A line snaked outside Sal's Pizzeria, the night crowd jostling for a cheap bite before heading back into the dark. Inside, bodies packed the few booths and scattered tables. Bullock sat across from Gordon, tearing into a slice of pepperoni pizza. A strand of cheese stretched from his mouth to the plate.
Bullock's pager buzzed. He dropped the slice onto another, silenced the beeper with a thumb, then sipped from his soda, watching Gordon who was skimming the notes from the interviews with Trisha and Meltcher.
The pager buzzed again.
"You gonna get that?" Gordon asked.
"I'm on lunch," Bullock muttered, sucking at the straw.
Gordon arched a brow. "Snake skin?"
"Maybe the guy has a pet?" said Bullock.
"A square foot—torn like it was a piece of something larger—that doesn't make sense?"
"People got all kinds of weird fetishes. I'm sure you know."
Gordon glanced up. "Sure. But never heard of a snake that size. It'd have a width of at least six inches?"
"Gimme twenty bucks, I'll show you one," Bullock said with a laugh.
Gordon almost smiled.
Bullock sighed. "What are those jungle snakes called? Andaconas?"
"Anacondas. And still seems too big," Gordon said.
"Snake skin aside, there's the bike. Trixie the stripper mentioned it. And you said a guy in the sewers had one."
"Maybe. And even if it was the same guy, he didn't leave me to die."
Bullock paused mid-sip. "Whatta you mean?"
"I remember falling face-first into the water. When I came to, I was propped against a wall. He must've done it," Gordon said. "Seemed…conscientious. Plus, there was the blade."
Bullock blinked. "Blade? You never said anything about a blade."
"I left it out. Figured if I mentioned it, he'd be the prime suspect."
"A blade shaped like a bat," said Bullock nodding slowly, chewing another bite. "Protecting your partner. I get it."
He set the slice down, leaned in, and wiped his fingers with a napkin. "Let me ask you something serious," he said, drawing it out with another sip.
Gordon looked up.
"You knocked her up, right?"
Gordon leaned back. "What?"
"It's the only explanation," Bullock said. "Only way a tight-ass poindexter like you gets a hot chick like that—excuse me hot lady. She gets in trouble and has no choice but to stick with you."
Gordon's face twitched. It was subtle, but there. He looked like he might snap, but then he just shook his head.
Bullock sighed.
Chen and Rusty spotted them as they weaved past the line, each sneaking glances at the girls in miniskirts. Chen slid in beside Bullock, Rusty gave Gordon a brief once-over before settling beside him.
Chen nodded at Gordon. "Jim, right?"
Gordon nodded.
"What'd you guys get?" Bullock asked.
Chen grabbed a slice from Bullock's plate and took a bite. "Rusty's guy came through. Place was mostly dead—except for some dude with blue hair. Said the crowd doesn't hit the kickbacks till after midnight."
Rusty jumped in. "But my guy said he was looking for a friend—Bayli. Blue-hair guy had heard of him. Said he hooked up with a chick a few months ago, freaked her out wanting to take Polaroids. She dipped. Said he's got a place in North B. That's all he knew."
Chen turned to Gordon. "What about you guys?"
"Another victim. More Polaroids. And a journal we can't translate," Bullock said, holding up the photo.
Chen took it, passed it to Rusty. "What's with this guy and the pictures?"
Rusty squinted at it. "A carving on some wood?"
"And one of her on a bed with white sheets," Bullock added.
"Souvenirs?" Gordon offered.
"Then why give some to the girls?" Chen asked.
Gordon shrugged. "Maybe they wanted one? Or kept one without him realizing."
"Film ain't cheap. He'd notice a missing shot," said Rusty.
"So what now?" Chen asked. "You gonna meet him?"
Gordon glanced around. All eyes were on him. He pulled the journal from his coat.
"Any of you know someone who can read Khmer?"
Chen shook his head. "Parents are Chinese."
"Wife's Laotian," said Rusty.
"The only Asians at the precinct are Koreans," Bullock said. "Lee's Korean, right?"
Chen nodded. "Upper East. Koreatown."
"What about him?" said Bullock to Gordon.
Rusty shifted slightly in his seat. Chen waited, eyes watchful.
"I'll see if I can get it translated," said Gordon. He was purposely vague. A distrust that was still deep.
Chen crunched his crust. Bullock wiped his fingers. A quiet tension settled over the group. The unspoken thing between them.
Then, the squawk of a radio cut through.
"Goddamn it, Rusty, why do you carry that thing?" Bullock snapped.
"Hate pagers," Rusty muttered.
"I told him—if people hear that, they'll spit in our food," Chen said.
Rusty unclipped the radio and raised it. "Go ahead."
"Looking for Bullock. You seen him?"
Rusty glanced over. "Looking right at him."
"Tell the fat fuck to answer his pages."
He passed the radio to Bullock.
"Bullock."
"Got a skinhead here, says he'll only talk to Gordon. I know the Ginger called out, but you're handling some of his cases, right?"
Bullock looked at Gordon. "What kind of statement?"
"Says it's for Gordon. Won't talk to anyone else."
Bullock sighed. "Well, he's in luck—Gordon's here. We'll be there." He handed the radio back to Rusty.
"Freak got a lead already?" Bullock asked.
They all looked at Gordon who said nothing.
Bullock wasn't surprised, but he caught the sidelong glance Rusty threw him. Distrustful and sharp. Chen looked more like a kid whose curiosity had just been kicked in the teeth. He bit into his pizza without a word. Gordon scanned his notes again, pretending not to notice anything.
The drive back to the precinct was short, but silence stretched it. Bullock flicked on the wipers out of habit, the rain had mostly stopped. He glanced at Gordon.
"You ever gonna talk about it?"
"Would you?"
"Probably not," Bullock said. "Probably smarter you didn't. But if you plan on sticking around, you gotta give Rusty and Chen more than just silence."
"Maybe I'm not planning to stay."
"Whatta you mean? You bailing? To where?"
"I know someone in Nebraska."
"Nebraska?" Bullock repeated, each syllable loaded with disbelief. "What the hell's in Nebraska?"
"A fresh start."
Bullock didn't say another word.
When they pulled up, Rusty and Chen were already on the steps, chatting with O'Brien, who stood outside smoking.
Gordon reached into the backseat for his bag. Bullock hopped out, moved to the sidewalk, and watched him shuffle through the clutter. He opened the passenger's side door.
"Alright, let me ask you something. And none of that silent treatment bullshit," Bullock said.
Gordon leaned back in his seat and sighed.
Bullock leaned an arm on the open door, "High school sweethearts, right?"
Gordon glanced up, let out a heavy sigh then tilted his head back on the headrest.
"That's how you got her. She's young, doesn't know what she's got yet. Doesn't realize what boring fuck you are. I'm right, right?" said Bullock.
Finally, something flickered in Gordon's face. His brows, his mouth, his eyes everything shifted. He shook his head, stood up and shut the door. His words caught on the edge of his tongue.
"Go on, Jim. Say it," Bullock prodded. "You know you want to."
Gordon hesitated, then muttered, "Fuck you."
Bullock lit up like a kid whose rock finally shattered a window. "There it is! That so fucking hard? You unclenched—and hey, look at that—didn't float off like a goddamn balloon." He mimed a fist drifting into the air.
Gordon shook his head and stormed off.
"Yeah, walk it off, you little ginger bitch."
Gordon turned back, "Fuck you, Harv."
"Alright, I'll give you two since you're an outsider," Bullock said, grinning. "But say it a third time and I'll have to kick your ass."
As they reached the steps, Gordon paused and looked back. "Forgot my bag."
Bullock tossed him the keys. "Don't get lost."
O'Brien let out a cough as he smoked nearby. His eyes on the Piccolo's slots across the street. Bullock stepped inside but glanced over his shoulder at him.
Inside, Lou Diamond sat at his desk talking with Chen and Rusty about the skinhead sitting in the interview room. Bullock stopped at the desk, scratching his head.
"O'Brien always smoke?" Bullock asked.
"That's funny—I just asked him the same thing," Chen said.
Bullock looked toward the door. "Shit."
He pushed it open. O'Brien was gone. He glanced down the street and so was Gordon.
"You piece of shit, O'Brien," Bullock growled, then bolted down the street.
He reached the Plymouth. The door hung open.
No need to shout, he heard the metal clanking.
In the alley, Gordon was mid-brawl. Two men throwing fists, Gordon trying to dodge them but most landed on his ribs and chin. A third emerged from the driver's seat of a black Diplomat. Bullock lunged, shoved one attacker aside. Another jumped him from behind.
Fists flew. Grunts. Boots against concrete. Bullock was thrown against a wall while Gordon took the worst of it.
Then, the rhythm changed, footsteps pounding in from down the sidewalk.
Chen tackled one. Rusty grabbed another.
"Let's go!" someone shouted. They piled into the Diplomat and peeled out, leaving Gordon behind.
"Holy shit—was that—?" Chen started.
"Jim!" Bullock called. "Fuck!"
He bent a knee, moved Gordon who laid on his side. His head tilted to the asphalt, blood leaking from his mouth.
"He alright?" Chen said.
"No, dipshit, he's out cold," Bullock barked, grabbing Gordon under the arms. Rusty helped by lifting his legs.
They hauled him to the Plymouth and dumped him into the back seat.
"Tell the Chief. And the Captain," Bullock ordered.
"Where you taking him?" Rusty asked.
"Kane Hospital."
"Go with them, Tommy," Rusty said. "I'll brief the brass."
Chen jumped in the passenger seat.
Bullock stuck the light to his car, and floored it. He drove through lights, honking and swerving. A tight pressure climbed from his chest to his throat. He tightened his grip on the wheel.
"I know it looks like a loss," Chen said, glancing back at Gordon, "but they didn't get him. Would've been worse if they had. We'd probably be fishing him out of the river."
His words stung Bullock. Gordon groaned behind them.
"Fuck!" he yelled.