Circumstances improved not at all following Winston's departure. Tension
and anger increased steadily and arguments were common. The three no longer
took meals together as had been their custom, preferring rather to live on
coffee and junk food directly from the cupboard. Things got so bad that
Janine declared soon after that she wasn't being paid enough to work in a
pressure cooker, and if things didn't start to change soon, she was, "going
job hunting, make no mistake about it!"
Peter's caustic, "I hear Macy's is looking for someone to follow the horses after the next parade," nearly got him beaned on the spot.
Janine returned to her typing, discussing the matter with an unhappy Slimer later that afternoon. "What's happened around here, Slimer?" she asked, pausing to erase the dozenth mistake in as many minutes. "These guys have been friends for years. Do you know what's going on?"
The little ghost/nether-entity only keened sadly to itself and disappeared into the filing cabinet when Peter passed through the reception area, not reemerging until the psychologist was gone.
"Wish I could do that," Janine muttered, applying White-Out like mad.
Calls remained scarce, which was serendipitous as the three remaining Ghostbusters could no longer even pass in the hall without a harsh word or glare being exchanged. Though tempers simmered, the second major eruption didn't occur until the Wednesday after Winston left. It had been a tense day of relative inactivity; Peter had spent the afternoon watching soap operas, insulting the actors' abilities, and generally making himself a nuisance to anyone in the area. Seeking to escape the psychologist's all- pervading presence, Ray prowled the basement workshop, rearranging the shelving so completely that he could no longer find a thing. Egon, as usual, remained locked in the third floor lab, as isolated as Zeus on Mt. Olympus. Now, at six p.m., the air fairly crackled with unrelieved animosity, the setting perfect for disaster.
It was bound to happen sooner or later. The third floor housed a main laboratory, storage facilities, shower and communal bunkroom, the access to each area off a narrow hall at the top of the spiral stairs. Egon Spengler took the three paces out of the bunkroom to the bathroom door, glowering upon finding further progress impeded. Clad only in robe and slippers, his intention to take a shower was obvious. "You're blocking the door to the bathroom," he snapped, peering balefully down through his thick lenses.
The recipient of that indictment was crouched on the floor tying the laces on a pair of battered Reeboks. Ray looked up with a defiant glare, making no attempt at hurrying the bow he was making. "Stick it in your ear, Spengler," he muttered under his breath.
Offense turned the older man's light skin rosy. He sniffed his disdain, unflappable poise a more effective weapon than a shout. "Very original remark -- for an uneducated protozoan." He was around the obstruction and slamming the bathroom door only seconds before the enraged engineer found his feet and lunged.
"Come back here, Spengler!" he screamed, slamming his fist into the door. The heavy wood shuddered but held; the only response from within was the sound of a running shower, perfectly designed to infuriate by its very indifference.
The studied insult stabbed home. Totally out of control, Ray punched the door again, a powerful blow which generated several cracks ... most of them in the bones of his right hand. "EGON! ... Ow!" He fell back, cradling his hand, sudden pain restoring some semblance of sobriety until a soft chuckle from behind reignited it like a torch.
"That was stupid," Peter jeered, lounging negligently, his arms crossed across his white shirted chest. "Would you like to try for a concussion next?" Whatever else he'd planned to say was strangled into an inarticulate gurgle as a solid body plowed into him from the front, and steely fingers wrapped themselves around his windpipe, starting to squeeze.
"Ugh!" Peter gurgled a protest, falling backwards, arms and legs flailing in all directions. He smacked into the polished wood floor with a thud, bringing his attacker down with him. With the wind forced out of his lungs by the impact, Ray's death grip dislodged just long enough for Venkman to suck in a deep breath and begin to struggle in earnest. He clawed at the fingers choking his life away, while bringing up one knee intending to catch the other man in the groin. Shrewdly expecting the maneuver, Ray twisted his body to the left, catching the blow against his thigh, and bore down harder, pleasant, boyish features livid with a killing rage. Within seconds Peter's face, contorted into a rictus with the strain for survival, began to turn blue.
Despite having cut his teeth with the violent street gangs of his native Brooklyn, the contest had seriously ranged against Peter from the start. Now, death only a heartbeat away and only urgent need fueling his reserves, he lashed out in a final, desperate riposte, balling his fist and bringing it up in a long, solid hook. He caught Ray squarely on the same jaw Winston had damaged days earlier, knocking the younger man to the side and forcing a muffled gasp from his lips. Off balance, Ray cracked his head sharply against the door frame, and slumped, unable to move for some seconds.
The momentary respite gave Peter Venkman the opportunity to haul himself to a sitting position though no further. Giddy and visibly nauseated, he sat rubbing his throat and pulling great gulps of air into his starved lungs, chest heaving until his complexion began to reassume its normal, healthy color. He blinked, only then able to check on the whereabouts of his attacker; he was nearly too late.
Allowing himself no reprieve at all, Stantz had by then already gained his knees and was crawling unsteadily closer to the fallen psychologist. The bruise on his jaw had spread up onto his cheekbone, coloring half his face in a truly monumental rainbow array. He shook his head dizzily but his eyes were clear, and in their amber depths were written Peter Venkman's obituary.
Venkman, however, was hardly in a mood to oblige. Giving his colleague no opportunity to assume an attack posture, the psychologist launched himself from a sitting position, catching his youngest teammate around the chest and depositing them both back onto the floor, this time Venkman in a controlling stance on top. From this close proximity, the two traded vicious punches for several long minutes, neither able to win a decisive advantage over the other. Peter managed to deliver two hard rabbit punches to Ray's midsection, then took one to the mouth himself. It was a solid blow, snapping Peter's head back and drawing blood. It might have turned the tide completely; Ray had, however, used his right hand to deliver it. Thus, the startled cry of pain which resulted did not belong to Peter alone.
Unaccountably, both men paused at the sound, years-long reflexes kicking in on cue. Two pairs of eyes met -- one golden brown, the other hazel green -- and for the merest breath of time there was the remembrance of a friend. Then the moment was passed, and only the hatred remained. Ray's eyes narrowed and Peter drew back his fist.
The harsh clang of the firehouse bell shattered that brittle silence in which two men had battled. Maintaining his control, Peter remained astride the other's chest, but at that he jerked upright, dropping his fist in alarm. "Wha--?"
"It's Janine," Ray panted, shoving vainly at Peter's leg in an attempt to free himself. With the taller man's full weight positioned on his diaphragm, he could barely breathe much less move. "We ... we have a job."
"Uh, yeah. Right." Tension draining in a rush, Peter spared the swollen, defiant face below him a confused glance before sliding off and climbing to his feet. Something sticky ran down his chin and Peter wiped at it with his sleeve; the material immediately stained red. "Terrific. And I've got a date tonight," he muttered, making his way unsteadily down the hall.
Shaking badly from the adrenalin reaction, Stantz lay where he was another long minute, cradling his right hand in his left. His eyes were distressed, but it was not the physical discomfort which robbed him of energy and motion, but an emotional scoring too deep to be borne. Only the sound of the shower being shut off galvanized him into action. "C-can't let Egon ... find me like this," he murmured, rolling painfully onto his side. "He'll l- laugh." With a furtive look toward the bunkroom, Ray staggered to his feet and headed for the third floor washroom to clean up. When Egon finally emerged from the bath, there wasn't a sign of the preceding altercation save a single drop of blood on the carpet.
***
After yelling at Janine to "Turn off that bell before I shove it down your throat!" Peter crossed the littered concrete floor to his locker and pulled out his brown uniform coverall. He stepped into it quickly, lacing up high work boots, then returned to the woman's desk to receive whatever specifics she'd gathered on the upcoming assignment. Half his mind absorbed the information she rattled off from a work sheet; the other half remained firmly locked on the incident just passed. In the space of ten minutes, three old and dear friends had gone out of their ways to irritate, assault and even -- Peter could admit this only to himself -- kill each other, all without sufficient provocation. As a man he still seethed at the attempt on his person and his life; Dr. Venkman-the-psychologist stepped back, attempting to examine the situation from a professional point of view. He was able to gain enough distance to ask the question, "Why?" but was unable to pursue the matter to any form of logical conclusion. Also, he was beginning to feel a nasty -- if tardy -- thrill from his own inner alarm system, the feeling that all was not precisely as it seemed.
Securing a pen and sheet of paper from the desk, he began to write, making several notations in a neat, cursive script. "Janine?"
Melnitz interrupted her fourth chorus of "...and I'm not going to be abused by the likes of you, either!" to stare at him balefully through her triangular glasses. "What?"
"Janine, if anything happens to us on this call...."
"Happens to you?" That got the woman's attention. She sat up straighter, painted fingernails tangling anxiously in the material of her yellow blouse. "Is Egon going into danger?"
Peter shrugged, controlling the surge of irritation at her words. "I don't know what, if anything, is going down on this call," he pointed out curtly, wishing she would just listen. "I'm only trying to cover some possibilities. Pay attention."
He gazed solemnly into her green eyes, directing the full force of his considerable charisma into making her understand and obey. "I'm going to contact you at regular intervals. If you don't hear from me by..." He checked his watch. "...midnight, I want you to find Winston and give him this." He proffered the slip of paper, folded in half. "Make sure you notify the police, too."
She accepted the message hesitantly, red hair drooping into her eyes when she bent over it. "Where is Winston?" she asked, tone matching his own.
"How the...." He stopped himself, willing the impatience away, striving for reasonableness. He needed her cooperation, and knowing their hot-tempered Jewish secretary as he did, browbeating her would only produce the reverse. "I don't know, Janine. Find him." Then, gritting his teeth against another spiteful remark on her lack of comprehension, Peter turned his back and began to run an equipment check on his pack. The secretary only watched him, for once not saying a single word.
***
Tamika Rogers was a tall, slender woman, thirty-six summers old, whose job on a local newaspaper had brought her into contact with the Ghostbusters nearly two months past. The story on the team had taken a week to write during which she and Winston had spent considerable time in each other's company; their relationship developed by easy, comfortable stages. It was to her apartment Winston had gone after leaving Ghostbusters Central, and there he'd remained for the last several days. Tamika had left almost immediately on an assignment, so Winston had simply made himself at home, grateful for the quiet, secure haven of his solitude.
Five days after the black Ghostbuster's taking up residence, Tamika made her way from the elevator down the carpeted hall, travel bag in one hand, laptop computer in the other. She dropped the bag outside the door to her apartment, pausing to listen to the sounds from within. The unmistakable timbres of Bob Barker emanated from a television turned much to loud and, in the background she could make out another man quietly urging some nameless contestant to "Spin Again!" Generous, red-painted lips parting in a smile, Tamika used her key and went in.
The sight that awaited her turned the smile into an open grin. Clad only in a pair of checkered shorts, with a bowl of pretzels balanced on his chest, Winston lay draped across the living room sofa, his gaze avidly glued to the television screen. He looked up when she entered, then deposited the pretzels on the end table and rose to enfold the slim woman in 205 pounds of solid hug. "Hey, baby!" he greeted, squeezing tight. "Am I ever glad to see you!"
"I'm certainly seeing enough of you," she giggled, pulling back to eye the atrocious boxers interestedly. "Sugah, you an' me're hitting Macy's first thing tomorrow."
Unembarrassed, the well-built black man pirouetted in place to the accompaniment of a hummed 'Bump and Grind.' "It ain't the shorts, baby..."
"...it's what's in 'em!" they finished in chorus. Tamika rolled her eyes. "Where have I heard that before? And how often?" She arranged her pleated skirt over long legs and sat, pulling Winston down onto the couch next to her. "So what have you been doing since I left?" she asked, dropping her purse at her feet and stretching hugely.
Winston snaked an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, nuzzling her affectionately on the neck. "Watching the tube mostly," he sighed as an answer, "and guzzling six packs right and left." Releasing her briefly, he leaned forward, retrieving a nearly full can of Coors from the coffee table, having to sort through several empty containers to do so. He located his beer and leaned back again, tapping it meaningfully with his thumb. "There's more in the fridge," he suggested.
Making no move to accept the implied invitation, Tamika gave the littered coffee table a glare. "I take it this means you haven't talked to the guys?"
Aluminum crinkled in Winston big hand. He forcibly loosened his hold and took a swig of his beer before answering. "I haven't talked to anyone since you left," he admitted. "I... I guess I needed to think things through -- to try and make sense out of what happened."
Tamika laid one cafe-au-lait hand on his darker one and squeezed, letting her long nails rasp gently across his skin. "Did you come to any conclusions?"
"Nope." Zeddemore leaned his elbows on his knees and hunched his shoulders. Every line of his body bespoke depression and strain. "It's kind of hard to talk about," he said softly. "'Mika, did I tell you exactly what went down at the firehouse?"
She tugged the beer from his tight grip, letting the cool liquid spill down the back of her throat. She swallowed gratefully, and took another hefty drink before handing it back. "You didn't tell me much. You said that you and the others had argued, that you quit the team and then you asked for an icepack for your nose." She bent forward, examining the appendage in question with a critical eye. "At least the swelling has gone down. But you still sound nasal."
The puffy skin puckered slightly when Winston touched it; he probed gently around his eyes and on both sides of his nose, a rueful laugh escaping through his teeth. "Wonder it wasn't broken. Venkman packs a mean right."
"So it was Peter you were fighting with?" she asked, nodding wisely.
"No. Yes. Sort of."
Winston bowed his head and Tamika sat back, pretending to be absorbed in The New Price is Right until her paramour was ready to talk again. "Sort of?" she prodded, nearly five minutes later.
"Lawd, 'Mika, this ain't easy." Winston drained the nearly empty can and deposited it with its brethren on the coffee table. He stood and headed for the kitchen, returning a moment later with two more. "Cheers," he said, popping a tab.
"Skoal." They drank in companionable silence for a moment more, then Tamika took Winston's beer, set it beside her own and took his right hand in both of hers. "I think you need to talk about this," she decided. "So talk."
Zeddemore squared his wide shoulders, weaving his fingers tightly together. "Started off with an argument with Ray. Over nothing, really. I said some ... pretty bad things. Then I ... hit him."
"You hit Ray Stantz?!" Large eyes opened wide in unfeigned horror. "Winston, hitting that sweet boy is like ... is like hitting my sister's puppy!"
"That makes me feel so much better!" Winston retorted, unconsciously using one of Peter's pet phrases.
"Well it is."
"I know it is." Zeddemore sighed deeply, curly head bowed forward. "I know it is," he repeated. "What I don't know is why I did it ... or why I went in to finish the job."
"Oh, my...." Rogers breathed. "Did you...?" She stopped, swallowing audibly, hesitating as though she wasn't sure she really wanted to know. "How bad did you hurt that boy, Winston?"
By way of answer, Winston gently tapped his nose, turning his head to offer the woman a rueful smile. "Like I said, Peter's got one punishing right. And he doesn't let anyone mess with Ray. Not me. Not even Egon."
"Did you and Peter--" The phone chose that moment to ring. Winston reached to pick it up, but Tamika stopped him with a hand on his wrist. "Let it ride," she suggested mildly. "They'll call back."
Acknowledging the truth of this with an absent nod, the black ex-soldier, ex-Ghostbuster dropped his hand and waited for the insistent ringing to stop. It was another full minute before there was silence. "You know, if Peter hadn't interfered, I think I really would have killed Ray," he went on, dropping his gaze again. "I took him out with a sucker punch before he could even stand up, then I went out to finish the job. I've never been that out of control before -- all I wanted to do was to pound his face into applesauce. And if Egon hadn't shown up when he did, Pete and I would have...." He broke off, unable to go on for some seconds. When he resumed, it was in a hushed voice, full of guilt and shame. "The whole time this was going on, there was something inside that kept telling me not to do it, that these were my friends. But I couldn't stop myself. I.... Oh, Tamika." Leaning forward, Winston buried his face in his hands, groaning aloud . "How could I have done it? Ray's just a kid! I would have killed him. I wanted to kill Peter."
Long braids swinging forward, Tamika threw her arms around the distressed man, holding him close. "No, you wouldn't've, baby. You love them too much."
He looked up as though surprised to hear the sentiment so bluntly voiced. "Yeah, I do," he admitted, wrapping her arms more securely about himself. "A lot." He chuckled ruefully. "But how I ever managed to hook myself in with the weirdest bunch of juvenile delinquents this side of Bellview is something I'll never figure out!"
"They're not that weird," she chided gently. "Well... maybe...."
"You bet they are!" Winston leaned back, drawing the woman with him. "You haven't lived, baby, 'til you've seen Egon puttering around with that fungus collection of his. He even names the petri dishes! You sayin' that ain't weird?"
Nestled against his broad chest, Tamika laughed merrily at the thought. "You do have a point," she conceded. "But he seems like a very nice man."
"Egon?" The Ghostbuster nodded, dark eyes softening with old affection. "Egon's the greatest. You remember hearing about when my brother LeRoy got killed in that rumble with the Skulls last year? I woke up that night feeling pretty down, and Egon must have heard me get out of bed. He made coffee and sat with me the entire night, just listening mostly to me talking about LeRoy. I-I'm not sure I would have made it through the night without him." He ran a hand slowly through his short, curly hair. "Peter and LeRoy could've been cut from the same mold; they're both hotheaded and rash and as loyal as they come. And Ray ... nicest kid in the world, and I try to pound him into the ground." He broke off, guilt returning full- force. "I made a real fool out of myself, 'Mika."
"So what else is new?" Her impish grin was met with a look of hurt surprise, and she hurried to elaborate. "Look, baby, everybody fights sometimes. Look at you and me."
"Ain't it the truth." Winston laughed aloud, squeezing the woman's shoulders. "We've had some real knock-down-drag-outs in our time. We always make up reeeal good though," he added, kissing her cheek.
"So go make up." Tamika turned her face earnestly up to his, ready sympathy adding warmth to her gaze. "You've been friends three years now. Go talk to them and at least make peace."
"I know, babe, you're right." He sighed. "I'll go this afternoon. but first," he smiled, promise lighting his black eyes, "how about a proper welcome home?"
"Thought you'd never ask," Tamika sighed, claiming his lips with her own.
***
Peter's caustic, "I hear Macy's is looking for someone to follow the horses after the next parade," nearly got him beaned on the spot.
Janine returned to her typing, discussing the matter with an unhappy Slimer later that afternoon. "What's happened around here, Slimer?" she asked, pausing to erase the dozenth mistake in as many minutes. "These guys have been friends for years. Do you know what's going on?"
The little ghost/nether-entity only keened sadly to itself and disappeared into the filing cabinet when Peter passed through the reception area, not reemerging until the psychologist was gone.
"Wish I could do that," Janine muttered, applying White-Out like mad.
Calls remained scarce, which was serendipitous as the three remaining Ghostbusters could no longer even pass in the hall without a harsh word or glare being exchanged. Though tempers simmered, the second major eruption didn't occur until the Wednesday after Winston left. It had been a tense day of relative inactivity; Peter had spent the afternoon watching soap operas, insulting the actors' abilities, and generally making himself a nuisance to anyone in the area. Seeking to escape the psychologist's all- pervading presence, Ray prowled the basement workshop, rearranging the shelving so completely that he could no longer find a thing. Egon, as usual, remained locked in the third floor lab, as isolated as Zeus on Mt. Olympus. Now, at six p.m., the air fairly crackled with unrelieved animosity, the setting perfect for disaster.
It was bound to happen sooner or later. The third floor housed a main laboratory, storage facilities, shower and communal bunkroom, the access to each area off a narrow hall at the top of the spiral stairs. Egon Spengler took the three paces out of the bunkroom to the bathroom door, glowering upon finding further progress impeded. Clad only in robe and slippers, his intention to take a shower was obvious. "You're blocking the door to the bathroom," he snapped, peering balefully down through his thick lenses.
The recipient of that indictment was crouched on the floor tying the laces on a pair of battered Reeboks. Ray looked up with a defiant glare, making no attempt at hurrying the bow he was making. "Stick it in your ear, Spengler," he muttered under his breath.
Offense turned the older man's light skin rosy. He sniffed his disdain, unflappable poise a more effective weapon than a shout. "Very original remark -- for an uneducated protozoan." He was around the obstruction and slamming the bathroom door only seconds before the enraged engineer found his feet and lunged.
"Come back here, Spengler!" he screamed, slamming his fist into the door. The heavy wood shuddered but held; the only response from within was the sound of a running shower, perfectly designed to infuriate by its very indifference.
The studied insult stabbed home. Totally out of control, Ray punched the door again, a powerful blow which generated several cracks ... most of them in the bones of his right hand. "EGON! ... Ow!" He fell back, cradling his hand, sudden pain restoring some semblance of sobriety until a soft chuckle from behind reignited it like a torch.
"That was stupid," Peter jeered, lounging negligently, his arms crossed across his white shirted chest. "Would you like to try for a concussion next?" Whatever else he'd planned to say was strangled into an inarticulate gurgle as a solid body plowed into him from the front, and steely fingers wrapped themselves around his windpipe, starting to squeeze.
"Ugh!" Peter gurgled a protest, falling backwards, arms and legs flailing in all directions. He smacked into the polished wood floor with a thud, bringing his attacker down with him. With the wind forced out of his lungs by the impact, Ray's death grip dislodged just long enough for Venkman to suck in a deep breath and begin to struggle in earnest. He clawed at the fingers choking his life away, while bringing up one knee intending to catch the other man in the groin. Shrewdly expecting the maneuver, Ray twisted his body to the left, catching the blow against his thigh, and bore down harder, pleasant, boyish features livid with a killing rage. Within seconds Peter's face, contorted into a rictus with the strain for survival, began to turn blue.
Despite having cut his teeth with the violent street gangs of his native Brooklyn, the contest had seriously ranged against Peter from the start. Now, death only a heartbeat away and only urgent need fueling his reserves, he lashed out in a final, desperate riposte, balling his fist and bringing it up in a long, solid hook. He caught Ray squarely on the same jaw Winston had damaged days earlier, knocking the younger man to the side and forcing a muffled gasp from his lips. Off balance, Ray cracked his head sharply against the door frame, and slumped, unable to move for some seconds.
The momentary respite gave Peter Venkman the opportunity to haul himself to a sitting position though no further. Giddy and visibly nauseated, he sat rubbing his throat and pulling great gulps of air into his starved lungs, chest heaving until his complexion began to reassume its normal, healthy color. He blinked, only then able to check on the whereabouts of his attacker; he was nearly too late.
Allowing himself no reprieve at all, Stantz had by then already gained his knees and was crawling unsteadily closer to the fallen psychologist. The bruise on his jaw had spread up onto his cheekbone, coloring half his face in a truly monumental rainbow array. He shook his head dizzily but his eyes were clear, and in their amber depths were written Peter Venkman's obituary.
Venkman, however, was hardly in a mood to oblige. Giving his colleague no opportunity to assume an attack posture, the psychologist launched himself from a sitting position, catching his youngest teammate around the chest and depositing them both back onto the floor, this time Venkman in a controlling stance on top. From this close proximity, the two traded vicious punches for several long minutes, neither able to win a decisive advantage over the other. Peter managed to deliver two hard rabbit punches to Ray's midsection, then took one to the mouth himself. It was a solid blow, snapping Peter's head back and drawing blood. It might have turned the tide completely; Ray had, however, used his right hand to deliver it. Thus, the startled cry of pain which resulted did not belong to Peter alone.
Unaccountably, both men paused at the sound, years-long reflexes kicking in on cue. Two pairs of eyes met -- one golden brown, the other hazel green -- and for the merest breath of time there was the remembrance of a friend. Then the moment was passed, and only the hatred remained. Ray's eyes narrowed and Peter drew back his fist.
The harsh clang of the firehouse bell shattered that brittle silence in which two men had battled. Maintaining his control, Peter remained astride the other's chest, but at that he jerked upright, dropping his fist in alarm. "Wha--?"
"It's Janine," Ray panted, shoving vainly at Peter's leg in an attempt to free himself. With the taller man's full weight positioned on his diaphragm, he could barely breathe much less move. "We ... we have a job."
"Uh, yeah. Right." Tension draining in a rush, Peter spared the swollen, defiant face below him a confused glance before sliding off and climbing to his feet. Something sticky ran down his chin and Peter wiped at it with his sleeve; the material immediately stained red. "Terrific. And I've got a date tonight," he muttered, making his way unsteadily down the hall.
Shaking badly from the adrenalin reaction, Stantz lay where he was another long minute, cradling his right hand in his left. His eyes were distressed, but it was not the physical discomfort which robbed him of energy and motion, but an emotional scoring too deep to be borne. Only the sound of the shower being shut off galvanized him into action. "C-can't let Egon ... find me like this," he murmured, rolling painfully onto his side. "He'll l- laugh." With a furtive look toward the bunkroom, Ray staggered to his feet and headed for the third floor washroom to clean up. When Egon finally emerged from the bath, there wasn't a sign of the preceding altercation save a single drop of blood on the carpet.
***
After yelling at Janine to "Turn off that bell before I shove it down your throat!" Peter crossed the littered concrete floor to his locker and pulled out his brown uniform coverall. He stepped into it quickly, lacing up high work boots, then returned to the woman's desk to receive whatever specifics she'd gathered on the upcoming assignment. Half his mind absorbed the information she rattled off from a work sheet; the other half remained firmly locked on the incident just passed. In the space of ten minutes, three old and dear friends had gone out of their ways to irritate, assault and even -- Peter could admit this only to himself -- kill each other, all without sufficient provocation. As a man he still seethed at the attempt on his person and his life; Dr. Venkman-the-psychologist stepped back, attempting to examine the situation from a professional point of view. He was able to gain enough distance to ask the question, "Why?" but was unable to pursue the matter to any form of logical conclusion. Also, he was beginning to feel a nasty -- if tardy -- thrill from his own inner alarm system, the feeling that all was not precisely as it seemed.
Securing a pen and sheet of paper from the desk, he began to write, making several notations in a neat, cursive script. "Janine?"
Melnitz interrupted her fourth chorus of "...and I'm not going to be abused by the likes of you, either!" to stare at him balefully through her triangular glasses. "What?"
"Janine, if anything happens to us on this call...."
"Happens to you?" That got the woman's attention. She sat up straighter, painted fingernails tangling anxiously in the material of her yellow blouse. "Is Egon going into danger?"
Peter shrugged, controlling the surge of irritation at her words. "I don't know what, if anything, is going down on this call," he pointed out curtly, wishing she would just listen. "I'm only trying to cover some possibilities. Pay attention."
He gazed solemnly into her green eyes, directing the full force of his considerable charisma into making her understand and obey. "I'm going to contact you at regular intervals. If you don't hear from me by..." He checked his watch. "...midnight, I want you to find Winston and give him this." He proffered the slip of paper, folded in half. "Make sure you notify the police, too."
She accepted the message hesitantly, red hair drooping into her eyes when she bent over it. "Where is Winston?" she asked, tone matching his own.
"How the...." He stopped himself, willing the impatience away, striving for reasonableness. He needed her cooperation, and knowing their hot-tempered Jewish secretary as he did, browbeating her would only produce the reverse. "I don't know, Janine. Find him." Then, gritting his teeth against another spiteful remark on her lack of comprehension, Peter turned his back and began to run an equipment check on his pack. The secretary only watched him, for once not saying a single word.
***
Tamika Rogers was a tall, slender woman, thirty-six summers old, whose job on a local newaspaper had brought her into contact with the Ghostbusters nearly two months past. The story on the team had taken a week to write during which she and Winston had spent considerable time in each other's company; their relationship developed by easy, comfortable stages. It was to her apartment Winston had gone after leaving Ghostbusters Central, and there he'd remained for the last several days. Tamika had left almost immediately on an assignment, so Winston had simply made himself at home, grateful for the quiet, secure haven of his solitude.
Five days after the black Ghostbuster's taking up residence, Tamika made her way from the elevator down the carpeted hall, travel bag in one hand, laptop computer in the other. She dropped the bag outside the door to her apartment, pausing to listen to the sounds from within. The unmistakable timbres of Bob Barker emanated from a television turned much to loud and, in the background she could make out another man quietly urging some nameless contestant to "Spin Again!" Generous, red-painted lips parting in a smile, Tamika used her key and went in.
The sight that awaited her turned the smile into an open grin. Clad only in a pair of checkered shorts, with a bowl of pretzels balanced on his chest, Winston lay draped across the living room sofa, his gaze avidly glued to the television screen. He looked up when she entered, then deposited the pretzels on the end table and rose to enfold the slim woman in 205 pounds of solid hug. "Hey, baby!" he greeted, squeezing tight. "Am I ever glad to see you!"
"I'm certainly seeing enough of you," she giggled, pulling back to eye the atrocious boxers interestedly. "Sugah, you an' me're hitting Macy's first thing tomorrow."
Unembarrassed, the well-built black man pirouetted in place to the accompaniment of a hummed 'Bump and Grind.' "It ain't the shorts, baby..."
"...it's what's in 'em!" they finished in chorus. Tamika rolled her eyes. "Where have I heard that before? And how often?" She arranged her pleated skirt over long legs and sat, pulling Winston down onto the couch next to her. "So what have you been doing since I left?" she asked, dropping her purse at her feet and stretching hugely.
Winston snaked an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, nuzzling her affectionately on the neck. "Watching the tube mostly," he sighed as an answer, "and guzzling six packs right and left." Releasing her briefly, he leaned forward, retrieving a nearly full can of Coors from the coffee table, having to sort through several empty containers to do so. He located his beer and leaned back again, tapping it meaningfully with his thumb. "There's more in the fridge," he suggested.
Making no move to accept the implied invitation, Tamika gave the littered coffee table a glare. "I take it this means you haven't talked to the guys?"
Aluminum crinkled in Winston big hand. He forcibly loosened his hold and took a swig of his beer before answering. "I haven't talked to anyone since you left," he admitted. "I... I guess I needed to think things through -- to try and make sense out of what happened."
Tamika laid one cafe-au-lait hand on his darker one and squeezed, letting her long nails rasp gently across his skin. "Did you come to any conclusions?"
"Nope." Zeddemore leaned his elbows on his knees and hunched his shoulders. Every line of his body bespoke depression and strain. "It's kind of hard to talk about," he said softly. "'Mika, did I tell you exactly what went down at the firehouse?"
She tugged the beer from his tight grip, letting the cool liquid spill down the back of her throat. She swallowed gratefully, and took another hefty drink before handing it back. "You didn't tell me much. You said that you and the others had argued, that you quit the team and then you asked for an icepack for your nose." She bent forward, examining the appendage in question with a critical eye. "At least the swelling has gone down. But you still sound nasal."
The puffy skin puckered slightly when Winston touched it; he probed gently around his eyes and on both sides of his nose, a rueful laugh escaping through his teeth. "Wonder it wasn't broken. Venkman packs a mean right."
"So it was Peter you were fighting with?" she asked, nodding wisely.
"No. Yes. Sort of."
Winston bowed his head and Tamika sat back, pretending to be absorbed in The New Price is Right until her paramour was ready to talk again. "Sort of?" she prodded, nearly five minutes later.
"Lawd, 'Mika, this ain't easy." Winston drained the nearly empty can and deposited it with its brethren on the coffee table. He stood and headed for the kitchen, returning a moment later with two more. "Cheers," he said, popping a tab.
"Skoal." They drank in companionable silence for a moment more, then Tamika took Winston's beer, set it beside her own and took his right hand in both of hers. "I think you need to talk about this," she decided. "So talk."
Zeddemore squared his wide shoulders, weaving his fingers tightly together. "Started off with an argument with Ray. Over nothing, really. I said some ... pretty bad things. Then I ... hit him."
"You hit Ray Stantz?!" Large eyes opened wide in unfeigned horror. "Winston, hitting that sweet boy is like ... is like hitting my sister's puppy!"
"That makes me feel so much better!" Winston retorted, unconsciously using one of Peter's pet phrases.
"Well it is."
"I know it is." Zeddemore sighed deeply, curly head bowed forward. "I know it is," he repeated. "What I don't know is why I did it ... or why I went in to finish the job."
"Oh, my...." Rogers breathed. "Did you...?" She stopped, swallowing audibly, hesitating as though she wasn't sure she really wanted to know. "How bad did you hurt that boy, Winston?"
By way of answer, Winston gently tapped his nose, turning his head to offer the woman a rueful smile. "Like I said, Peter's got one punishing right. And he doesn't let anyone mess with Ray. Not me. Not even Egon."
"Did you and Peter--" The phone chose that moment to ring. Winston reached to pick it up, but Tamika stopped him with a hand on his wrist. "Let it ride," she suggested mildly. "They'll call back."
Acknowledging the truth of this with an absent nod, the black ex-soldier, ex-Ghostbuster dropped his hand and waited for the insistent ringing to stop. It was another full minute before there was silence. "You know, if Peter hadn't interfered, I think I really would have killed Ray," he went on, dropping his gaze again. "I took him out with a sucker punch before he could even stand up, then I went out to finish the job. I've never been that out of control before -- all I wanted to do was to pound his face into applesauce. And if Egon hadn't shown up when he did, Pete and I would have...." He broke off, unable to go on for some seconds. When he resumed, it was in a hushed voice, full of guilt and shame. "The whole time this was going on, there was something inside that kept telling me not to do it, that these were my friends. But I couldn't stop myself. I.... Oh, Tamika." Leaning forward, Winston buried his face in his hands, groaning aloud . "How could I have done it? Ray's just a kid! I would have killed him. I wanted to kill Peter."
Long braids swinging forward, Tamika threw her arms around the distressed man, holding him close. "No, you wouldn't've, baby. You love them too much."
He looked up as though surprised to hear the sentiment so bluntly voiced. "Yeah, I do," he admitted, wrapping her arms more securely about himself. "A lot." He chuckled ruefully. "But how I ever managed to hook myself in with the weirdest bunch of juvenile delinquents this side of Bellview is something I'll never figure out!"
"They're not that weird," she chided gently. "Well... maybe...."
"You bet they are!" Winston leaned back, drawing the woman with him. "You haven't lived, baby, 'til you've seen Egon puttering around with that fungus collection of his. He even names the petri dishes! You sayin' that ain't weird?"
Nestled against his broad chest, Tamika laughed merrily at the thought. "You do have a point," she conceded. "But he seems like a very nice man."
"Egon?" The Ghostbuster nodded, dark eyes softening with old affection. "Egon's the greatest. You remember hearing about when my brother LeRoy got killed in that rumble with the Skulls last year? I woke up that night feeling pretty down, and Egon must have heard me get out of bed. He made coffee and sat with me the entire night, just listening mostly to me talking about LeRoy. I-I'm not sure I would have made it through the night without him." He ran a hand slowly through his short, curly hair. "Peter and LeRoy could've been cut from the same mold; they're both hotheaded and rash and as loyal as they come. And Ray ... nicest kid in the world, and I try to pound him into the ground." He broke off, guilt returning full- force. "I made a real fool out of myself, 'Mika."
"So what else is new?" Her impish grin was met with a look of hurt surprise, and she hurried to elaborate. "Look, baby, everybody fights sometimes. Look at you and me."
"Ain't it the truth." Winston laughed aloud, squeezing the woman's shoulders. "We've had some real knock-down-drag-outs in our time. We always make up reeeal good though," he added, kissing her cheek.
"So go make up." Tamika turned her face earnestly up to his, ready sympathy adding warmth to her gaze. "You've been friends three years now. Go talk to them and at least make peace."
"I know, babe, you're right." He sighed. "I'll go this afternoon. but first," he smiled, promise lighting his black eyes, "how about a proper welcome home?"
"Thought you'd never ask," Tamika sighed, claiming his lips with her own.
***