The Santa Barbara drunk tank wasn't any worse -- or better -- than any
other drunk tank they'd ever been a guest of, but a jail is, after all,
still a jail. Add to that the after-effects of both a night of
industrious.' imbibing and a lively round of fisticuffs, and you have the
recipe for two very unhappy men indeed.
By the grace of the fact that most of the "tank's" inhabitants occupied the concrete floor of the cell, Crane and Morton found themselves the sole possessors of the hard wooden bench against the far wall. Chip sprawled gracelessly, leaning his head far back to prevent his nose from starting to bleed again. It wasn't broken, he decided. Hurt like the devil, but not -- quite -- broken.
Beside him, Lee sat nursing his damaged ribs, slumped shoulders adequately testifying to the depths of his discomfort. His cheek sported a bruise the size of his palm and blood from the cut over his eye had run down to stain his collar. All in all, Chip reflected, his Captain looked awful. Another moment added the prayer that he wouldn't have to look in too many mirrors for a while himself.
The harassed and overworked SBPD had had little time to do more than a preliminary booking, although they had allowed the arrestees their constitutionally-protected one phone call. This had elicited much haggling between the two men.
"You want to call the Admiral?" Lee regarded his Exec with an expression of dawning horror. "Have you any idea what he's going to say when he finds out!"
"And who would you suggest we call?" With the alcohol finally milking its way out of his system, Chip's pragmaticism was slowly making its reappearance. "Tish and Angle both have families and we can't exactly call my Mom."
Crane raised his hands in a desperate gesture. "What about.. .what about that Madalyn you're seeing? Can't she...?"
"Maddy's out of town," Chip patiently reminded him. "What about that blonde you were seeing. Julie? You said she was crazy about you."
Crane looked uncomfortable. "Julie. ..uh, she...." He mumbled something Chip didn't catch.
Morton bent down. "What was that?"
"I said she got married!" Lee started to throw his head back in a defiant gesture but thought better of it when his ribs gave a warning twinge. He settled for a scowl.
"Married?" Chip found it suddenly necessary to clear his throat, violently. "Oh, um, right." He recovered himself quickly, spurred on by a spirit of self-preservation. "Let's face it, Lee, leaving a message for the Admiral is the only thing we can do."
"Not the Admiral." Lee crossed his arms stubbornly. "And that, Mr. Morton, is an order."
Morton shrugged. "Who then?"
Lee considered. "We'll leave a message for Angie at the Institute. She can bail us out and the Admiral won't have to know anything about it. I hope."
That had been at 4:00 am. By six, the last of the gin had worn off, diffusing the semi-protecting numbness and leaving reality in all its glorious, unbuffered majesty. Six o'clock also brought the return to consciousness of several of the denizens of the tank. One in particular -- a large, leather-clad biker sporting a wiry full beard -- made quite a production of coming awake. He rolled over heavily on the concrete, leathers flapping around him. Suddenly he sat up with a jerk, supporting himself by leaning against Chip's left leg. Chip moved his leg. toppling the biker back onto the floor. He caught himself with a curse.
"Hey, what d'ya think you're doin'?" the biker grumbled, regaining his equilibrium. "I...oh, man." He clasped both hands to his head. "What was I drinkin' last night? Sterno?" He obviously expected no answer to this. With another curse, the bearded man lurched to his feet and staggered over to one corner where he relieved himself in the filthy communal sink.
"Ahhh, that's better," the man grumbled, gingerly rearranging himself before zipping. "Hey, you." He stepped across several still-sleeping bodies, stopping by the wooden bench on which Crane and Morton had remained all night.
When the biker repeated his hail, Chip raised his head to find himself staring into two pig-like eyes set in a good 250 pounds of bone and gristle. Chip groaned. "Didn't the police arrest any little criminals last night?"
The biker stared downward, dividing his scrutiny between Chip's wide-eyes gape and the top of Crane's bowed head. Chip felt himself being sized up, a lot like ... a terrible thought intruded itself . like Karlie had, last night? Chip shuddered and shook Lee lightly by the shoulder. "Lee?"
"Hunh?" Crane raised himself from his stupor, fixing Chip with a bloodshot and decidedly unfocussed stare. "What is it, Chip?"
Morton cleared his throat. "Uh ... someone wants to talk to you."
"Who?" Crane asked innocently checking the floor.
"Me," rumbled a voice.
It took several seconds for it to register in Lee's muddled brain that that voice had come from above him. "What? "
"I said, me," the voice repeated obligingly.
The biker and Lee regarded each other in silence for several minutes during which time a slow flush worked its way into Lee's fair skin. He senses it, too, Chip thought. Feeling better now that he was no longer the primary object of the biker's interest, Chip sat back and prepared to enjoy the show. If nothing else, this was prime ammunition for the next time Lee dragged him into a mess. "What...." Crane swallowed heavily. "What do you want?"
The leather-clad man leaned heavily against the wall. "What jail is this?" he asked, peering around.
"Jail?" Crane echoed stupidly.
"Yeah. The last thing I remember is cruisin' LA. Where am I now?"
"This is Santa Barbara."
"Santa.... Oh, man!" One massive fist impacted the wall with bone-jarring force. Lee flinched. "How'd I get here? Never mind." The biker ran his gaze up and down Lee's body again, then essayed what he obviously mistook for a friendly smile. "My name's Slash. You...eh...want a cigarette, ..or something?"
Lee stared a full thirty seconds as the unsubtle undertones of this question sank in. "Oh, no, I can't handle this." He dropped his head limply into his hands. "Let me know when this day is all over."
"Oh, I'd say it's just beginning."
Lee's head snapped up. "Admiral?"
"Admiral?" Chip leaped to his feet only seconds behind his Captain. Together they -- with not a small amount of trepidation -- crossed to the barred door separating them from a figure waiting none-too-patiently on the other side.
Nelson regarded his officers with ill-disguised distaste. "Would one of you care to explain why I received a call from a newspaper reporter at four in the morning informing me that my command crew is in jail and would I like to make a comment?" Nelson's voice rose with each word until he was nearly shouting by the end. The effect on two particularly delicate constitutions was immediate and obvious. Both men winced -- not entirely in remorse -- at the tone. "A little hung-over, gentlemen?" he inquired dryly.
Crane and Morton exchanged a look. This was going to be even worse than they feared. Morton cleared his throat nervously. "We...urn...ran into a little trouble, Sir."
"A little trouble? Uh-huh." Nelson examined the younger men more closely. "What the devil happened to you two? You look like you've been through the wars."
"That's ... close enough," Lee admitted ruefully. He attempted to straighten, then caught his breath at the pain in his ribs. "Like Chip said, we ran into a little trouble."
"I can see that, Captain." Nelson simmered a full ten seconds before exploding. "How old are you two, anyway? Off ship twenty-four hours and I find you in jail after brawling in some cheap dive like a couple of common sea men. I -- " He broke off as the bearded biker, who had been listening to the tirade with great interest, stepped closer. "What do you want?" he asked coldly.
The biker ignored him, addressing Crane instead. "Who's he, buddy? Your father?"
"My. ..oh, god." This last was directed heavenward. In the mood the Admiral was in now--
"His father?" Nelson's voice rose several decibels, anger and astonishment at the man's temerity waging war in his expression. Then the blue eyes narrowed, stabbing and holding the biker on twin lasers. "You," he gritted, "get out."
The big biker met and held those icy eyes for several seconds before dropping his gaze and backed off. He returned to the wooden bench muttering little epithets under his breath.
Nelson turned the full force of that gaze on the two hapless men before him. "Your father? Hummph. If I had an ounce -- just one ounce of sense, I ought to leave the pair of you right here."
"No, Sir, you can't," Crane wailed, clutching the bars.
This despairing cry elicited only another unsympathetic stare. "Oh? And why not, Captain?"
Chip stepped forward. "Sir, you...uh. ..see that big biker-type in the corner?"
Nelson transferred his icy stare to Morton. "What about him?"
Morton cleared his throat. "He's been...uh...making a pass at Lee."
The Admiral frankly gaped at that. "He...?" One look at Lee's flushed face and the way he glared murderous hatred into Chip's carefully expressionless features was more than even Nelson's righteous indignation could survive. His lips twitched once; the rumbling laughter started deep in his stomach and erupted into a helpless crescendo. Harriman Nelson threw back his head -- and roared.
It was some time before he was able to bring himself back under control, though his speech was still punctuated by occasional chuckles. "Then I... ahem ...suppose I'm going to have to. ..do something to . to protect your virtue, Captain. I... I'd better go post bail." So saying he was gone, the sound of another bout of laughter following him down the hall.
Lee wearily leaned against the barred door, shooting Chip another baleful glare. "I owe you for that, Mr. Morton."
"What else could I do, Lee?" Chip affected an innocent air. "You heard the Admiral. He was going to leave us here."
"I...oh, what's the use. All I care about now is getting some shut eye, and- "
"Dinner," Morton enunciated clearly. "Tonight. With Mom."
The silence which descended following this seemingly innocuous statement was terrible in its intensity "In all the time I've known you," Crane's voice was soft, quiet and very, very deadly, "I've never known you to be actively suicidal before."
Morton braced at semi-attention, watching his commanding officer warily. "You promised my mother, Sir."
The Exec knew that to be a low blow. Ever the gentleman, Crane would have moved heaven and earth to avoid offending his best friend's mother, of whom he was quite fond, as would Chip himself. Chip knew he'd won when he saw the tension drain from his friend's features, replaced by a weary resignation. "Oh, all right," he relented, sliding carefully back onto the bench. "But I owe you for this, Chip."
"I don't know about that," Chip ventured, reseating himself as well. Crane fixed him with a suspicious glare. "What do you mean by that?"
Morton shrugged. "I'd say that after what you got me into in Hong Kong, we're just about even now."
"Oh, no, Mr. Morton," Crane growled, poking Morton in the chest. "We're not going to be even to this for a long time to come."
Chip flinched at the tone; something told him things were going to be a little...tense, ..for a while. A things considered, however, he figured it might just have been about worth it.
FINISH
By the grace of the fact that most of the "tank's" inhabitants occupied the concrete floor of the cell, Crane and Morton found themselves the sole possessors of the hard wooden bench against the far wall. Chip sprawled gracelessly, leaning his head far back to prevent his nose from starting to bleed again. It wasn't broken, he decided. Hurt like the devil, but not -- quite -- broken.
Beside him, Lee sat nursing his damaged ribs, slumped shoulders adequately testifying to the depths of his discomfort. His cheek sported a bruise the size of his palm and blood from the cut over his eye had run down to stain his collar. All in all, Chip reflected, his Captain looked awful. Another moment added the prayer that he wouldn't have to look in too many mirrors for a while himself.
The harassed and overworked SBPD had had little time to do more than a preliminary booking, although they had allowed the arrestees their constitutionally-protected one phone call. This had elicited much haggling between the two men.
"You want to call the Admiral?" Lee regarded his Exec with an expression of dawning horror. "Have you any idea what he's going to say when he finds out!"
"And who would you suggest we call?" With the alcohol finally milking its way out of his system, Chip's pragmaticism was slowly making its reappearance. "Tish and Angle both have families and we can't exactly call my Mom."
Crane raised his hands in a desperate gesture. "What about.. .what about that Madalyn you're seeing? Can't she...?"
"Maddy's out of town," Chip patiently reminded him. "What about that blonde you were seeing. Julie? You said she was crazy about you."
Crane looked uncomfortable. "Julie. ..uh, she...." He mumbled something Chip didn't catch.
Morton bent down. "What was that?"
"I said she got married!" Lee started to throw his head back in a defiant gesture but thought better of it when his ribs gave a warning twinge. He settled for a scowl.
"Married?" Chip found it suddenly necessary to clear his throat, violently. "Oh, um, right." He recovered himself quickly, spurred on by a spirit of self-preservation. "Let's face it, Lee, leaving a message for the Admiral is the only thing we can do."
"Not the Admiral." Lee crossed his arms stubbornly. "And that, Mr. Morton, is an order."
Morton shrugged. "Who then?"
Lee considered. "We'll leave a message for Angie at the Institute. She can bail us out and the Admiral won't have to know anything about it. I hope."
That had been at 4:00 am. By six, the last of the gin had worn off, diffusing the semi-protecting numbness and leaving reality in all its glorious, unbuffered majesty. Six o'clock also brought the return to consciousness of several of the denizens of the tank. One in particular -- a large, leather-clad biker sporting a wiry full beard -- made quite a production of coming awake. He rolled over heavily on the concrete, leathers flapping around him. Suddenly he sat up with a jerk, supporting himself by leaning against Chip's left leg. Chip moved his leg. toppling the biker back onto the floor. He caught himself with a curse.
"Hey, what d'ya think you're doin'?" the biker grumbled, regaining his equilibrium. "I...oh, man." He clasped both hands to his head. "What was I drinkin' last night? Sterno?" He obviously expected no answer to this. With another curse, the bearded man lurched to his feet and staggered over to one corner where he relieved himself in the filthy communal sink.
"Ahhh, that's better," the man grumbled, gingerly rearranging himself before zipping. "Hey, you." He stepped across several still-sleeping bodies, stopping by the wooden bench on which Crane and Morton had remained all night.
When the biker repeated his hail, Chip raised his head to find himself staring into two pig-like eyes set in a good 250 pounds of bone and gristle. Chip groaned. "Didn't the police arrest any little criminals last night?"
The biker stared downward, dividing his scrutiny between Chip's wide-eyes gape and the top of Crane's bowed head. Chip felt himself being sized up, a lot like ... a terrible thought intruded itself . like Karlie had, last night? Chip shuddered and shook Lee lightly by the shoulder. "Lee?"
"Hunh?" Crane raised himself from his stupor, fixing Chip with a bloodshot and decidedly unfocussed stare. "What is it, Chip?"
Morton cleared his throat. "Uh ... someone wants to talk to you."
"Who?" Crane asked innocently checking the floor.
"Me," rumbled a voice.
It took several seconds for it to register in Lee's muddled brain that that voice had come from above him. "What? "
"I said, me," the voice repeated obligingly.
The biker and Lee regarded each other in silence for several minutes during which time a slow flush worked its way into Lee's fair skin. He senses it, too, Chip thought. Feeling better now that he was no longer the primary object of the biker's interest, Chip sat back and prepared to enjoy the show. If nothing else, this was prime ammunition for the next time Lee dragged him into a mess. "What...." Crane swallowed heavily. "What do you want?"
The leather-clad man leaned heavily against the wall. "What jail is this?" he asked, peering around.
"Jail?" Crane echoed stupidly.
"Yeah. The last thing I remember is cruisin' LA. Where am I now?"
"This is Santa Barbara."
"Santa.... Oh, man!" One massive fist impacted the wall with bone-jarring force. Lee flinched. "How'd I get here? Never mind." The biker ran his gaze up and down Lee's body again, then essayed what he obviously mistook for a friendly smile. "My name's Slash. You...eh...want a cigarette, ..or something?"
Lee stared a full thirty seconds as the unsubtle undertones of this question sank in. "Oh, no, I can't handle this." He dropped his head limply into his hands. "Let me know when this day is all over."
"Oh, I'd say it's just beginning."
Lee's head snapped up. "Admiral?"
"Admiral?" Chip leaped to his feet only seconds behind his Captain. Together they -- with not a small amount of trepidation -- crossed to the barred door separating them from a figure waiting none-too-patiently on the other side.
Nelson regarded his officers with ill-disguised distaste. "Would one of you care to explain why I received a call from a newspaper reporter at four in the morning informing me that my command crew is in jail and would I like to make a comment?" Nelson's voice rose with each word until he was nearly shouting by the end. The effect on two particularly delicate constitutions was immediate and obvious. Both men winced -- not entirely in remorse -- at the tone. "A little hung-over, gentlemen?" he inquired dryly.
Crane and Morton exchanged a look. This was going to be even worse than they feared. Morton cleared his throat nervously. "We...urn...ran into a little trouble, Sir."
"A little trouble? Uh-huh." Nelson examined the younger men more closely. "What the devil happened to you two? You look like you've been through the wars."
"That's ... close enough," Lee admitted ruefully. He attempted to straighten, then caught his breath at the pain in his ribs. "Like Chip said, we ran into a little trouble."
"I can see that, Captain." Nelson simmered a full ten seconds before exploding. "How old are you two, anyway? Off ship twenty-four hours and I find you in jail after brawling in some cheap dive like a couple of common sea men. I -- " He broke off as the bearded biker, who had been listening to the tirade with great interest, stepped closer. "What do you want?" he asked coldly.
The biker ignored him, addressing Crane instead. "Who's he, buddy? Your father?"
"My. ..oh, god." This last was directed heavenward. In the mood the Admiral was in now--
"His father?" Nelson's voice rose several decibels, anger and astonishment at the man's temerity waging war in his expression. Then the blue eyes narrowed, stabbing and holding the biker on twin lasers. "You," he gritted, "get out."
The big biker met and held those icy eyes for several seconds before dropping his gaze and backed off. He returned to the wooden bench muttering little epithets under his breath.
Nelson turned the full force of that gaze on the two hapless men before him. "Your father? Hummph. If I had an ounce -- just one ounce of sense, I ought to leave the pair of you right here."
"No, Sir, you can't," Crane wailed, clutching the bars.
This despairing cry elicited only another unsympathetic stare. "Oh? And why not, Captain?"
Chip stepped forward. "Sir, you...uh. ..see that big biker-type in the corner?"
Nelson transferred his icy stare to Morton. "What about him?"
Morton cleared his throat. "He's been...uh...making a pass at Lee."
The Admiral frankly gaped at that. "He...?" One look at Lee's flushed face and the way he glared murderous hatred into Chip's carefully expressionless features was more than even Nelson's righteous indignation could survive. His lips twitched once; the rumbling laughter started deep in his stomach and erupted into a helpless crescendo. Harriman Nelson threw back his head -- and roared.
It was some time before he was able to bring himself back under control, though his speech was still punctuated by occasional chuckles. "Then I... ahem ...suppose I'm going to have to. ..do something to . to protect your virtue, Captain. I... I'd better go post bail." So saying he was gone, the sound of another bout of laughter following him down the hall.
Lee wearily leaned against the barred door, shooting Chip another baleful glare. "I owe you for that, Mr. Morton."
"What else could I do, Lee?" Chip affected an innocent air. "You heard the Admiral. He was going to leave us here."
"I...oh, what's the use. All I care about now is getting some shut eye, and- "
"Dinner," Morton enunciated clearly. "Tonight. With Mom."
The silence which descended following this seemingly innocuous statement was terrible in its intensity "In all the time I've known you," Crane's voice was soft, quiet and very, very deadly, "I've never known you to be actively suicidal before."
Morton braced at semi-attention, watching his commanding officer warily. "You promised my mother, Sir."
The Exec knew that to be a low blow. Ever the gentleman, Crane would have moved heaven and earth to avoid offending his best friend's mother, of whom he was quite fond, as would Chip himself. Chip knew he'd won when he saw the tension drain from his friend's features, replaced by a weary resignation. "Oh, all right," he relented, sliding carefully back onto the bench. "But I owe you for this, Chip."
"I don't know about that," Chip ventured, reseating himself as well. Crane fixed him with a suspicious glare. "What do you mean by that?"
Morton shrugged. "I'd say that after what you got me into in Hong Kong, we're just about even now."
"Oh, no, Mr. Morton," Crane growled, poking Morton in the chest. "We're not going to be even to this for a long time to come."
Chip flinched at the tone; something told him things were going to be a little...tense, ..for a while. A things considered, however, he figured it might just have been about worth it.
FINISH