by Gregory Ashe
Somers paled as he took the jacket. He held it awkwardly, as though unsure of what to do with it, and then dropped it in his lap. He fumbled the key in the ignition, started the car, and then, his face pitched towards the floorboards, said, “I know I fucked up. But I am different. All I’m saying is give me a chance.”
Hazard didn’t answer; he’d said everything he needed to say.
Struggle showed in Somers’s face, and as he shifted the car into gear, he blurted, “And I wasn’t cracking jokes or trying to be funny. You do have a killer ass. So fuck you.”
And that, Hazard decided as they pulled away from the curb, made it official: the whole world had gone batshit.
IT COULD HAVE GONE WORSE, Somers told himself for the hundredth time as they drove. It could have gone so much worse. The problem was, though, that he wasn’t sure exactly how it could have gone worse. It would have been a relief, in some ways, if Hazard had hit him. It would have—
—made up for it—
—gotten some of the hostility out in the open. But Hazard hadn’t hit him; once again, Hazard had defied Somers’s expectations. And that just made Somers feel worse.
And why the hell, Somers asked himself, did you tell him he had a killer ass?
Now, Hazard brooded, staring out the window as they drove and refusing to respond to any of Somers’s attempts at conversation. Somers didn’t blame him. It had hit him, again, when Hazard had tapped his chest—the scar that Grames had left, that stupid scar, and Somers had been there, had held Hazard’s arm. Jesus, Somers asked himself, why were you such a little shit back then?
Jesus didn’t offer any special insight on that question, so Somers settled for staring out the windshield and trying to navigate to their destination. The city of Wahredua had been built in stages: first, there had been the section of town along the river, when river traffic had been steady. Then, just as trade along the Grand Rivere began to die, the MP lines had come through. Wahredua had stretched north to meet the lines. Although rail traffic had been steady, Wahredua had stagnated until two decades earlier. Somers and Hazard had been in high school together when one of Wroxall College’s most successful alumni—a self-described tuna baron with a reputation for decimating marine populations—endowed the school with several hundred million dollars. Almost overnight, Wroxall became the dominant political force in Wahredua, and its power only grew as the school rose in rankings and attracted brighter and better—and more—students from across the world.
Wahredua had changed with Wroxall, although, Somers thought, Hazard didn’t seem to see it. The new section of Wahredua, where they were driving now, had grown up to accommodate the growing college. There were pho shops and Indian buffets and kebab stands, built alongside pubs and pizza places and Subway sandwich shops. The whole world had come to Wahredua, and they’d brought the world with them. Twenty years ago, when Hazard and Somers had been in high school, Wahredua might have been a backwater town—provincial, small-minded, and with all the accompanying evils. Even if Hazard didn’t see it, though, Somers knew that Wahredua had changed. And he was glad it had changed for the better.
Unlike the brick buildings that populated the stretch of town along the river, or the mixture of fieldstone and aging timber that ran north to meet the MP lines, this portion of Wahredua was a mixture of styles and materials: glass, industrial woods and metals, cement, stucco, stone—a conglomerate of twenty-first century styles. The streets were wider, and everything was laid out in neat, urban blocks, complete with apartment buildings and green spaces and parking garages. Somebody could have plucked up this part of Wahredua and set it down in Chicago—near Wicker Park, maybe—and nobody would have noticed the difference.
“What’s that?” Hazard asked, sniffing.
Somers took a breath; the air held a rich, buttery aroma. “Kolache.”
“What?”
“Kolache.” At Hazard’s uncomprehending look, Somers nodded at the bakery they were passing. “It’s a pastry. They put meat in them, or fruit. Lots of stuff. You want one?”
Hazard ignored the question.
“Did you get breakfast? Where are you staying?”
Apparently, Hazard decided one of these questions was worth answering because he said, “The motor court.”
It took Somers a moment to realize what he meant. “Bridal Veil? Holy hell, that place is like, a hundred years old. You’re lucky it didn’t fall down while you were sleeping.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s got bedbugs. Or lice. Or God only knows what. You can’t stay there.”
“I already am staying there, so I guess I can.”
“Listen, I’ve got an extra bedroom. You can stay there until you find a place. What are you looking for? This part of town’s got a lot of life. There are clubs, bars, great places to eat.” Somers glanced at Hazard. “You seem like you might want some peace and quiet, though. I’m down on the riverfront. One of the old warehouses. They converted some of them into lofts about ten years back. I could ask if they’ve got any units available.”
“No.”
“No what? No, you don’t want me to ask? Or no, you don’t need a place to stay?”
“Just no. This isn’t work. You want to talk, we talk about work.”
Somers fought the urge to run a hand through his hair and, just maybe, growl in frustration. “We’re partners. We’ve got to know each other.”
“We do. We know each other real goddamn well.”
Somers ignored the comment and pressed on. “Like, are you dating someone? Are you married? Do you have kids? Me, I’m—”
“I don’t care. If it’s not work, I don’t want to hear it.”
This time Somers did growl. Just a little. Just for a moment.
“All right,” he said. “Yeah. Work.”
“You started telling me about this case. There’s been vandalism against gays?”
“Yeah. Pretty big gay community, especially considering the size and location of the town. Really close-knit, pretty tight connections to the university.”
“And the university is the elephant in the room,” Hazard said. “So the university gets mad—”
“And everybody starts hopping pretty fast to try to make them happy.”
“Cravens hires me because it looks good.”
“Upchurch had already decided to take the state job, and you were by far the most qualified person to apply.” Somers paused. “Why did you apply here anyway? You could have gone anywhere.”
Hazard ignored him.
“That’s a work question. If we’re going to work together, I deserve an answer.”
“I—” Hazard stopped, obviously changing what he’d been about to say. “I didn’t really have a choice.”
“Why not?”
“Some shit went down in the department. Politics, I guess you could call it. The captain knew Cravens and knew they were going to have an opening. He told me I could either pack it in and go home, or—”
“Or what?”
“Or I could spend the rest of my life shuffling papers.”
“What happened?”
“Like I said: politics.”
That wasn’t an answer, but Somers knew better than to press it. At least, not at the moment.
“So the case?” Hazard said.
“Yeah, university’s been putting the screws to Cravens to find out who’s behind the vandalism, etc. It’s been quiet for a while, so this is getting a lot of attention.”
“What kind of vandalism?”
“Broken windows, slashed tires. Somebody threw a homemade Molotov cocktail at one woman’s house. It didn’t go off, it just burned, and the guys who showed up managed to keep it quiet. Most people think it was just a bag of burning dog shit or something like that.”
“A Molotov cocktail? That sounds like a hell of a lot more than vandalism.”
“Yeah. A couple of women were attacked outside a club a few weeks ago. White guy, late thirties early forties, grabbed
one of them by the hair and slammed her into a brick wall. Then he told the other girl he was going to show her what, ‘all you dykes are missing out on.’ He tried to rape her, but the girl got away.”
“You find him?”
“Neither woman could describe him beyond that, and there’s a lot of people that fit that description.”
“Sounds like one of those lunatics. The militia-type. They still around here?”
Somers nodded, signaling as he turned onto a small, quiet side street. “The Ozark Volunteers. You remember them?”
“Hard to forget when they come through town with a sign that says God Hates Fags and you’re the only gay boy for a hundred miles in any direction.”
“They still do that. Did it a few weeks ago.”
“A few weeks ago?”
Somers nodded. “Right when this was all starting.”
The Ozark Volunteers—or, by their full name, The Supreme Justification of God in the Ozark Citizen Volunteers—had given every decent person in Dore County a pain in the ass for the last forty years. They weren’t directly related to the KKK or the Montana Militia or a crazy fundamentalist church, but they shared elements with all of them. They lived, for the most part, in the unincorporated parts of Dore County, outside of Wahredua’s limits, and they spent their free time drinking beer, shooting the bottles, and either cooking meth or using it, as the situation demanded.
In the last few months, the Ozark Volunteers had found new leadership—radicalized, militant leadership that had taken the Volunteers out of the sticks and into the heart of Wahredua, where they staged public marches and demonstrations against fags, liberals, atheists, whores, and anything or anyone else that put an itch in their garters.
“Did they scare you?” Somers asked, the question leaving his mouth before he could stop it. “The Volunteers, when you were a kid?”
The car rolled to a stop in front of a row of taupe-colored townhouses. Hazard snorted, and for a moment, Somers thought he would ignore the question. Then Hazard answered, tipping his head towards the townhouse ahead of them.
“Scared the shit out of me.”
It was the first thing Hazard had said that didn’t carry underlying rage; it sounded, to Somers’s surprise, almost vulnerable.
Then, in a hard voice, Hazard said, “You got me.”
“What?”
“I’m in. Let’s demolish these redneck assholes.”
Somers broke out in the first genuine smile of the day.
IT TOOK ALL OF HAZARD'S willpower not to smile back at Somers when the man started grinning. There was something genuine about it, something honestly bright, that made Hazard forget, for a moment, how much he hated the prick. Fine, Hazard told himself as he got out of the Impala. He’d work with Somers on this case. Like it or not, Hazard was hooked. This case was pushing all the right buttons: ignorant bullies, LGBT victims, a chance to kick the ass of a boogeyman from his past. Hazard couldn’t walk away from that. Hell, you couldn’t have dragged him away from it. And if that meant working with Somers, he’d work with Somers. For now.
This part of Wahredua was completely new to Hazard; it had obviously been built in response to the college’s rapid expansion, but it showed signs of careful planning and execution. This quiet street, for example, already had large trees lining the sidewalk, and the taupe-colored townhomes were well built and maintained. A large swath of green, complete with a playground, capped the end of the block. The smell of the pastries—kolaches?—had faded, and now Hazard tasted the hot tar patches on the street and the mulch dust from the playground. They were summer tastes; he was surprised to find that they made him think of home and, even more surprising, happy days.
Whatever happiness those memories held, though, dissipated as he studied the townhouse in front of them. Two-stories, with a manicured flowerbed, a trimmed hedge, and an attached garage, it looked like it could have belonged in Anytown, USA, except for one thing: across the garage door, spray painted in foot-high letters, were the words, Die Fag! Someone had obviously tried to scrub away the letters, resulting in a blurry final e of Die, but the effort had also obviously been given up.
“Who lives here?”
Somers checked his notepad. “Rosendo Cruz Cervantes is the owner, according to the patrol that stopped by, but he wasn’t the one who called it in.”
“Who did?”
“The name here is Nicholas. Nicholas Flores.”
“Let’s talk to Mr. Flores.”
Somers let Hazard take the lead, and so Hazard followed the walk to the front door. He raised a hand to knock, but before he could, the door swung inwards, and someone—a man—hurtled out. Hazard twisted aside, moving more by reflex than conscious thought, and snagged the man’s shirt. The man stumbled, and a cardboard box flew out of his arms and tumbled onto the grass, spilling shirts across the yard.
“What the—” The man stared at Hazard in shock, and then his expression hardened in anger. He planted both hands on Hazard’s chest and shoved free of Hazard’s grip. “Who the hell are you?”
“Police,” Somers said. “Detective Somers.”
“Detective Hazard.” Hazard paused, taking in the details: the man in front of him was young—twenty-two, maybe twenty-three—and gorgeous. He had copper-colored skin, and thick, wavy black hair. Tall and slender, he was built like a dancer, and every movement displayed the perfect lines of his body. It didn’t matter that he was wearing a ratty t-shirt with holes and baggy sweats—it just made him look better. Hazard was trying to remember what he’d been going to say.
“We had a call,” Somers prompted.
“Right. Vandalism. We’re here to talk to—” Damn. He’d forgotten the name. He flashed Somers a pleading glance.
Somers, for his part, kept his expression smooth. “Nicholas Flores.”
“Nico.” The young man crossed his arms across his chest. A very well-defined chest, Hazard noticed, through the thin cotton. “That’s me.”
Hazard decided he either had to jump in and start talking or he was at risk of swallowing his tongue. “Can you tell us what happened?”
“I woke up this morning, came outside, and found that—” He jerked a thumb at the garage door. “I tried scrubbing it out, and then I realized I was being stupid. I called the police. Now you guys are here. That’s about it.”
“Mr. Flores, could we come in and talk for a few minutes?”
Nico snorted. “I’m not going back inside that place unless it’s to get the rest of my stuff.”
“Some sort of problem?” Somers asked.
“Yeah. I’ve been living with a miserable, lying, cheating waste of a human being. For eight months. Eight months. That sound like a problem to you?”
“Are you talking about—” Somers consulted his notepad. “—the homeowner? Mr. Cervantes?”
“Chendo. Yeah. That’s the soulless, conniving, sneaky—”
“Is Mr. Cervantes home?”
“If he were home, I’d be too busy ripping off his balls to talk to you.”
“Mr. Flores,” Hazard said, “it’s not in your best interest to say things like that. Especially not when talking to the police.”
“Why not?” Nico walked past Hazard—but close, close enough that his arm brushed Hazard’s chest—and stooped, gathering the fallen clothing and putting it back into the cardboard box. “It’s the truth. I’d put that piece of shit’s head through a windshield if I had the chance.”
“Were you and Mr. Cervantes in a relationship?”
Nico gave a bitter laugh, shoving another shirt into the box.
“Mr. Flores?”
Straightening to his full height, Nico met Hazard’s gaze. “No. I wouldn’t say we were in a relationship. You can’t have a relationship with a guy who goes around sleeping with everything that has a pulse, can you?”
“But you were involved romantically with him?”
“What do you care?” A crooked smile crossed Nico’s features. “You interested?”
Hazard felt his face heat; Somers intervened, saying, “We’re trying to establish the facts, Mr. Flores.”
“God, it’s roasting out here. Fuck it, I changed my mind. Let’s go inside and drink the rest of Chendo’s beer.”
Without waiting for an answer, he tossed the cardboard box onto the porch and disappeared into the house.
Hazard glanced at Somers, who was trying—and failing—to hide a smile.
“Shut up,” Hazard said, before following Nico into the house.
The inside of the townhouse matched the outside: dark-stained wood floors, ultra-modern furniture and color scheme, lots of glass and steel and white. Along one wall hung a row of pictures, and many of them featured Nico and another young, Latino man embracing. Other pictures were of Nico, alone and in various stages of undress. Before Hazard and Somers could get deeper into the house, Nico returned carrying three beers by the neck. He took a drink from one and offered the others.
Hazard and Somers shook their heads.
“Fine, but you owe me a drink,” Nico said, his eyes locked on Hazard, his smile still crooked and, in Hazard’s view, hot enough to start a grease fire. Then, his face flattening in anger, he said, “I guess I’ll leave these for Chendo.” He swung the bottles at the row of pictures. Glass shattered, and beer splashed everywhere. Pictures clattered to the floor, followed by more glass breaking. The yeasty smell of beer filled the small entryway.
“You need to calm down, Mr. Flores,” Somers said. “Unless you’d rather take this conversation to the station.”
“Whatever you want, detective.” Nico took another drink and then nodded to a sofa and chairs. “You want to sit down and talk, let’s sit. You want to cuff me, well,” he grinned, “you can do whatever you want. You too,” he added to Hazard. “You can definitely do whatever you want to me.”