This one's a little long, but I hope it's fun.
Chapter 4: First Blood
It had been a quietly frustrating day for Bobby. The anticipated lunch with Alex hadn't happened. The trial was going badly; one of Carver's witnesses had fallen apart on cross examination, and that meant Alex's testimony was even more crucial. Carver had insisted on using the lunch recess to go over a new line of questioning so that Alex could re-establish material put in doubt by the failed witness.
Bobby had tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice when Alex called to cancel, but he felt his appetite disappear right along with their lunch plans. So he simply stayed at his desk, buried in unrelenting paperwork until almost 5 o'clock.
When the trial adjourned for the day, Alex hurried back to 1PP, hoping to catch her partner before he left. As she punched the button for the elevator, Kowalski and a man she hadn't seen before entered the lobby from the garage area.
"Hey, Alex," Kowalski said with a broad smile. "Meet my new partner, Don Patterson. Donnie, this is Alex Eames."
"Nice to meet you, Detective Eames," Patterson said, his blue eyes lighting up as he grinned at her. "I heard you were in court today, so I thought that pleasure was going to be denied me until tomorrow."
Alex felt a blush creeping into her cheeks at his polite words and the thorough way he sized her up. She wasn't very tolerant of flattery, but Patterson struck just the right tone, not laying it on too thick. Of course, she wasn't interested, but there was something nice about a good-looking man making the effort to charm her.
As they entered the elevator, she decided to turn the tables. Matching his gaze with a long look of her own, she checked him out from head to toe. He was a shade over 6 feet tall, with a muscular build, probably about 190 or 195 pounds. He looked more like an athlete than a detective. He had light brown hair that was a bit longer than most cops would dare, and it framed a tanned face. Clearly he didn't spend all of his time inside the office.
Their eyes met again, and he smiled knowingly. He was used to being examined by members of the opposite sex. That thought occurred to Alex, and her cheeks colored again. She frowned; she certainly didn't want him to get the wrong idea.
"So where have you guys been?" she asked, trying to cover her embarrassment.
"We caught a case this morning," Patterson said, though Alex had directed the question at Kowalski. "A judge's daughter's scruffy boyfriend took a header off the judge's apartment building. Lots of possibilities to sort out."
"Sounds interesting," Alex said as the elevator doors opened.
She was relieved to be back in the bullpen and was comforted by the familiar sight of Bobby at his desk. He looked up just as the three of them walked in and couldn't help but be startled at the friendly grin Patterson was giving Eames. Disconcerted, he quickly looked down at the file in his hands and tried to pretend he was engrossed in it. His stomach knotted painfully.
Just as Alex reached her desk, Mike Logan sauntered over. "Hey, Bobby, how about if we hit the gym and shoot some hoops?"
"Sorry, Mike, but I'm counting on Eames to fill me in on the fireworks at the Pascarelli trial. I plan to bribe her with dinner," Bobby said, with a hopeful glance at her.
"How about both?" Alex said. "I've got to go back to finish the cross examination tomorrow, and Carver wants another prep session. I'm supposed to meet him at his office at 5:30. He promised he wouldn't keep me more than an hour, so why don't you play for a while, and then we can meet at Harvey's?"
"Well, if you two are going to Harvey's, how about if Carolyn and I join you?" Mike interjected. "She was going to do some shopping, and then we were going to have dinner."
"Sure, sounds great," Alex said with a smile. "See you guys there about 7? Last one there pays for the first round of drinks?"
"Perfect!" Mike agreed. "C'mon, Bobby, get your stuff and let's go."
The squeaks of tennis shoe rubber on hardwood, the shouts of cops greeting one another as they filtered in after a long day of work, the rhythmic thud of bouncing basketballs and the pungent odors of sweat and Icy Hot filled the gym as Bobby and Mike warmed up. Mike was shooting from 15 to 18 feet, dropping one after another cleanly through the hoop. Bobby would grab the ball and flip it back to him, content with occasionally laying one up against the glass but mostly focusing on Mike's marvelous shooting.
"That's 18 out of 20, Logan. You're a little boring," Bobby said with a grin.
"Well, maybe I should try something different," Logan said, suddenly darting toward the basket.
Instinctively, Bobby moved into his path, set his feet and dropped his hands to his sides. Mike rose into the air and laid up the shot just as he plowed into Bobby, and they both went down in a heap.
"Goren, what the hell are you doing?" Mike sputtered as he untangled himself from his buddy.
"That's charging, Mike! No basket. I had my feet planted," Bobby said proudly, wincing a little as he sat up.
"Charging? Are you out of your mind? You could get hurt doing that!" Mike said, shaking his head. "This isn't Catholic League."
"Hey, I played public school ball. But that doesn't mean I can't play the game the right way," Bobby said in an injured tone.
"That's impressive in a real game, but you need a referee to get that call. Nobody will give you that one in pickup ball."
"You will," Bobby said with a lopsided grin. "You're too honest not to call it right."
Mike laughed and swatted Bobby lightly on the side of the head. "Goren, you're too trusting for your own good."
"Hey, you guys up for a game?" a spindly 30-something who looked to be about 6-6 called from the sidelines. With him were three other men, all 30ish and about 5-9 to 6-2.
"Sure, but we're teammates," Mike said, pointing to Bobby. He had quickly sized up the group and realized that the skinny guy and Bobby were the two tallest players, and Bobby's muscular frame would give him the edge in a matchup inside.
"OK, I'll play with you two," said the 5-9 guy, a point guard named Frankie Lester who also worked at 1PP. The players introduced themselves and agreed on a half-court game to 20 points.
"How about something more interesting?" a voice from behind Bobby and Mike asked. They turned and saw Patterson striding toward them, with an unfamiliar figure in tow.
"What do you have in mind?" Mike asked warily, glancing at Bobby.
"How about full-court, four-on-four," Patterson challenged. "Thirty points wins."
"Whew, that won't be easy," the spindly guy said.
"Anybody think they aren't in good enough shape to hack it?" Patterson asked, looking around.
No one was willing to admit that, so they split into teams and got ready to play.
"We'll be skins," Patterson said, tugging his shirt over his head and revealing a washboard of abs and rippling shoulder muscles. He gave Bobby a superior grin, certain that despite the difference in height, he was the stronger physical specimen. If there's ever a fight, Patterson thought, I can pound that soft, smartass son of a bitch.
Patterson's tag-along was his old partner from homicide, Jeff Tasby, and they formed the core of the other team, along with the 6-6 Slim Barnett, a patrolman from the 2-7. Their fourth was Greg Garrity from narcotics.
Lester's wisecracking buddy Jim Mitchell was the fourth for Bobby and Mike's team. As the point guard, Lester took charge. He called them aside and laid out a strategy.
"OK, Jimbo, you and Goren work the inside. Keep moving, cutting across the lane. I'll feed you if you get open, but if it gets too crowded in there, just kick it back to Logan or me. Logan, you take every open shot you get. Your jumper is a thing of beauty."
Lester made sure each one knew who his man would be on defense, and then they headed onto the court to begin play.
For the next 20 minutes, they ran one another ragged. It was physical in the middle, with Mitchell and Goren cutting back and forth through the lane, their defenders sometimes getting lost and Lester passing to them at just the right moment for an easy layup. Lester was also smoothly feeding Logan, who kept sinking long jumpers even though Patterson, increasingly annoyed, was muscling him farther and farther away from the basket.
Patterson and Garrity were shooting pretty well, but not as well as Logan. His accuracy, and the fact that Bobby's strength and positioning assured that he would grab almost every rebound, kept Bobby and Mike's team ahead. It was 20-16 when Lester called a timeout.
"What's the matter? Scoring all those points wearing your guys out?" Garrity asked. Patterson glared at him. He detested losing, and he was particularly infuriated that Goren's abilities were a key reason his team was behind.
Lester called his foursome together. "Great work, guys. Just keep it up," he said. "Goren, they can't handle you inside."
Bobby grinned and bowed his head shyly. It had been a long time since a stranger had praised his athletic ability.
Lester looked at Mike. "Logan, if that guy Patterson pushes you any farther out, you'll be shooting from midcourt. Think you can drive on him?"
"He's quick, but I think I can take him," Mike said, nodding his head.
"Maybe we can give you a little help. Goren, do you know how to set a pick?"
Bobby's head came up. "Yeah, I did that in high school all the time."
"OK, here's what we'll do," Lester said. "When we come down the floor on offense, Goren and Jimbo set up low. I pass to Logan, who cuts diagonally toward the opposite elbow of the key. Goren comes up and sets the pick at that elbow. Logan rubs Patterson off on Goren's pick and comes free for the jumper. Jimbo, you'll be alone under the hoop because Goren will probably be too far away to help."
"I'll roll after the pick, so I might be there," Bobby said. With a grin, he added, "Besides, Mike won't miss."
Sure enough, their first offensive possession worked just the way Lester had called it. Bobby came up the lane and stopped, pulling his arms close to his chest. Mike drove toward him, and Patterson moved laterally with Mike, unaware of the obstacle ahead. Suddenly he slammed into the brick wall that was Bobby, and Mike slid free for an easy jumper, making it 22-16.
"Somebody call the pick!" Patterson said, angrily staring at his teammates. "What's the matter with you guys?"
"Sorry, man," Slim said. "He caught me off guard. I'll holler next time."
"Forget it. I know where he'll be now. I'll be ready. Let's just get those points back," Patterson fumed.
Tasby brought the ball up and passed to Patterson. He gave Mike a head fake and drove past him to the basket. Bobby moved in to help, but Patterson thrust a shoulder into Bobby's chest, knocking him back a step. Patterson laid the ball against the glass, and it was 22-18.
"Hey, man, that's a foul," Jimbo said.
"Foul? What foul?" Patterson asked innocently. "I thought this was men's ball, not women's."
"It's no problem," Bobby said, taking the ball out and flipping it in to Lester. "Let's just win this thing."
As Lester brought the ball up the floor, Bobby hustled to his position. Again, the pass went to Logan. Again, Bobby flashed to the elbow. Mike dribbled across, and Patterson followed.
Seeing the pick set up, Slim called for a switch and stepped out to meet Mike as he came around Bobby. But instead of dropping off and heading for the basket to protect against a pick and roll, Patterson kept coming hard, turning into the pick with his elbow high. He caught Bobby right under the nose, and Bobby's head snapped back. He staggered a couple of steps backward, raising his hands to his face as he felt the warm spurt of blood.
He stopped, dazed, barely aware of Patterson glaring at him a few feet away with his fists clenched, ready for a fight. Lester saw it, though, and quickly stepped between them. Fortunately he also had blocked Mike's path to Patterson, and he was carefully steering the aggressor away from his victim.
"What the hell?" Mike shouted, slamming the ball down and looking from Bobby to Patterson and back to Bobby. He was tempted to deck his new squadmate, but his concern for Bobby and the realization – unusually mature for the hotheaded Mike – that a fight would make a bad situation worse prompted him to focus on his friend instead.
"C'mon, buddy, lemme see," Mike said, stepping up and pulling Bobby's hands away from his face.
The blood was flowing freely from Bobby's nose and dripping down the front of his T-shirt. He was already a mess.
"I need a towel and some ice," Mike said, without taking his eyes off Bobby. His nose seemed straight, but there was already some swelling, and when he opened his mouth, more blood flowed out.
"I saw Stitch McKinney working with the boxers when I came in," Jimbo said. "I'll go get him."
"Don't bother him," Bobby protested. "I'll be OK."
But it was too late. Jimbo was already trotting to the area adjacent to the basketball courts where the boxing rings were set up. And before he even got there, he heard another man yell, "Hey, Stitch, they've got a bleeder on the basketball courts."
Stitch McKinney, the legendary, grizzled 70-year-old athletic trainer known for decades of magic patching up NYPD boxers during bouts, grabbed his bag and headed for the courts. Boxing, football, baseball or basketball, it didn't matter to him. All NYPD athletes were his boys, and he was ready to help.
And the big fellow standing in the middle of the clump of players clearly needed help. Stitch shouldered his way through the growing crowd and walked up to the bloodied ballplayer.
"Hi, I'm Stitch McKinney. Looks like you could use some medical attention."
"Bobby Goren," the big man said, unintentionally spitting blood as he talked. "I'm OK, Mr. McKinney. They shouldn't have bothered you."
"Just call me Stitch, and don't try to tell me my business, son," he said firmly. "Let's go over to the bleachers and sit down a minute."
He took Bobby's arm and guided him to a seat. Garrity arrived with towels and ice.
"Lean your head back, Bobby," Stitch said. He took a towel, quickly wiped some of the blood away and gently but firmly felt along Bobby's nose. Bobby gritted his teeth but kept quiet.
"Doesn't feel like it's broken," Stitch said, opening his bag, pulling out some cotton and sticking it up Bobby's nostrils.
"Hey!" Bobby protested, trying to pull away.
"Just breathe through your mouth, son. We need to get this bleeding stopped." Stitch took an ice pack, formed it carefully and laid it over Bobby's nose. "Hold this in place."
Stitch wiped more blood from under Bobby's nose and from his mouth and chin. Then he checked inside Bobby's mouth and found the cut that was adding to the stream of blood. He slid more cotton between Bobby's upper lip and teeth.
"That cut's not too bad," he said. "You can probably get away without stitches."
He fished around in his bag and pulled out a pencil flashlight. As he checked Bobby's eyes, he asked, "Were you unconscious, even for a few seconds?"
"No. Dazed, but not unconscious," Bobby said.
"Heck, he didn't even go down, much less out," Mike said.
"Really? Looks like you took a heck of a shot, judging from all this blood," Stitch told Bobby. "You're a tough kid."
Bobby grinned and then winced at the pain. Stitch pulled the cotton out of his nostrils, saw another gush of blood and replaced it with fresh cotton. After several minutes, a lot more cotton and more chilling from the ice pack, the bleeding finally stopped.
"Whew, that took awhile. You a vegetarian?" Stitch asked Bobby.
"No. Why?"
"You were bleeding more than you should have. You might have an iron deficiency. It's not common in men unless they're vegetarians or fighters dropping weight."
"He's lost some weight over the past few months," Logan pointed out.
"Well, that could explain it," Stitch said.
"Does he need to go to the hospital?"
"Not unless he wants to or he starts bleeding uncontrollably again. I think he'll be fine," Stitch said. Turning to Bobby, he added, "Get a little more red meat into that diet, son."
"OK. Thanks, Mr. McKinney. I mean Stitch," Bobby said.
As Stitch headed back to the boxers, Bobby looked around. Patterson and Tasby were on the other sidelines. Patterson eyed him, expecting some sort of confrontation, but Bobby didn't feel like causing more trouble.
Lester walked up. "I guess we'd better call the game over."
"Yeah," Mike said. "It was getting a little ugly."
"Well, I enjoyed playing with you guys. Sorry about how it finished."
"That's OK. It's not your fault Patterson's an asshole," Mike said, and Bobby nodded.
"Hey, Mike, we'd better get going," Bobby said. "I need to get cleaned up before we go to Harvey's. I don't want Eames to see me like this."
He rose, head tilted back slightly, still holding the ice pack in place, and the pair headed toward the locker room. They were a few feet short of their goal when the main door opened and Alex and Carolyn walked in.
"Uh-oh," Mike said.
"What?" Bobby asked, bringing his head down for a look. "Oh, shit."
Alex took one look at Bobby, holding the red-flecked ice pack, bloody towel over his shoulder, the front of his T-shirt soaked in blood, and her hand flew to her mouth.
"Oh, my gosh, Bobby! What happened?" she asked, eyes wide.
"It's nothing, Eames. What are you two doing here?" Bobby asked, his face going from pale to red in seconds.
"I finished early and called Carolyn, and we decided to meet you guys here," she said. "Tell me what happened."
"We were playing a game and Patterson got him with a cheap shot," Mike said.
"It's nothing," Bobby said miserably. "Just a little bloody nose."
"Does he need to see a doctor?" Carolyn asked.
"No, Stitch McKinney took care of him. He said Bobby will be fine, but he needs to eat more red meat," Mike said. "Anyone for a steak?"