Santa Barbara, 1990
Shawn and Gus sat on the cool linoleum floor, huddled up against the painted wood of the kitchen cupboards. Shawn gripped a baseball bat in his sweaty fists and Gus held a hacksaw. Both had their eyes glued on the door to the living room.
"I really have to question your choice of the hacksaw," Shawn whispered. "It's going to get us killed. At the very least, grab a knife. There's a drawer full of them."
"Don't even get me started," Gus complained. "This whole thing is your fault. And for the record, between the two of us, I'd say that I have a better chance of surviving."
"Oh please!" Shawn scoffed, pushing his hair out of his eyes. "How long would it take to decapitate someone with a hacksaw? Ten, fifteen minutes?"
Gus countered by going on the offensive. "A baseball bat's not even a cutting weapon, Shawn. And it takes at least 32 pounds of pressure per square inch to—" He stopped, and his eyes widened. "Did you hear that?"
"Probably not," Shawn said. "It's hard to hear above all those cats sounds."
"Cat sounds?" Gus's young forehead wrinkled in confusion.
"Yes," Shawn said. "'Fraidy cat to be precise. I think there's a 'fraidy cat somewhere in this kitchen," Shawn made soft mewing noises under his breath. "Here kitty kitty," he whispered hoarsely.
"I'm serious," Gus said, gripping his hacksaw tighter. "I think there's someone in the living room."
Shawn laughed. "Kind of ironic, don't you think? The undead, in the living room?"
"Shawn, this is not time to be making jokes about—" Gus stopped speaking as a floorboard in the other room creaked loudly, dispelling all doubt and leaving only cold sweaty fear in its place.
"I take it all back," Shawn said hurriedly. Holding the baseball bat in one hand, he opened a drawer and grabbed a butter knife and brandished it anxiously. "I'm sorry I doubted you, Gus."
"That's okay," Gus said. Shawn was his best friend, and best friends forgave each other, even—perhaps especially—when faced with their imminent demise.
As the kitchen door creaked slowly open both Shawn and Gus shrieked in the high-pitched squeal that would stay with them into their adult years. Henry Spencer walked into the kitchen and surveyed the two frightened boys sternly. He crossed his arms and Shawn noticed that he held the copy of Dawn of the Dead that they'd rented under one arm.
"I suppose the two of you are holed up in here waiting to fend off a zombie attack," he said, disappointment permeating his tone.
Both boys relaxed, now more frightened of Henry than they were of the shambling hoards of the living dead.
"It wasn't my idea," Gus said defensively, hiding the hacksaw behind his back. "I didn't want to watch it in the first place." He looked pointedly at Shawn. "It's unrated. That means it's too scary to be rated."
"It was a legitimate mistake," Shawn argued. "I figured we were old hands at this zombie thing. We'd watched My Boyfriend's Back and Weekend at Bernies II. Besides, that movie is twelve years old. I figured, how scary can it be?"
"Pretty scary." Gus said. "I may have to do all my shopping by mail from now on, because I am never going to the mall again."
"Shawn," Henry shook his head sadly and set the VHS tape on the counter. "I thought I taught you better than this." He gestured at the windows. "This is a terrible place for a standoff. The windows give away your every move. And how many entry points do you have to defend here?" He pointed to the back door. "One." He pointed to the living room. "Two. Three if we count the windows."
Shawn rolled his eyes and his limbs went limp with the defeat he always felt during one of his dad's lectures.
Henry slapped a heavy hand on each of their shoulders. "The next time I catch the two of you hiding from zombies you'd better be in the basement," he said. "It's defendable, it's got food and water, and if you have to make a run for it there's a wire mesh-reinforced fire window that locks from the inside." He looked at the VHS tape on the counter and grimaced. "If you'd watched Night of the Living Dead instead of this lousy sequel you'd have realized that."
Shawn and Gus replaced the weapons and went into the living room to watch re-runs of Star Trek. Captain Kirk never got attacked by zombies.
Santa Barbara, Present Day
Why were bad days always the longest? Lassiter wondered as he poured himself his third coffee of the day. He'd awakened at 4:00 a.m. with another one of his Shawn Spencer nightmares. In the dream it had been his seventh birthday, but his family was giving his plastic Sheriff's badge, toy gun and holster to Spencer instead. The dream had ended just as the psychic blew out the candles on what should have been young Carlton's birthday cake. Unable to trust himself to sleep after that, Lassiter had sat up reviewing cold cases until he could justify going in to work.
Even his job seemed to be conspiring against him. O'Hara was spending the day at UC Santa Barbara, inspiring women to consider a career in the police force, so he was working alone. His dark mood endowed everything around him with a threatening air, so when Chief Vick called him into her office he knew something foul was in store for him.
"We've had a report of a dead body on North Alisos Street," Vick said. "I need you to check it out."
Dead bodies were one of Lassiter's favourite things. Not that he wished people harm—he certainly didn't want anyone to die—but he always felt more alive when he was investigating a homicide. He remembered the first time he'd encountered something dead—it had been a raccoon at his grandparent's place up north. He'd kept a journal detailing its decomposition, from when it only appeared to be sleeping, through the first signs of insect activity, until the carcass was bloated, and teeming with maggots. While it had been a purely scientific document, it had still earned him a heavy cuff across the back of his head from his grandmother, and a week of sessions with a child psychologist when she told his mother. Still, good times. So Lassiter directed the Crown Vic to the crime scene with a sense of cautious optimism, looking forward to the mental stimulation that only came from an active homicide investigation.
Uniformed officers were already there, securing the scene. He brushed past Officer McNab, oblivious to the big man's friendly greeting. As he crossed the threshold into the hall he was immediately gripped by an eerie sense of deja-vu. Something felt very wrong. He pulled his Glock and moved slowly forward, hugging the walls for cover. Sure, uniforms had already declared the house clear, but even cops made mistakes. And given the feeling creeping up his spine, why take chances? He'd learned the hard way to always trust his gut.
The SBPD computer records indicated that the house had been vacant for four months while the owners negotiated with a developer over the sale of the property. Yet the house Lassiter entered was furnished—or at least the first two rooms of it were. He ran his eyes over the little side table in the hall, which held a series of photographs and an old-fashioned candlestick telephone. Next to the table, a red and white umbrella stood in a metal tub. The hairs on his neck stiffened and he sensed that something unpleasant awaited him, and he thought briefly of the dead raccoon from his childhood again. He glanced into the room on the right and saw heavily stuffed couches and chairs, a large Persian carpet, potted plants, and bookshelves. And, of course, the dead woman in a paisley house dress, lying sprawled on the rug.
"Why do I feel like there should be a dog with Gene Simmon's tongue in the corner of this room?" The familiar voice cut through Lassiter's focus and he turned to see Shawn Spencer, clad in a red t-shirt and jeans, peering around curiously, unimpeded by the police officers who were supposed to be guarding the site. "What?" Shawn asked innocently. "Don't try to tell me you weren't a member of the KISS Army."
Lassiter didn't drop his guard. Now, more than ever, he sensed menace in the small homey room. He studied Shawn through narrowed eyes, mulling over his comment about the dog. As usual with Spencer, what he said was ridiculous, but it wasn't wrong.
Despite the evidence of his eyes, Lassiter also felt as if something ominous was lurking in the corner.
There's nothing there, he assured himself.
He glanced apprehensively at the body in front of him. Part of him, perhaps delirious from lack of sleep, could easily imagine it leaping up, like some creature from Night of The Living Dead, and trying to eat his university-educated brains.
Don't be ridiculous, he chided. This feeling is just the effect of a very bad nights sleep.
"What are you doing here, Spencer?" He swallowed and tried to keep his face from showing how nervous he felt.
"I heard the call on the scanner," Shawn said cheerfully. "Thought I'd stop by and see if I could offer any assistance."
"I don't need your assistance." Lassiter put as much sarcasm into the last word as he could muster. Keeping Spencer out of his cases wasn't easy, but if it was the only way for him to get a descent eight hours of rest every night then the effort would be worth it. Considering how many guns he carried on a daily basis, a good night's sleep was practically a public safely issue.
Shawn moved further into the room, ignoring Lassiter's rebuff. "I figured with Jules off to convert co-eds to crime-solving you might need some back-up."
Lassiter glanced at the psychic, then back at the corner. That was surprisingly considerate of Spencer, provided of course that he was telling the truth.
"You hardly qualify as back-up," he said, putting less venom into his words.
"I know," Shawn said, unfazed by the insult. "That's why I also brought Gus." He jabbed a thumb back, toward Burton Guster, who was standing in the hall pretending to be interested in the wallpaper so he wouldn't have to look at the dead body on the carpet.
"Get behind me, Spencer, and stay there," Lassiter hissed. If there was anything dangerous in the room the last thing he wanted was to have a civilian injured on his watch. Even if that civilian was Spencer.
"Behind you?" Shawn said, as he stepped around the detective, a little too closely. "I'd always imagined this the other way around."
Like most of the things Spencer said, it sounded like a sexual innuendo. Yet Lassiter found it impossible to pin him down—was he joking or was he serious? He never knew for sure, and the ambiguity of it irked him. Without certainty, there was no way to quash Spencer's flirtatious antics. Few things were more embarrassing than having the "I'm flattered, but," conversation with someone who's just been pulling your chain—a lesson he'd learned in a painfully public way during his junior year at college. So despite the fact that Spencer was leaning so close against his back that he could feel his body heat, Lassiter said nothing.
Holding his Glock in front of him, he moved forward slowly, trying to fight off the images of zombies filling his mind. Then he thought about Spencer's remark about a dog, and suddenly the memory fell into place. All his anxieties vanished and he lowered his gun.
"It's the Resident Evil video game." He smiled and nodded his head with certainty. "This is the spitting image of the house where the Rabbitson family used to live." He pointed to the corner, now devoid of any sense of menace. "I killed their zombie dog right over there." He smiled briefly, remembering the triumph, and then his face became serious again as he remembered Shawn and Gus' love of animals. "It was attacking me," he added. "And in all fairness, it was technically dead already."
While Lassiter had been pondering the ominous corner, Shawn had caught Gus's attention and begun rolling his eyes and tongue, making zombie faces. He dropped the expressions whenever Lassiter looked toward him, resuming when he turned away. Gus realized that once again, Shawn had spotted the clues first, but had allowed Lassiter to figure it out on his own. As far as Gus was concerned, this was a bad business move. But he suspected that business wasn't where Shawn's head was at lately where Lassiter was concerned.
"Dude!" Shawn exclaimed in response to Lassiter's announcement. "It totally is." He slapped a hand on the detective's shoulder. "Nice one, Lassie!"
Gus wasn't psychic, but if Shawn's behaviour continued, he could foresee the lost revenue numbering in the hundreds, maybe even thousands of dollars.
He crossed his arms, stared petulantly at Shawn, and spoke up. "How do you know it's not the Resident Evil movie?" Shawn, he noticed, had not removed his hand from Lassiter's shoulder, and for some reason the detective hadn't shrugged it off. This did not bode well for the future of Psych.
Lassiter holstered his Glock. "It's Resident Evil: Rejuvenation. I've been playing it for the past month." When Gus continued to glare at him and Shawn, Lassiter added, "To keep my reflexes sharp," he added, as if he needed an excuse.
"I only ask," Gus said, "because they're shooting parts of the new movie here in Santa Barbara."
"Yeah," Shawn said, "but I hear it's doubling for Vancouver."
"Really?" Lassiter asked, intrigued. "Maybe we should check it out. Question a few cast members." Images of himself talking with Milla Jojovich filled his mind's eye. Although it had been panned by the critics, he had particularly enjoyed her role in Ultraviolet.
"According to Ain't It Cool News," Gus said, "it's going to be a total reboot with unknown actors."
"Maybe we should forget about the movie and focus on the dead man," Lassiter said, giving up any thoughts of basking in the glow of the lovely Milla. Despite what movies like Kuffs wanted him to believe, women like her weren't interested in cops. Not in real life.
"Wait!" Shawn stepped in front of Lassiter, impeding his movement. "I sense the two are connected." He slapped both hands onto Lassiter's chest and slowly slid down the front of his body, collapsing in a kneeling position that was more than a little suggestive. Gus, who thought of himself as suave in the romance department, found Shawn's moves entirely too obvious.
Shawn threw his head back as if he were in pain. "I'm seeing gaunt human bodies shuffling around," he said, "and minds devoid of thought, driven only by the most base appetites."
"Zombies?" Lassiter asked, his skepticism evident in his dry tone.
"Actors," Shawn corrected. He looked up at Lassiter from under his lashes. "But they're made-up to look like zombies."
Lassiter grabbed him by the arm and pulled him roughly to his feet.
"Fine, Spencer. We'll stop by the set, just to check it out."
As Lassiter walked along State Street he tried to convince himself that he was following a lead rather than abusing his power as an officer of the law to see a movie set. Being so close to the glamour of a feature film was exciting, but if Catholic school had taught him anything, it was that fun was a sinful time-waster. Still, given that someone had made up the empty property on North Alisos to look like the Rabbitson house, it made sense to rule out any connection with the film. Then they could start looking for the video-game crazed lunatic who was likely their actual perp.
Lassiter flashed his badge at a large muscular man wearing a windbreaker that read "Security," and was directed to a boxy white trailer. Shawn and Gus tagged along behind him, rubbernecking at the klieg lights, reflectors, and props set up on the brick sidewalk in front of a building with graceful roman arches.
"You know," Shawn said eagerly, "If you need anyone to go undercover on set, I have some pretty extensive acting experience."
"We don't need anyone to go undercover," Lassiter objected. "And if we did we certainly wouldn't pick you."
"You had one brief stint on a telenovella," Gus objected. "That hardly counts as extensive experience." Although Gus supposed Shawn could probably count the five years he'd spent pretending to be a psychic as acting, it wasn't exactly experience he could share with Lassiter.
"My character's just on hiatus," Shawn said defensively.
"Your character was murdered and dumped down a well," Gus pointed out. As far as he was concerned, the only future Chad the UPS man had was in fanfiction. Gus had stumbled onto a site dedicated to stories based on Explosion Gigantesca de Romance while looking for spoilers for the upcoming season after the cliffhanger had left Quintessa driving over a cliff with a trunk full of ransom money as she raced to save her sister from a drug cartel. He didn't have the heart to tell Shawn that stories about Chad and Jorge (a pairing which the fans called Chorge) outnumbered Chintessa stories by a two-to-one ratio.
"That doesn't mean I can't return," Shawn said. "They filmed me swimming out.
"Which, they revealed later was all Serena's dream," Gus said.
"I have it on good authority that they're considering having me come back as my own evil twin."
Gus made a mental note to stop visiting the fanfiction site if that ever happened.
Inside a trailer, Lassiter flashed his badge at a harried looking assistant and was led past wardrobes full of costumes, through a door and into a tiny office space. Creighton Morris, a lanky man with sleepless circles under his eyes, sat on a leather sofa, pouring over sheets of a shooting script. He took a gulp of Redbull and shouted into this headset.
"I don't care," he yelled. "Have the accountants take the money from somewhere else. Or go back to the producers. That's what they're for."
"That's Creighton Morris, the assistant director," Gus whispered. "He directed that movie about drug addicts who rob Vegas."
Morris had raised his voice another octave. "My ATM probably doesn't like shelling out money either, but do you think I give a crap?"
"If he's directed a movie already, why is he playing second banana on this one?" Lassiter asked.
"Word on the movie forums is that he had a conflict with his producers about money."
"Really?" Shawn said, watching the angry man sitting before them. "It's hard to imagine. He seems so reasonable."
Morris ended the call with a series of expletives and then noticed the three men in front of him for the first time. Shawn stepped forward and smiled broadly.
"Hello," Shawn said. "My name is Mike, and these are my mechanics." He motioned to Lassiter and Gus.
Lassiter flashed his badge. "SBPD. I need to ask you a few questions."
"Traffic issues go through our city liaison," the man said, waving them away with his hand and turning back to his papers.
"How about your homicides?" Lassiter asked, unintimidated. "Who's handling those?" He dropped a photo of the dead woman on top of the papers. "Do you recognize her?" he asked sharply.
Morris removed his headset and turned his full attention to the picture. He picked it up and stared intently at it.
"Is she dead?" he asked finally.
"No," Lassiter said sarcastically, "she's just been holding her breath for a couple of hours. Of course she's dead. Do you recognize her?"
"It's Marla Robarts, our director. She didn't show up this morning, and wasn't answering her cell, but I thought she'd had a family emergency."
"I guess being dead is a pretty big emergency," Gus whispered to Shawn.
"What kind of family emergency?" Lassiter asked Morris. The assistant director chewed his lip for a moment then sucked in a hissing breath of air.
"See, she's got this brother, Jeffrey" he looked around the tiny trailer as if searching for an exit. "And he's kind of…well he's not right in the head."
"How so?" Lassiter's voice was light, inquisitive, and hopeful. If the brother was a psychotic killer he might be able to wrap the whole case up by the end of the day.
"He's schizoid."
"Split personality?" Lassiter frowned. He hated claims of split personality. Part of him thought the whole concept was the product of scheming defense lawyers trying to manipulate an insanity plea. Yet another part of him could only imagine how awful it would be if his body were host to a second personality with no respect for the law, especially given his access to handguns.
"I think Mr. Morris means that Jeffrey has schizophrenia," Gus interjected. "And it's not at all the same as multiple personality disorder." He thought about pointing out that mental illnesses were things people had, not things they were, but he didn't think the others would appreciate the distinction.
"Where can I find this brother?" Lassiter pulled out his notebook and held his pen poised above it.
"He lives with Marla. You can get her address from my assistant." Morris grabbed the headset. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do."
"Just a few more questions," Lassiter's tone eliminated any hope Morris might have had of brushing him off.
"Did Miss Robarts have problems with anyone on set?" Lassiter asked.
Morris rolled his eyes. "She's the director. Our job is nothing but problems."
Shawn closed his eyes and gripped Lassiter's forearm as his knees buckled. "I'm seeing the two of you, in this very trailer," he pulled himself upright on Lassiter's arm, shook his head and opened his eyes, "arguing about money."
Panic flashed briefly across Morris's face, replaced almost immediately by a sour expression of resentment. "Marla was cheap," Morris admitted. "That's why the producers picked her. They felt she could help rein in my so-called extravagant impulses." He squinted at Shawn. "What, are you some kind of mind-reader?"
Shawn motioned to the messy office space. "I read spaces, and objects," he rummaged through the items on the desk and picked up a small gold-plated tub of popcorn. "Is this an MTV Movie Award?" he asked.
"Yes." Miller said. "It was Marla's."
"Does the award come with any real popcorn?" Shawn asked.
"Who will direct the picture now that Ms. Robarts is dead?" Gus asked. He felt that at least one member of Psych ought to be trying to question the suspect about the murder.
"Are you a psychic too?" Morris asked.
"No," Gus said pleasantly. "I'm a pharmaceutical sales rep. I'm also a big fan. I loved your movie about the drug addicts robbing casinos in Vegas. You got all the pharmaceutical details correct."
"Thanks." Morris brightened. "I spent three weeks researching drug use in Vegas for that. Can you believe that the producers didn't want to pay for it? They called it 'a month-long binge.' Philistines."
"I'm getting an image of you," Shawn said, "sitting in the director's chair." Gus frowned. Shawn was always telling people he couldn't read the future, but that didn't stop him from pretending to when it suited him. Personally, Gus would have been happier if they could come up with a firm set of rules for Shawn's supposed gift and stick to them.
Lassiter looked at Morris with suspicion in his eyes. "So with Miss Robarts dead, you're the most likely candidate to replace her?"
"Maybe. I don't know." Morris threw his hands up in frustration. "Who knows what producers will do. If I were you," he leaned forward and spoke to Lassiter in a low voice, "I'd take a hard look at that crazy brother of hers." He swirled a finger next to his head and silently mouthed the word "loco."
Lassiter thanked Mr. Morris for his time and left the trailer, pausing to get the deceased's address from Morris's assistant. Shawn and Gus followed behind.
"I'm going to swing by the Robarts apartment and see if I can find this brother," Lassiter said, not sure why he was bothering to inform them of his plans, but feeling obligated to explain himself anyway. Usually he bounced ideas off O'Hara, and with her gone it felt natural to talk things out with whomever was handy. It wasn't, he assured himself, as if he wanted or needed Spencer's opinion. Maybe, he thought absently, he should get an O'Hara substitute for times like this—an inflatable doll he could keep rolled up in the trunk. Of course that could raise all kind of awkward questions. People had such filthy minds these days.
"So what, you're going after him just because he's schizophrenic?" Shawn was incredulous. "You haven't even looked at other suspects," he argued, hurrying to keep pace with Lassiter's long stride.
"What other suspects?" Lassiter stopped, squinted, and put on the mirrored sunglasses that always put Shawn in mind of Top Gun.
Shawn spread his arms and slowly rotated 360 degrees. "This place is chock full of suspects."
"How about that guy?" Shawn jabbed a thumb back in the direction of Creighton Morris's trailer. "Why isn't he a suspect? He could have killed Marla Roberts."
"Why would he?"
"Arguments over the cinematography? I don't know. Investigate!"
"Maybe they were secret lovers," Gus offered, "and the house was their love nest where they engaged in sexual scenarios while dressed as characters from the Resident Evil series." Shawn and Lassiter both looked at him with curiosity. "What?" he asked defensively. "People do that sort of thing all the time. I've read about it online. They even make zombie porn."
Lassiter tilted his head, as if to let the image of zombie porn run out his ear, and turned back to Shawn.
"How about one of these actors?" Shawn said. "Maybe Marla turned them down for a part and they killed her out of revenge."
"Actors can be pretty crazy," Gus acknowledged.
"Truer words were never spoken, Guster," Lassiter said, smiling slightly and thinking of a woman he had dated in University. "But what kind of psycho would want a part in a movie bad enough to kill for it?" Several extras within hearing range put their heads down and pretended to be busy looking at their shooting scripts. Shawn and Gus looked at each other for a moment then back at Lassiter.
"Not kill for it," Shawn said. "Under extreme circumstances I could see myself going a little Tonya Harding."
"I might be willing to use a non-lethal chokehold until they slipped into unconsciousness," Gus admitted. "Depending on the part."
Shawn turned back to Gus. "With all your drug access, couldn't you just dose them with something to make them so sick they'd have to drop out?"
Gus looked thoughtful for a moment then looked up at Lassiter. "I'd like to revise my answer," he said solemnly.
Back at the Psych office that evening, Gus arranged the snacks and chairs for their Star Trek movie marathon, in which they watched the first seven movies over two days. Shawn had balked at including Generations, but Gus had argued firmly that since it included original series cast members it got in on a technicality.
"I know it's Star Trek night," Shawn said, bringing a large bowl of popcorn in from the kitchenette, but I feel like we should be doing a Resident Evil marathon. You know, as research. We could probably even write off the rentals and snacks as a business expense."
"The rentals, certainly," Gus agreed. "Not the snacks." He arranged a bowl of gummy enterprises that he'd bought at CVS and set out the Kirk and Spock Pez containers from Sugar Mountain. Gus hoped that someday candy arranging would have the same legitimacy that flower arranging did. "Personally I think it's great that we have a zombie case," he added as he poured Pop Rocks into a tiny bowl. "We've already done werewolves and vampires. Zombies were inevitable."
"Hey Gus."
"Yes?" Gus looked up from his candy.
"It's close to midnight," Shawn said, a smile curving his mouth, "and something evil's lurking in the dark."
"Under the moonlight," Gus said softly, setting down the package of pop rocks and snapping his fingers, "you see a sight that almost stops your heart…"
"You try to scream," Shawn grabbed a pink highlighter from his desk and used it as a microphone, "but terror takes the sound before you make it."
"You start to freeze," Gus sang, "as horror looks you right between the eyes….You're paralyzed!"
"'Cause this is thriller, thriller night…" Shawn and Gus launched into the chorus together, their voices pitched high. Gus broke out some Michael Jackson dance moves and Shawn countered with his zombie dance.
"Darkness falls across the land," Shawn said in a whispering croak.
Gus fell heavily on to the sofa and waved a hand. "No man," he said. "Don't do the Vincent Price monologue. It's too much."
"You're right." Shawn said.
"You have to respect John Landis," Gus pointed out. "Thriller was pretty amazing for its time."
"But it wasn't the only zombie piece he's done," Shawn said. "He also directed Blues Brothers 2000, and I'm pretty sure at least one of those guys was dead already."
Shawn and Gus watched the bald-headed catastrophe that was The Motion Picture and then relaxed into the cut Montalbanian chest of Wrath of Khan.
"If I ever get the T-virus and turn into a zombie," Shawn said while nuking more popcorn, "I know you'll do the right thing and take me out. Unless you can safely keep me in the shed playing video games, Shaun of the Dead style."
"In the event of zombie apocalypse I'm planning to be the brother who gets away in a helicopter," Gus remarked. "I've been taking lessons online."
"Dude! We live like, half an hour from an actual flight school."
"I'm more comfortable with the simulator, thank you," Gus said. As far as he was concerned, only the actual emergency of a zombie apocalypse could force him to risk plunging to his death in a helicopter.
The microwave dinged and Shawn poured the popcorn into a bowl. "Funny how it's always a virus that makes zombies," he remarked.
"Actually," Gus noted, "traditional Haitian zombies are created with drugs, such as tertodotoxin, and in Night of The Living Dead the zombies were caused by radiation from a space probe."
"Radiation usually makes giant bugs," Shawn said. "Ooh! I'd love to see a film where the zombies fight a big preying mantis."
"Of course, Gus added, "if you get the rage virus like in 28 Days Later I'd have to kill you from a safe distance. Those things could really move."
"In the event of a zombie apocalypse I'm holing up with Lassie. The man's got more guns than Ted Nugent."
Lassiter again. Shawn had been mentioning him more and more lately. A less secure friend might have gotten jealous, Gus thought. And given the way Shawn had allowed the detective to figure out the Resident Evil connection on his own that day, his attitude toward Lassiter was starting to affect their work as well. Gus decided that the time had come for The Talk. It was something he'd been dreading for several months now, but as time went on it had become increasingly clear that the conversation was inevitable. At least this way, if it went horribly awry they could smooth it over with The Final Frontier
"Shawn, tell me honestly," he said. "You have a man-crush on Lassiter don't you?"
"What? No. Noooooo." Shawn said, but neither his wide smile nor his blush was very convincing. When Gus remained skeptical he added, "Maybe. Why? Was I too obvious? Was it the teasing? I tease everyone."
"It wasn't the teasing." The teasing, Gus reflected, had actually been the least obvious manifestation of Shawn's crush.
"Was it the groping?"
Gus nodded. There was no ignoring the groping. He'd had to bite his tongue on numerous occasions to avoid suggesting the two of them get a room.
Shawn sighed and threw himself into a pleather armchair. "Yeah, I figured it was the groping. Okay, yes. Maybe, just maybe, I have a man-crush on Lassiter. But it's not going to interfere with you and me." Shawn moved his hands back and forth between himself and Gus. "Dude, we're brothers in arms. We're Starsky and Hutch. Inigo Montoya and Fezzik. Martin Lawrence and Will Smith."
"Smith and Lawrence are real guys," Gus pointed out.
"Yes, and they kicked ass in the Bad Boys franchise." Shawn looked up at the lamp next to the chair and traced a finger along its shade, avoiding meeting Gus's gaze. "My point is that this thing with Lassiter is totally different. My dynamic with him is hate-hate, but with love-hate underneath. Like an open-faced love-hate sandwich. We're like Claire and Bender, or Patrick and Kat in Ten Things I Hate About You."
"You know those examples are both couples, right?" Gus asked, raising his eyebrows.
"I'm fine with that." Shawn's voice was calm, but Gus noticed that he chewed nervously on his lower lip.
"Shawn," Gus said using his most serious tone of voice, usually reserved for discussions of their tax returns or potential felony arrests, "are you just messing around, or are you trying to have a real conversation here?"
"Explain the difference to me again?" Shawn tilted his head, reminding Gus of a parakeet his mother used to have.
Gus nodded to himself. Shawn hadn't let a joke go on this long since junior high, when he'd claimed that the plot to Home Alone was based on his own life. If Shawn was being this coy it could only mean one thing—his suspicions about Shawn's feelings for Lassiter were right on the money. Shawn was attracted to him.
Gus snapped his fingers. "This explains that time I walked in on you and Ricky Chambers in the changing room at Camp Tikihama."
Shawn laughed. "I can't believe you bought that 'checking for leeches' story. Dude, I stole that directly from Stand By Me!"
"Well now it all makes sense." Gus was suddenly no longer jealous that Shawn has once said his ideal vacation was to be trapped on a deserted island with the cast of Young Guns. Although at the time he'd said it, Gus had felt rejected as a friend.
"You're not gonna go all Kobe Bryant on me are you?" Shawn asked hesitantly.
Gus looked offended. "I don't think of you that way, Shawn."
Shawn rolled his eyes. "I meant the homophobia not the…other thing. Should I have gone with T.R. Knight?"
"It would have been a clearer reference," Gus admitted. "But you could just have easily picked Mel Gibson or Tom Cruise." He crossed his arms. "Not every famous homophobe is black, you know."
"No, you're right." Shawn sighed. "Sadly, it's usually just the hot homophobes that are black. So, we're cool then?"
"Please!" Gus huffed, still offended. "Between the two of us, you're the one more likely to be homophobic" he jabbed a thumb toward his chest, "I watched Angels in America on HBO. I played 'Man with lighter' in our college production of Torch Song Trilogy. I voted against Proposition 8." His mouth hardened and he glared at Shawn reproachfully. "You didn't even vote."
Shawn shrugged. "It was cloudy out. I didn't want to risk getting caught in the rain on the way to the polls." When Gus continued to glare at him, Shawn added, "I was wearing a suede jacket. Besides, if we're going to play 'who's gayest' I'll warn you right now that I'm holding some very explicit trump cards."
"Fine." Gus returned to his paperwork. "You can have the title. Just as long as I don't have to hear any details."
"But they're juicy details," Shawn protested. "Juicy like a velour tracksuit." When Gus ignored him Shawn went on, "Juicy like a ripe pineapple."
"I get it," Gus said finally. "They're juicy. Enough said."