Rafael's Mermaid
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or situations created for TGAH; I am borrowing them purely for entertainment purposes and am making no profit from their use. Thank you to Stephen J. Cannell, the cast, producers, writers, directors, and crew for giving us this wonderful, timeless show and the characters that bring it to life.
------------------
Author's Note:
This story continues the arc of Volcada. As with Volcada, chapters of more explicit adult content will be published under the "M" rating. Those chapters will not contain significant plot points. Author's notes will point out where additional content would fall within the story. Part 1 has no "M" rated content.
------------------
PART 1
Petals
------------------
CHAPTER 1
Another bouquet exploded in a fountain of red petals. Federal special agent Bill Maxwell shook the flower fragments from his revolver.
He'd been in rougher shootouts, he decided, but this one took the prize for sweetest smelling. Trouble was, it wasn't a good time to stop and smell the roses.
Maxwell put his back to the industrial-sized roll of green cellophane serving as his cover and shoved his hand into the inner pocket of his khaki windbreaker. He jerked out the cigarette lighter-shaped communicator and held it to his mouth.
"Ralph!" he hissed into the mouthpiece "Ralph, come in already. I could really use a little backup here, kid."
He waited.
Nothing. He shoved the communicator back in his pocket and hunkered down farther.
The problem, he thought, with pinning down the bad guys in a closed box like this warehouse workshop was you were just as likely to get pinned down yourself. Nobody could get back to the door they'd all come through.
In this case, the gunnies firing from across the warehouse floor had the advantage. There were three of them, meaning they had three times as much ammo.
And if they started to run low, they could always try to get to the stooge he had dropped by the locked loading dock door and grab his clip. The guy wasn't using it. He was too busy moaning and clutching the through-hole in his leg.
No, the other three would more likely rush him first, Maxwell knew. Hoods like this didn't play the long game.
Another rattling burst of gunfire thudded into the bale of plastic. A few stray rounds splattered across the row of funeral wreaths lined up against the wall he was facing, tearing through a ribbon banner that read "RIP August 1983." Maxwell was glad he didn't go in for symbolism.
A single shot pinged off the wide metal utility cupboard standing against the warehouse wall. On the middle shelf, one of the frog-shaped planters blew apart, throwing up a hail of green pottery shards.
Maxwell grimaced and cast a glance around, looking for fresh cover. The bale of cellophane had the stopping power of rhino skin, but a few more volleys and the entire contents of that cupboard were going to be crunching underfoot like 20 pounds of cornflakes.
That in itself wasn't a bad thing. The frogs were ugly as sin and he thought smashing them was probably doing the world of pottery planters a favor.
The downside was that Mediterranean blue ceramic bowl would be smithereens, too. He'd noticed it almost the second he rolled upright from his dive over the bale of cellophane. Something about the color instantly reminded him of Pam. It looked like something she'd like. And he didn't want to see it go up in a shower of fragments before he could buy it.
His survey of the area turned up a dozen stacks of cartons labeled Floral Wire and a crate full of wicker baskets. There was no cover close enough to risk another dive.
Fair enough, he thought, time to change the game. He'd give Ralph one more chance, then he'd take the fight to the floor.
He tugged the communicator back out of his pocket.
"Ralph!" he shouted as softly as possible, "Last call, buddy. The world's gonna be short one Maxwell in a minute if you don't pick up the damned phone."
Silence except for the sound of hushed whispers from the other end of the warehouse. The gunnies were plotting. That had to stop.
Between the three of them, they probably had half a dozen functioning brain cells. But in his experience, Maxwell thought, luck frequently favored the too-stupid-to-know-it-wouldn't-work.
Rising up in a half-crouch, he pivoted on his toes. He took a breath, held it, and raised up over the bale to squeeze off two shots in the direction of Team Einstein.
That got their attention, he thought with satisfaction as he ducked down under a volley of automatic pistol fire and another burst from the rifle.
There was a crash and Maxwell looked up reflexively to check the status of the bowl (still intact). After a moment's confusion, he realized the sound was coming from the communicator.
Somebody was shouting at the other end of the line. Two somebodies.
He could just make out the Counselor's words. They sounded muffled, like she was standing away from the microphone.
"I don't care, Ralph, don't you dare leave this room!" she shouted.
"Look," Ralph was saying, "Just let me get this call from Bill and we'll finish our discussion."
"Discussion! Ralph, this is not a discussion," she said. "This is a fight. We're nowhere near 'discussion' yet. This might end in discussion, or it might end in hysterics, it's really too soon to say."
"Fine," Ralph said, "It's a fight. I still need to take Bill's call first."
"What is it, Bill?" Ralph's voice blared out from the little speaker. "I'm having kind of a rough morning."
"Uh, yeah," Maxwell answered, "Me too. Look, Ralph, I could use a little backup from the flying squad about now."
"Just a minute," Ralph said, "Pam, let me go do this and when I get back we can finish our fight, or discussion, or whatever."
"This really isn't a good time to leave, Ralph," Pam said.
"I realize that," Ralph answered slowly, "But Bill's in trouble."
There was a pause and suddenly Pam's voice blared from the tiny speaker.
"How much trouble are you in, Bill?" she said. "Because it would have to be pretty bad to top the trouble Ralph's in right now."
Maxwell stared at the communicator.
"Uh, well, honey," he said finally, "I got three gunnies here about to make a run at me. It's not the worst trouble I ever been in but I'd give it about an 8 out of 10 on the 'oh, shit' scale."
There was a pause and her voice came back softer as if she'd walked away from the mic.
"Fine," she said. "Go help Bill. But I can't sit here waiting for you to get back. I'm going out."
"I understand," Ralph said. "You do what you need to do. When you feel like coming back, we'll talk."
Maxwell winced.
Congratulations, Ralph, he thought. There wasn't a lot you could say that was less like what she wanted to hear right then.
"I may be late myself," Ralph went on. "I need to talk to Rhonda."
Unless it was that, Maxwell thought.
Rhonda. Damn it.
Maxwell barely noticed the volley of shots that splattered across the wall in front of him.
"Who you talkin' to, cop?" shouted one of the gunnies. "You callin' back-up or praying?"
There was a burst of high-pitched laughter.
"Where are you, Bill?' Ralph's voice sounded from the communicator.
"Uh, Toyotoma's on Eighth. Flower District," Maxwell said. "Warehouse behind the store."
"I'll be there in a minute," Ralph said and the comm went dead.
Rhonda.
Maxwell felt his outrage building. His hands and face felt hot. Rhonda. Of all the stupid-
"Hey, cop," called one of the gunnies. "You dead yet?"
There was another burst of laughter. The three stooges were cracking themselves up.
Fine, Maxwell thought, let them get cocky. He could use that. He needed the distraction from thinking about his idiot partner, anyway.
The spokesman had a high, reedy voice. It sounded like the tall one with the spiky white-blond hair. His buddies probably called him Stretch. They seemed like guys with a lot of imagination.
"It's gonna take a little more than three dime-store hoods to ring my bell, Stretch," Maxwell shouted over his shoulder.
Judging by the sudden silence, he'd scored a bulls-eye with "Stretch." There was also a scrawny, youngish one. "Junior" would do for him, Maxwell thought.
It was the third one that was worrying him. He was a fireplug of a guy; as wide as he was tall and all muscle from the glimpse Maxwell had gotten of his neck. Calling him "Tiny" seemed to fit their sense of humor. Tiny would be as tough to drop with a single shot as a charging bull.
"We got you outnumbered, cop," Stretch shouted at last. "Let us out the door and maybe we won't hurt you."
"Keep dreaming, Stretch," Maxwell answered. "But seeing as how it's Sunday morning and all I really want is a fresh cup of crank and the funny papers, I'm willing to cut you a break to wrap this thing up."
"Here's the drill," he went on, not waiting for them to respond, "The sooner we put a bow on this thing, the easier it'll be on you."
"For instance," he said. "If you throw the guns out now, I'll be so tickled, I might even have a few words with the LA County DA who happens to be a friend of mine. On the other hand, if you make me use up all my nice bullets flushing you turkeys out, I will happily testify that not only did you knock over the 7-Eleven. You ran three red lights and made an illegal lane change fleeing the scene. On top of which, you made me spill my coffee all over my shoes while I was chasing you."
"And just to put some frosting on this cupcake," Maxwell went on, "I gotta tell you, I ain't a cop. I'm a Fed. So you're lookin' at assaulting a Federal officer with a cup of coffee on top of everything else."
He paused. There was the sound of urgently whispered conversation. Maxwell noticed idly that the goon by the backdoor seemed to have passed out. He'd stopped moaning, anyway.
"I'd take the offer, boys," Maxwell shouted. "It's the best one you're going to get for the rest of your lives, the way things are going. And it runs out in-"
He glanced at his watch.
"Sixty seconds," he finished.
They weren't likely to come to the conclusion it was safer to take their chances rushing him in less than sixty seconds, he thought.
He was right. It took sixty-five.
----------------
When Ralph burst through the metal loading dock doors a few minutes later, Bill was lying under Tiny, trying to keep the pile-driver fists from landing another crack on his jaw.
Ralph lifted the thug with one hand and tossed him in a spinning arc to land on top of the semi-conscious Junior. That just left Stretch.
Stretch had been too smart to be the first one around the bale of cellophane. He'd sent Junior and Bruiser around the right side while he circled left.
Maxwell wondered if the two stooges even realized the boss of the outfit had been snapping off shots in their direction while they were trying to jump him. Probably not.
Maxwell actually wasn't sure if it was his shot or Stretch's that had dropped Junior. He was inclined to think it was Stretch. Maxwell didn't typically go for the knees. All the screaming made it hard to concentrate.
Fortunately, Junior had only screamed once before going semi-catatonic.
Now Stretch was standing there, blinking stupidly at Ralph and his bright red super suit. To his credit, Stretch woke up enough to snap off a shot in Ralph's direction.
Unfortunately for him, he aimed it at the emblem on Ralph's chest. The bullet bounced off and skittered across the floor. Ralph plucked the gun from Stretch's slack fingers and pushed him down to the ground.
Stretch collapsed in an awkward half-seated, half-sprawled pose, still staring at Ralph with wide, red-rimmed eyes.
"Man, what are you?" he said in his high-pitched whine.
"Not Superman if that's what you're thinking," Ralph said.
Maxwell was climbing to his feet when Ralph turned around.
"You okay, Bill?" he asked, his bright blue eyes scanning Maxwell's frame. "How bad is that?"
Maxwell looked down and saw the wide rip on the sleeve of his khaki windbreaker. Dark spots of blood were scattered across the fabric and a warm trickle was running down his arm inside the sleeve.
"Just a scratch," he said, ignoring the pain shooting from his bicep to his fingers.
He nodded at the cartons of Floral Wire.
"Grab that and give Stretch a good wrap job," he said. "Somebody musta called the cops by now and I want to be done with this when they get here."
While Ralph pried open one of the cardboard cartons and pulled out a heavy spool of green wire, Maxwell carefully felt along his jaw. He had leaned away just as Bruiser launched his first punch and it only landed with about half the power behind it.
It hurt like blazes and would probably be a nice shade of blue-black in a few hours, but it didn't seem to be broken, Maxwell noticed with satisfaction. That was good because he had a few choice words to share with his partner.
Ralph finished the speed-wrapping routine on Stretch and skidded to a stop. The dazed-looking punk had about 18 feet of green wire wrapped from his waist to his shoulders.
"Yeah," Maxwell said, "That oughta do it. Did you bring your street clothes?"
Ralph cocked his head, looking puzzled.
"No," he said, "I thought this was all you needed me for. If there's more, I can run home."
"This won't wait, Ralph," Maxwell said. "Take the suit off."
Ralph blinked at him, then gave a lopsided grin.
"Bill, this is so sudden," he said. "I had no idea you felt that way."
"Can it, kid," Maxwell said, feeling his aching jaw clench. "Take off the suit. I can't beat you in it, but I can sure as hell beat you out of it."
Ralph's eyes went wide and then narrowed.
"How much did you hear over the communicator?" he said slowly.
"Enough to know you've got this coming," said Maxwell. "Let's go. Get it off."
He carefully slipped the windbreaker off his shoulders and let it slip off his arms to the warehouse floor. As it was falling, he shook out his shirtsleeve to mask the spreading bloodstain.
Ralph shook his head, making his yellow-blond curls bounce.
"I'm not going to fight you, Bill," he said.
"Not for long," Maxwell agreed. "I've seen you take a punch."
"For Chrissakes, Ralph," Maxwell went on, fighting to keep his voice level. "Rhonda? She's what, twenty now? You've got a wife like Pam and you're running around with a Rhonda?"
Ralph looked away and started pacing up and down the floor.
"I wasn't running- look, Bill, you don't know anything about it," Ralph said in a rush. "Most of my students have been held back a year or two. Rhonda's twenty-one and very mature for her age. She and I just-"
Ralph stopped pacing up and looked up at Maxwell, his bright blue eyes darkening.
"As a matter of fact, I don't know why it's your business anyway," he said, his voice rising. "This is really between me and Pam."
"It's my business," Maxwell ground out between his clenched teeth, "Be- because the three of us are a team and your screwing around on the lady you married eight months ago puts the team at risk."
"And I told you last time this happened I'd clean your clock if it happened again," he said. "You shoulda seen this coming the minute you stepped out of line with the Counselor."
"So now I've gotta deck you," he said, "And I'd rather not break my hand doing it, but I will if I have to. So quit stalling and fight me."
"Yeah," Stretch said from the floor. "What are you, chicken, man?"
"Shut up," Ralph and Maxwell said in unison.
A low, throbbing siren wail sounded in the distance, followed by another. It took Maxwell a moment to separate the sound from the blood rushing in his ears.
"That's the cops," Maxwell said, sinking into a bent-legged fighting stance, "Last chance to make this a fair fight, Hinkley. Try to show some backbone for once."
Ralph's mouth set in a tight frown.
"For the last time, Maxwell," he said. "I'm not fighting you."
"Fine," Maxwell said, rocking back on his heels. "Then just stand there and take the punch."
Maxwell let fly with a beauty of a roundhouse punch. He put his whole shoulder and back into it. This punch would make the average man fold like a paper bag. It would brush a trained fighter back a step. It would knock a High School English teacher into the middle of next week. It didn't have much effect on superheroes.
He'd aimed for the sweet spot just at the hinge of Ralph's jaw figuring if there was anyplace the guy'd feel it, it was a few inches above where the suit ended. The punch arced in with a fluid grace that would have been a joy to behold in the ring.
The effect was completely spoiled when Ralph stepped back out of the way with, literally, super-human reflexes.
The follow-through carried Maxwell around in a looping curve. He tried to catch himself with a step forward and ended up staggering into the stacked cartons of floral wire, sending cardboard boxes scattering across the floor with a chorus of rattling thuds.
Ralph was talking as Maxwell pushed himself up off the pile of boxes. He ignored the bloody handprint he left on the cardboard.
"-really don't care for your misplaced sense of chivalry about my wife," Ralph was saying. "I'm going to work this out with Pam one way or another, but I don't need your condemnation in the meantime. So until you hear from me again, I don't think we should work together. You stay out of my way, and I'll stay out of yours."
Maxwell turned and sagged back against the boxes just in time to see Ralph take three running steps and push off from the loading dock ramp. He disappeared upward in a flash of red and black.
"Damn," said Stretch. "That guy was a real dick."
"Shut up," Maxwell said. The roaring of the blood in his ears wasn't fading and his sight was narrowing into the characteristic tunnel vision he recognized as pre-passing out.
"Hey, man,'" Stretch said. "I'm on your side. You fight good for an old dude. That guy was just a pussy for not throwing down with you."
Maxwell ignored the yammering punk and looked down at his arm. Blood was flowing in a steady rivulet from the tear in his skin. He felt too tired to look for a tourniquet.
"You don't look too good, dude," said Stretch. "That's a lot of blood. You wanna untie me and I'll go get some help?"
"I can get my gun," Maxwell said, panting with the effort of staying upright. "If you think that'd help you shut up."
"Okay, man, okay," Stretch said quickly, "Just trying to be cooperative."
Maxwell managed to stay standing until the first pair of cops appeared in the loading dock door. The next two hours went by in a blur of blue uniforms, followed by white uniforms, followed by the gray suits of the FBI crime tech team.
By the time he'd finished giving his (carefully edited) statement for the third time, some kind soul had brought him a cup of coffee. The soothing warmth of it almost made him feel benign toward the hapless EMT who was trying to talk him into the waiting ambulance.
He only taught the kid three new four-letter words meaning "no" before he finally offered to show him how far a stethoscope could be inserted into the human body. At that point, the kid wisely left him alone. As soon as the ambulance pulled away, Maxwell yanked the blue sling over his head and dropped it to the floor.
Wincing slightly, he tugged his wallet out of his hip pocket. He carefully counted out twenty-five dollars and left it on the utility cupboard. He walked out to his car with the Mediterranean blue ceramic bowl under his arm.
- continued -
Rafael's Mermaid