Declination

by Gregory Ashe

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Troy said. “I’ve seen you before. You work for that cunt they just arrested, the one who’s always gunning for decent guys who do their jobs. I’ve seen you at her office. And now you’re in here, asking about Reck. Did she send you down here? Are you trying to put this on somebody else?”

  “No,” Shaw said.

  “Looks like you’re too late.”

  “I already said no. We’re trying to find out what really happened to—”

  When the man with the knife darted in, North let out a wild cry and bucked. He only succeeded in sending another shooting line of pain up his arms. All he could do was watch, immobilized, as the man with the knife rushed Shaw.

  But Shaw was Shaw. And he was fucking amazing. As Shaw had been talking, he had moved up to the bar, resting one arm on it casually while he talked the usual nonsense he liked to talk. When the man with the knife charged, Shaw moved so quickly that North wasn’t entirely sure what had happened. He just knew that Shaw twisted, arm coming around like he was pitching a wicked fastball, and the man with the knife reeled back, shouting, one hand clapped over his face.

  Troy moved in at that point, but Shaw was ready for him too. Shaw tossed a bowl of bar mix, catching Troy on the side of the face and making him stagger. Before Troy could recover, Shaw kicked a stool at him, and it caught Troy at the knees. He went down, stumbling and swearing.

  The man with the knife was still screaming; blood leaked between the fingers of the hand he had pressed to his face. Shaw kicked him once, in the knee, and the man went down. As he fell, Shaw grabbed his wrist, forcing his arm behind his back so that the man screamed. Shaw did something else, and the knife disappeared from the man’s hand.

  North watched, still struggling, every inch of him on fire. He felt like he’d swallowed live coals. He felt like one of the coals had reached his heart. Then he let out another strangled cry of warning.

  Shaw looked up too late; Troy wasn’t moving extremely fast, but he was moving fast enough, and his fist clipped the side of Shaw’s head and sent the smaller man stumbling back. Troy kept after him, hitting Shaw again—the shoulder—and again—the belly—and forcing Shaw to keep moving on the defensive. Then Shaw bumped against a table, and his attention slipped for an instant. Troy’s next punch caught Shaw on the temple hard enough that Shaw’s legs went limp. He would have fallen, but Troy caught him by the throat. Troy’s other hand gathered a clump of Shaw’s hair, and he pulled until Shaw shouted and kicked out.

  “Jesus,” Troy said, panting. He still had a peanut stuck to one cheek from where the bowl of bar mix had hit him, and one eye was red and puffy—salt and pretzel dust, North guessed. “You’re a fucking ninja, is that it?” Then he laughed and pulled on Shaw’s hair again, hard enough that Shaw shouted a second time.

  “Let him go,” North shouted, surging up again. For a moment, he almost was free, and then the pain in his arms and shoulders doubled and he let out a sharp cry of his own as he folded back over the table.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Troy said, rubbing his face, not quite managing to dislodge the peanut. “You two are fucking insane.”

  The man on the floor was moaning. “My wrist, Troy, Christ, fuck, I think he broke my wrist.”

  Troy was still moving like a man in a dream, as though not quite sure the fight had ended. He shook Shaw and said, “You hear that? You might have broken Derek’s wrist. What’s a pussy boy like you doing something like that for?” He shook Shaw again, twisting his hand in Shaw’s hair, and then he released Shaw’s throat and gave him three quick, hard slaps. Shaw’s head rocked back and forth; the blows split his lip, and blood spilled along his chin.

  “Hold tight, buddy,” one of the guys holding North said, his voice low and amused. “He’ll still be pretty enough when Troy’s through with him.”

  “What did that bitch send you down here to do?” Troy asked.

  Shaw’s eyes looked dazed; he didn’t seem to be focusing on Troy, and he directed his answer to a spot somewhere over Troy’s shoulder. “Fashion advice,” Shaw said, the words slurred.

  “Shit,” Troy said. “You’re stupider than you look. I asked you a question, and I want an answer. Why are you down here asking about Jadon Reck? Is she trying to find a way to hang this on someone else? Or are you just trying to screw everything up?”

  Shaw shook his head.

  Troy slapped him. And then again.

  “I am going to kill you, motherfucker,” North shouted, twisting under the weight on top of him, no longer aware of anything but his bloodlust. “I’m going to have your ass in a jail cell for assault and battery, and then, when you get out, I’m going to kill you myself.”

  Rolling his shoulders, Troy seemed to consider this for a moment. “Assault and battery?” He shook Shaw by the hair. “Like this?” He drove his fist into Shaw’s gut. Shaw sagged, groaning and twisting, held up only by Troy’s hand in his hair. “Or like this?” He pitched Shaw toward the wall. Shaw crashed into a table and a pair of chairs, slowing himself slightly before smacking into the cement.

  Troy came after him. He grabbed Shaw by the hair and by the shirt, dragging him upright again. “You two faggots come prancing in here like you own the place. You ignore a very respectful request to leave. You start talking about Jadon Reck. Asking questions. Digging into shit that doesn’t concern you. And then I find out your cunt boss just got hung up for trying to kill Reck. So I want an answer.” Another slap spun Shaw’s head to the right. “Or are you still going to tell me shit about fashion advice.”

  “How about telling me where you got such an ugly jacket,” Shaw said, grinning a horrible, bloody grin. Then he spat, blood and saliva striking Troy’s cheek and sliding to drip down onto the denim.

  “You fucking pussy bitch,” Troy said, his face darkening. He brought his arm back for another blow, but now North could see that rage had robbed him of control, and this was going to be a lot worse. He might really hurt Shaw now. He might even kill him.

  And then Shaw’s hand shot out, and Troy went stiff up onto his toes, like a puppet hauled up by the strings. Troy’s hand fell from Shaw’s hair, and he made a kind of whistling squeak. One of the other men took a step, and Shaw warded him off.

  “That blade is about two centimeters from your carotid artery,” Shaw told Troy, his voice bright and informative. “It’s already in your throat. That’s what you’re feeling right now. Does it hurt?”

  Troy, still up on tip-toes, just quivered.

  Shaw’s wrist rotated, and Troy screamed.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Yes.” Troy’s voice was a reedy whisper. “Fuck, it’s in my throat, it’s in my—”

  “Tell your friends to get off North.”

  A single instant dragged out; Shaw’s hand twitched.

  “Get off him,” Troy squealed. “Get off him, get off him, for fuck’s sake.”

  The weight and pressure bearing down on North vanished. His shoulders and arms ached, but he pushed himself off the table and wove between angry men until he stood at Shaw’s side. From here he could see that Shaw had been telling the truth: the tip of the blade was buried in Troy’s throat, and a trickle of blood ran from the cut.

  “It’d be a shame if you had to sneeze right now,” North said.

  “Or if my arm got tired.”

  “Or if I bumped your elbow.”

  “Or if I came down with a really bad case of moral spasms.”

  “Are those like menstrual cramps?”

  “Sort of. But they’re only in the arm, and they only happen when I’m around dirty cops.”

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Jim said, raising a shotgun from under the bar.

  North dismissed him with a glance; Troy blocked any clean shot.

  “Come on,” Shaw said. “I don’t think they’re going to answer any questions.”

  “Let’s give them one last chance,” North said. “Anybod
y want to tell us who Jadon met here? Anybody want to tell us what’s going on?”

  “Son,” Roger said, “You’re making a big mistake.”

  “You should see him try to balance a checkbook,” Shaw said. “Troy, why don’t you walk us out? The rest of you guys can sit down and enjoy your drinks?”

  They inched toward the door, Troy shuffling along with them, his face twisted with pain and fear every time Shaw’s arm shifted. North kept a careful eye on the rest of the men, waiting to see if anyone was going to be stupid. The men stared back with dull fury. These men were used to being in charge; they were used to being the ones who put a scare into the rest of the big, bad world. And here they were, watching one of their own get stuck like a pig.

  “Let’s not get any speeding tickets,” North muttered.

  “You’re dead men,” Troy said in a garbled voice. “You walk out of here, and we’ll hunt you down in a day. You’re dead.”

  “You’re the one with the knife in his throat,” Shaw said, giving the blade a twiddle that made Troy howl. “I bet if I push hard enough, I could damage your larynx without killing you. Do you think you’d be a better person without the power of speech?”

  “Show me how you’re going to do that,” North said, bumping open the exit door with his shoulder, waiting for someone, anyone to be standing outside. He saw only the weed-choked gravel. “For next time you try to explain that fucking PowerFresh diet to me.”

  “He’s just kidding,” Shaw told Troy as they backed out of the bar. “He likes it when I explain things. He barely passed our health class in college.”

  “I got a fucking A-, Shaw.”

  “But you failed the swim test.”

  “Swimming doesn’t have anything to do with nutrition, and that PowerFresh diet has absolutely no scientific evidence behind it.”

  “I’ve got a fucking knife in my throat,” Troy squealed. “What the fuck is wrong with you two?”

  With one tug, Shaw drew the knife clear, spinning it shut and tucking it into his pocket in one smooth movement. “Troy, if you think of a reason someone would want to hurt Jadon Reck, I hope you’ll give us a call.”

  “Every cop in the city is going to be—”

  “No,” Shaw said, tapping Troy’s chest; Troy flinched and shuffled back a step. “Because you guys aren’t going to say a word, are you? I mean, we’ve got the whole thing on bodycam: how you threatened us, how you grabbed my partner and beat the shit out of me. That’s the kind of footage that the FBI drools over. And you called us fags; that could be a civil rights case. They have wet dreams about those. So you’re going to keep this between us, right?”

  Troy took another step back. North could read the hesitation in his body: Troy was thinking about round two.

  “Maybe he’s hard of hearing,” North said.

  “Do you think so? He listened pretty well when I had a knife in his throat.”

  “Stick it in him again. Let’s see if it improves his listening skills.”

  “I heard you,” Troy said, taking another step toward the bar. The sun was low, painting gold over his ugly, angry flush. A car drove past. The smell of exhaust mixed with the dusty gravel and the distant, muddy scent of the river. “I don’t think you’ve got body cameras. I think you’re full of shit, and my boys and I are going to rip you each a new asshole, and then we’re going to cut your arms off and shove them up your assholes, and then we’re going to put road flares up your assholes, and—”

  “He’s really interested in our assholes,” Shaw said.

  “There’s a lot of repressed homoeroticism in male-dominated fields,” North said with a shrug. “He’s been sublimating it for a long time; it makes sense it would come out now.”

  “So he really just wants to fuck us?”

  “I think he wants to fuck you, baby.”

  “I’m not—I don’t want to—”

  “Sorry, Troy. I’ve got a boyfriend. You’d better get back inside and check on that guy, the one I took the knife from.”

  “I’m going to—”

  “I know,” Shaw said.

  “We heard it on a bad movie already.”

  Troy stared at them, jaw working as he tried to figure out something to say. Then he spun and darted for the bar. The door clapped shut behind him.

  “How bad did he hit you?” North asked, fighting the urge to take Shaw in his arms right there. Adrenaline pumped through him, but he could feel the shakes coming close behind. Something else, too: the image of Shaw with the knife. North closed the door on that image before it could paralyze him.

  “I don’t know,” Shaw said, touching split skin on his cheekbone. “Am I still pretty?”

  “Sure, baby. How about your legs?”

  “They’re working, more or less.”

  “Good. Good. So, what do you say about running?”

  “Like the wind,” Shaw said. Then he grinned, the expression oddly comforting under the mask of blood and bruises. “Race you to the car.”

  Chapter 10

  THEY STOPPED AT North’s duplex long enough to pick up the dog. Then they drove back to Benton Park. A short, fat man was waiting outside the Borealis office when they drove past.

  “Shit,” North said.

  “What?” Shaw asked, craning for another look. There wasn’t much to see. The sun had dropped below the horizon, and although the last light of dusk outlined the man, it made any distinguishing features hard to spot. “Who is it?”

  “Let’s spend the night back at my place.”

  “North, who is he?”

  “It’ll be better. I need to clean up your face, and you need a good night’s sleep.”

  At the end of the block, North made to turn left toward Gravois and his Southampton duplex. Shaw tugged the wheel right.

  With a groan, North turned right, cut back along the alley, and parked in the garage. They walked together along the first floor. North turned on lights as they went. Shaw watched as the set of North’s shoulders fell, as his steps dragged, as those ice-rim eyes cut toward the door and then, strangely, to Shaw.

  “Just don’t say anything, ok? He’ll find a way to use it against you.”

  “What’s going on?”

  North groaned again and then opened the front door. The short man was still there; he wore a Hawaiian print shirt that fit snugly around his stomach, like he’d stuffed a bowling ball up there, and khaki shorts and flip flops. A grey fringe ran above his ears, and bushy eyebrows shadowed dark, hollow eyes. When he grinned, he looked like the neighbor in a commercial—the one who was always pulling hot dogs off the grill or throwing a frisbee for his dog.

  “Hi, Uncle Ronnie.”

  “North! It’s so good to see you.” He wrapped North in a bear hug, laughing as he pounded him on the back. “Look how grown up you are. Good golly, you’re in the news these days. Did you know that?”

  “A lot of that’s because you helped me.” North glanced at Shaw again. “Uh, thanks again. For helping.”

  “No, no, no. I’m happy to do it. And you must be Shaw!”

  Another bear hug took place, this time enveloping Shaw, and Shaw found that, all things considered, he rather liked it. He decided to hug back. Ronnie smelled like pineapple air freshener and a hint of something else—Vitalis or something similar.

  “Good to meet you,” Ronnie said as he pulled away, reaching for Shaw’s hand and pumping it. “Good to finally meet you. You are really something. You really are. Do you know how long this boy has had his heart pinned on you? And now here you are, and you’re together. Good golly, it makes an old man happy, it really does.”

  North’s arm slid around Shaw’s shoulders, tugging him to North’s side, and Shaw wrapped his arm around North’s waist in response. It felt good to stand like this, the heat of North’s body and the smell of his sweat and Irish Spring soap, but a deeper part of Shaw’s mind questioned it. Was this a display of affection? Or was North just try
ing to get Shaw away from Ronnie?

  “Good to see you, Uncle Ronnie,” North said. He looked at Shaw and said, “As you can see, though, we had a rough night.”

  “I know,” Ronnie said. “I know. It’s really something. Precinct Blue. I never thought the boys there would make such a mess of things. I really never thought they would.” He stepped closer, and Shaw could feel the animal tension in North as the blond man fought the desire to step back. Examining Shaw’s face, Ronnie said, “Well, sir, they knocked you around pretty well, didn’t they? But nothing too bad. You might want some of those butterfly bandages for that cut on your cheek, I think, but I pronounce you fit to live.”

  Shaw studied the strange man. “Are you a doctor?”

  Ronnie just laughed. “Did you hear that, North?”

  “Uncle Ronnie, maybe we can talk on the phone another time. I’d like to—”

  “No, no, no. You’ve been avoiding me, North.” Ronnie wagged a finger. “You haven’t returned my calls. That’s pretty poor payment, don’t you think? I don’t like to bring up the past, but I’ve done you a favor or two, haven’t I?” A moment passed. “Well?”

  “Yes,” North said, his arm tightening around Shaw.

  “Well, I don’t think it’s too much to ask for you to return a phone call now and then.” Under those bushy eyebrows, his eyes brightened.

  Those eyes made Shaw think, suddenly, of the tigers at the zoo. Their eyes could look sleepy and bright all at the same time, as though they were putting on a show, rolling in the sun-warmed grass, dozing, and could still pounce and rip your throat out in the next instant.

  Ronnie pushed past them, saying, “What do you boys have to drink around here? This is a social call, and I want to celebrate the fact that you two are together.”

  As Ronnie disappeared into the kitchen, North whispered, “I’m sorry.”