seemed the Mountie disagreed with his friend’s statement, but elected to remain quiet. “Besides, what do you expect Renny to do, arrest himself?” The speaker, Julie Thibideaux, looked like she was Elaine’s Cajun-accented , long-lost twin. “Hey, maybe he could write himself an official reprimand,” Sasquatch added, chuckling. Michelle snorted derisively. “Come on,” she protested. “No one on earth could be that anal!” “Really,” Ray agreed, carefully not looking in Fraser’s direction. “Besides, the stakes in this game is that the winner doesn’t have to pay his or her share of the tab,” Julie explained to Benny and Ray. The explanation appeared to mollify Fraser. “Just tell us, Ren,” Sasquatch said, “just how the hell have you been able to call it three damn times in a row?” “Call what?” Ray asked. “How many times Sas can sing ‘Brown Sugar’ before Julie beats him down,” another student, Bob, who had been fairly quiet up to that point, explained. Anthony and another waiter, bearing pizzas, appeared. “Wait a minute, Ren. We gotta hear this.” Hearing this as well as his friends’ various expressions of agreement, Turnbull waited until, places cleared and pizza dispensed, the waiters and everyone else at the table could give him their undivided attention. “Well,” Turnbull began, blushing slightly, “it is fairly simple.” Warming to his topic, he continued in classic detective denouement mode. “I noted the first day when Sasquatch sang the song, Julie was able to restrain from any, ah, displays of...irritation... until the twenty-seventh time you repeated yourself.” “And it still hurts, too,” Sasquatch complained, rubbing his shoulder. “Big baby,” Julie said with mock sympathy. “I observed that there were seven minute intervals between each rendition,” Turnbull continued. “This held true the next time, when Julie hit him with a T square, but this time after he’d sung only twenty-four times and the third time, when she popped him with her copy of Jansen’s History of Art after twenty-one renditions, again noting the time intervals and the fact that she would use as a weapon whatever she held in her hands at the time.” “But she didn’t have anything in her hands the first time,” Mr. Bubble objected. “She just used her fist.” “Exactly,” Turnbull beamed at him. Ray, taking a sip of his Coke at that exact moment, choked. Michelle helpfully whapped him on the back until he was able to breathe normally. “Got it!” Bob said. “Something in her hand, she popped him with it. Nothing in her hands, then she used her hands.” Julie, arms crossed over her chest, looked thoughtfully at Turnbull. “So you, just using mathematics and observation, were able to get out of paying the tab three times. Very sneaky.” Grinning widely, she concluded, “I am impressed.” “As am I,” Fraser, his voice a little strangled, said. “You da man, Renny!” Bob said, saluting him with his soda. “Da man!” the others chorused, clinking their glasses in a toast. Fraser and Vecchio, both looking a little dazed, joined in silently. “Hey, is everyone in Canada as smart as Renny?” Mr. Bubble demanded. “Um,” Fraser answered. “Ah,” Ray added. “Eh,” da man said, turning as bright red as a Mountie’s dress uniform.