"Serendipity"
Note: So in digging through old files, I came upon this "Homicide" fic that I wrote a few years back (August 2000, actually), which is probably the first piece I wrote that can still be described as a short story. I thought I'd put it up here, as there isn't too much HLOTS stuff. This was posted back in 2000 on the Homicon website, where it won 3rd prize in the fanfic contest. (Still the only money I've ever made for writing fiction!) But I figure it's been long enough that no one will mind me posting it here.
Description: This fic was inspired by my interest in the affair between Beau Felton & Megan Russert in season 3. There's not much backstory on how they got together, but as Felton and Russert both came to Homicide from narcotics, I figured they were old friends before becoming lovers. So I made up this story about them working together, two years before the series started. Beau and Megan are the main POV characters, with substantial walk-ons for Frank Pembleton and Kay Howard, and cameos for Munch, Lewis, and Crosetti. Bayliss isn't in Homicide yet, of course, though I have no idea where Gee and the Big Man are. The content is mostly character, with some procedural (lame; if I'd seen "The Wire" at that point I could've done better), minimal romance, and moderate angst.
Disclaimer: Well, think about it, the show's been off the air for 5 years, I'm probably not affiliated with NBC or Fontana/Levinson in any way.
(1/4)
Baltimore, 1991.
"Sugar Ray Phelps," cried Detective Beau Felton. "Has it been six months already? Time sure flies when you're watchin' your ass in the shower."
"Screw you, Felton!" The chubby young man scrunched his face into an expression that made it clear how many things he would rather do at eight in the morning than talk to a narcotics detective. A very sensible attitude, that, given Sugar Ray's regular vocation.
"Good to see they taught you some manners in Jessup, Shug," Felton laughed. He turned to a tall, thin boy with his hair cut in a high-top fade. "Tony T, Tony T." Beau stabbed his thumb toward a spot twenty yards down the street, where crime scene tape didn't shield the neighborhood's newest stiff from anyone who was interested. Hardly anyone was. "Sorry 'bout Jinx gettin' whacked. Must be cuttin' into your business, all the junkies goin' to Monroe Street.
"Screw you, too," Tony snorted. "If you poh-leece was good for nothin', you wouldn' be ridin' me, you'd be finding the per-pet-ator of this crime."
"Perpetator?" Felton repeated.
"The dude what done Jinx. Some Cobra gimp from Vine Street." Tony sputtered his indignation at such police stupidity. "The per-PET-ator."
A smile crossed Beau's face. "I'm glad you're such a concerned citizen, Tony. 'Cause it seems like a good place to start looking would be with a couple pieces of walking excrement clogging up the sidewalk fifty feet from where your buddy hit the pavement."
"Use your brain, man!" Tony protested. "Cobras done Jinx. They movin' in our corners - I mean, they movin' in where they think Jinx been dealin' where he just min'in his own business." Felton raised an eyebrow and Tony sputtered. "Man, you know I woul'nt whack Jinx; he wif my sister."
"Oh, he whiff her, did he?" Beau laughed. "Well, that's funny, cause I got a whiff o' your sister once and. . ."
A hand clenched the back of Beau's shoulder, and a voice inches from his ear demanded: "Do you have a problem with the way the man talks?"
Beau twisted around to face a scowling black face framed with extremely short hair and mirrored sunglasses. The man looked vaguely familiar, and extremely unhappy. Giving the kids a look that said, "Don't move," he jerked Felton aside.
"What the hell are you doing here?" the newcomer demanded. Perfect diction, like he practiced with a tape recorder. A Fed? Beau flipped out his shield. If the guy even glanced at the ID, it was impossible to tell behind those glasses. "What the hell are you doing here?" he repeated. "What we have here is called a homicide. When we have a homicide, who controls the crime scene?"
"A detective?" The sarcasm was thick in Felton's reply.
"What kind of detective?" Again not waiting for an answer. "Right, boys and girls, a homicide detective."
"Oh, really, jerkoff?" said Felton, drawing a step closer, speaking quietly to avoid attracting more attention than they already had. "Well, I'm a narcotics detective, and seeing as your quote unquote victim is lying on the corner of Fayette and Mount, and just happens to have spent most of his sorry life slinging dope for Shawn "Mac Daddy" McKenzie - maybe I'm going out on a limb, but we thought there might be a drug angle on this one."
"Absolutely brilliant. And did you ever think there might be such thing as a witness who might tend to run at the first sight of a narcotics detective - "
"Frank! Beau!" cried a female voice. "What the. . .?"
They both turned to face Megan Russert, and the homicide detective blinked in surprise. "Russert?"
"Frank, what is this? You have a problem with my partner?"
"With your. . .?" Frank turned to Felton, then back to Russert. He raised his sunglasses onto his forehead and, to Felton's shock, broke into a brilliant smile. "Russert, you're partnered with this goombah?" Frank shook his head, still smiling. "I was just getting used to the other goombah." Lowering his voice and leaning close to Megan, he said, "I don't suppose there's any chance he got hit by a bus?"
To Beau's further astonishment, Megan smiled back. "Nope, sorry, Doug's gone fishing. He sends his love though."
"I'm sure," Frank grunted. "Meanwhile Detective, er, Fulton here" - the look on his face said that he had read Beau's badge and that the mispronunciation was no mistake -"has been harassing potential witnesses."
"You mean those guys?" Megan pointed to Tony T. and Sugar Ray, who were standing unhappily under the supervision of a uniformed officer. "Who, if I hadn't stopped them, would have taken off while you guys were playing 'Whose is bigger?'"
Pembleton cast a look at Felton and pressed his lips together as if suppressing a comment. Russert continued: "Short version. Beau's working with Dane Stevens on the Mac Daddy drug ring. . ."
"They've been getting into it with the Cobras from down on Vine Street," Beau added.
"They have?" gasped Pembleton, and to Felton's sour look said, "Who do you think has been catching the bodies, Fulton, auto? My money says, this is more of the same. Those guys -" He jerked his head at Sugar and Tony - "- had nothing to do with it, and they just might know who expunged Mr. Ellis." Frank turned to Megan as if Beau spoke another language and she had to interpret. "If your partner doesn't scare them off with a drug charge."
Megan nodded and, to Beau's annoyance, talked back as if he wasn't there. "Fair enough. These guys are small time. Ellis was pretty big, though, and all we want to know is - who's stepping up? How is this going to shake down?"
Frank nodded. "Fair enough."
"Now," Megan spread her hands and smiled broadly. "What can we do to help?"
"Help," Frank mused. "How novel. I'll see what. . ." The medical examiner called to Frank and he held out a hand. "Hold that thought, Megan. I'll be right back."
"Megan," Beau muttered. "So, Frank, you two go way back?"
Pembleton shrugged, spread his hands, and cast his most angelic smile at Megan. "You know. The department's wunderkinder have to keep an eye on each other."
He trotted off, and Beau turned to Megan in disbelief. "Voodoo-what?"
Megan was fighting back a smile. "Wonder kids," she said, "It's German."
"Funny, he doesn't look German," Beau groused, "And he was flirting with you."
"I was flirting back," she answered. "Do you need one rope or two?"
"I. . ." Beau threw his arms out. "That wasn't a racial comment, Megan. Just - well, you're married."
Megan snorted with laughter, and it was her turn to look incredulous. "Beau Felton, Mr. Moral High Ground. That's Frank, Beau, he's a flirt. It means nothing. Anyway, you'd better get used to Frank Pembleton. If office gossip means anything, his ass'll be brass in no time."
"Ahh, the voodoo kids. Now I get it. You and Frank, soldiers together today, generals together tomorrow."
Megan frowned and Beau realized he had touched a raw nerve. "Funny, if I'm just slouching my way to a promotion, the way everybody seems to think, why am I busting my ass on the street?"
Beau grinned. "'Cause you love the company." Pembleton waved them forward, and Beau nudged Megan. "After you. Voodoo kid."
"Screw you, Felton." Ah, partners, he thought. And then, quite inappropriately, Man, does she have a great ass.
Note: So in digging through old files, I came upon this "Homicide" fic that I wrote a few years back (August 2000, actually), which is probably the first piece I wrote that can still be described as a short story. I thought I'd put it up here, as there isn't too much HLOTS stuff. This was posted back in 2000 on the Homicon website, where it won 3rd prize in the fanfic contest. (Still the only money I've ever made for writing fiction!) But I figure it's been long enough that no one will mind me posting it here.
Description: This fic was inspired by my interest in the affair between Beau Felton & Megan Russert in season 3. There's not much backstory on how they got together, but as Felton and Russert both came to Homicide from narcotics, I figured they were old friends before becoming lovers. So I made up this story about them working together, two years before the series started. Beau and Megan are the main POV characters, with substantial walk-ons for Frank Pembleton and Kay Howard, and cameos for Munch, Lewis, and Crosetti. Bayliss isn't in Homicide yet, of course, though I have no idea where Gee and the Big Man are. The content is mostly character, with some procedural (lame; if I'd seen "The Wire" at that point I could've done better), minimal romance, and moderate angst.
Disclaimer: Well, think about it, the show's been off the air for 5 years, I'm probably not affiliated with NBC or Fontana/Levinson in any way.
(1/4)
Baltimore, 1991.
"Sugar Ray Phelps," cried Detective Beau Felton. "Has it been six months already? Time sure flies when you're watchin' your ass in the shower."
"Screw you, Felton!" The chubby young man scrunched his face into an expression that made it clear how many things he would rather do at eight in the morning than talk to a narcotics detective. A very sensible attitude, that, given Sugar Ray's regular vocation.
"Good to see they taught you some manners in Jessup, Shug," Felton laughed. He turned to a tall, thin boy with his hair cut in a high-top fade. "Tony T, Tony T." Beau stabbed his thumb toward a spot twenty yards down the street, where crime scene tape didn't shield the neighborhood's newest stiff from anyone who was interested. Hardly anyone was. "Sorry 'bout Jinx gettin' whacked. Must be cuttin' into your business, all the junkies goin' to Monroe Street.
"Screw you, too," Tony snorted. "If you poh-leece was good for nothin', you wouldn' be ridin' me, you'd be finding the per-pet-ator of this crime."
"Perpetator?" Felton repeated.
"The dude what done Jinx. Some Cobra gimp from Vine Street." Tony sputtered his indignation at such police stupidity. "The per-PET-ator."
A smile crossed Beau's face. "I'm glad you're such a concerned citizen, Tony. 'Cause it seems like a good place to start looking would be with a couple pieces of walking excrement clogging up the sidewalk fifty feet from where your buddy hit the pavement."
"Use your brain, man!" Tony protested. "Cobras done Jinx. They movin' in our corners - I mean, they movin' in where they think Jinx been dealin' where he just min'in his own business." Felton raised an eyebrow and Tony sputtered. "Man, you know I woul'nt whack Jinx; he wif my sister."
"Oh, he whiff her, did he?" Beau laughed. "Well, that's funny, cause I got a whiff o' your sister once and. . ."
A hand clenched the back of Beau's shoulder, and a voice inches from his ear demanded: "Do you have a problem with the way the man talks?"
Beau twisted around to face a scowling black face framed with extremely short hair and mirrored sunglasses. The man looked vaguely familiar, and extremely unhappy. Giving the kids a look that said, "Don't move," he jerked Felton aside.
"What the hell are you doing here?" the newcomer demanded. Perfect diction, like he practiced with a tape recorder. A Fed? Beau flipped out his shield. If the guy even glanced at the ID, it was impossible to tell behind those glasses. "What the hell are you doing here?" he repeated. "What we have here is called a homicide. When we have a homicide, who controls the crime scene?"
"A detective?" The sarcasm was thick in Felton's reply.
"What kind of detective?" Again not waiting for an answer. "Right, boys and girls, a homicide detective."
"Oh, really, jerkoff?" said Felton, drawing a step closer, speaking quietly to avoid attracting more attention than they already had. "Well, I'm a narcotics detective, and seeing as your quote unquote victim is lying on the corner of Fayette and Mount, and just happens to have spent most of his sorry life slinging dope for Shawn "Mac Daddy" McKenzie - maybe I'm going out on a limb, but we thought there might be a drug angle on this one."
"Absolutely brilliant. And did you ever think there might be such thing as a witness who might tend to run at the first sight of a narcotics detective - "
"Frank! Beau!" cried a female voice. "What the. . .?"
They both turned to face Megan Russert, and the homicide detective blinked in surprise. "Russert?"
"Frank, what is this? You have a problem with my partner?"
"With your. . .?" Frank turned to Felton, then back to Russert. He raised his sunglasses onto his forehead and, to Felton's shock, broke into a brilliant smile. "Russert, you're partnered with this goombah?" Frank shook his head, still smiling. "I was just getting used to the other goombah." Lowering his voice and leaning close to Megan, he said, "I don't suppose there's any chance he got hit by a bus?"
To Beau's further astonishment, Megan smiled back. "Nope, sorry, Doug's gone fishing. He sends his love though."
"I'm sure," Frank grunted. "Meanwhile Detective, er, Fulton here" - the look on his face said that he had read Beau's badge and that the mispronunciation was no mistake -"has been harassing potential witnesses."
"You mean those guys?" Megan pointed to Tony T. and Sugar Ray, who were standing unhappily under the supervision of a uniformed officer. "Who, if I hadn't stopped them, would have taken off while you guys were playing 'Whose is bigger?'"
Pembleton cast a look at Felton and pressed his lips together as if suppressing a comment. Russert continued: "Short version. Beau's working with Dane Stevens on the Mac Daddy drug ring. . ."
"They've been getting into it with the Cobras from down on Vine Street," Beau added.
"They have?" gasped Pembleton, and to Felton's sour look said, "Who do you think has been catching the bodies, Fulton, auto? My money says, this is more of the same. Those guys -" He jerked his head at Sugar and Tony - "- had nothing to do with it, and they just might know who expunged Mr. Ellis." Frank turned to Megan as if Beau spoke another language and she had to interpret. "If your partner doesn't scare them off with a drug charge."
Megan nodded and, to Beau's annoyance, talked back as if he wasn't there. "Fair enough. These guys are small time. Ellis was pretty big, though, and all we want to know is - who's stepping up? How is this going to shake down?"
Frank nodded. "Fair enough."
"Now," Megan spread her hands and smiled broadly. "What can we do to help?"
"Help," Frank mused. "How novel. I'll see what. . ." The medical examiner called to Frank and he held out a hand. "Hold that thought, Megan. I'll be right back."
"Megan," Beau muttered. "So, Frank, you two go way back?"
Pembleton shrugged, spread his hands, and cast his most angelic smile at Megan. "You know. The department's wunderkinder have to keep an eye on each other."
He trotted off, and Beau turned to Megan in disbelief. "Voodoo-what?"
Megan was fighting back a smile. "Wonder kids," she said, "It's German."
"Funny, he doesn't look German," Beau groused, "And he was flirting with you."
"I was flirting back," she answered. "Do you need one rope or two?"
"I. . ." Beau threw his arms out. "That wasn't a racial comment, Megan. Just - well, you're married."
Megan snorted with laughter, and it was her turn to look incredulous. "Beau Felton, Mr. Moral High Ground. That's Frank, Beau, he's a flirt. It means nothing. Anyway, you'd better get used to Frank Pembleton. If office gossip means anything, his ass'll be brass in no time."
"Ahh, the voodoo kids. Now I get it. You and Frank, soldiers together today, generals together tomorrow."
Megan frowned and Beau realized he had touched a raw nerve. "Funny, if I'm just slouching my way to a promotion, the way everybody seems to think, why am I busting my ass on the street?"
Beau grinned. "'Cause you love the company." Pembleton waved them forward, and Beau nudged Megan. "After you. Voodoo kid."
"Screw you, Felton." Ah, partners, he thought. And then, quite inappropriately, Man, does she have a great ass.