Jimmy Deakins never did understand what was supposed to be relaxing about
putting a ball into a hole. Be it a small white ball into a hole in the
ground, or a larger, orange ball into a hole ten feet off the ground. To
Deakins both these activities, and the others like them, caused more stress
than they alleviated. He sometimes thought that maybe something was
backwards in his mind, it seemed that other men found golf enjoyable, but
Jimmy considered it a requirement of the job, and was grateful that the
weather in New York City allowed for the activity only a few months of the
year.
"Jimmy!" The Chief of Detectives called out to him. "Jim, you know what a golf game really is?" Deakins plastered on his small, curious fake smile and shrugged in answer. "It's a nice Sunday walk ruined by a little white ball." The Chief's belly shook with his laughter, and Deakins forced out his own guffaw.
"That it is, sir. That it is." Deakins reined his smile back in as he approached the tee, and bent down, balancing the golf ball on the wooden tee. He took a step back, positioning himself into what he like to think of as his thinking stance, leaning slightly on the club under his right hand. He stared at the ball, glanced out to the orange flag that marked the hole he was supposed to shoot for. As he moved his eyes back toward the ball, he allowed himself a quick peek to where the others stood. They were watching him, as he knew they would be, and he hoped that he was giving them the impression that he wasn't bored out of his ever lovin' mind. Deakins hoped he'd taken enough of a pause to let them think he knew what he was doing, as he stepped up toward the ball, and addressed it. Swinging the club back, and bringing it back down swiftly; he closed his eyes and prayed he'd at least made contact with the ball. When he opened his eyes, he vaguely saw the shadow of what he hoped was his ball bouncing a few hundred yards away. He let out an inner "whew" and turned back toward the others, smiling a "what'da'ya think about that" smile.
The Assistant Chief of Detectives grabbed Deakins bag and clubs and joined him next to the tee. "Good shot Jim."
Deakins took the bag from him, slipped the club in his hands into it then slung it over his shoulder. "Thanks Steve."
The two of them set off side by side, following a few feet behind their boss, the Chief and the fourth man, Howard, the Chief's best friend.
Steve Montgomery was a short man, almost to short to have joined the force in the first place. At the Academy, he'd given new meaning to the phrase "inched by" when he made the required height, with only ¾ of an inch to spare. Out of his height, or rather lack thereof, had grown an attitude, Steve thought that the respect he didn't earn at first glance, he would have to earn with his stance, his posture and the lift of his chin. It was the chin part, plus the attitude, that had earned him the nickname "Napoleon" That name had fallen by the wayside when he'd been named Assistant Chief, becoming everyone's boss. Deakins had heard the nickname a time or two in passing, but had never felt the urge to use it. Steve had never been anything but friendly and professional with him.
"How's Sherlock?" Steve asked, a few steps into their walk. Deakins smiled inwardly at the mention of one of his two prize detectives. That was one nickname he didn't mind using once in a while.
"They're working a suspected kidnapping ring." Deakins lifted his left arm and pulled back the cuff of his sweater, revealing his watch. "In fact, I was expecting them to have called in with their collar by now."
"Ah, well." Montgomery said. "Looks like you'll just have to finish the game." The two men laughed at the implied meaning, Deakins wanting an excuse to leave.
"So the bartender says 'Looks like a duck to me.'" Howard finished what Deakins was sure had been a raunchy joke and he and the Chief each burst in to laughter.
"Hey Jimmy, Steve . . . ." the Chief puffed out in between guffaw's. He'd stopped walking when they'd reached Deakins ball, and now as the two men behind him approached, he held out his arm in an expansive gesture. "did you hear that one?" He asked breathing hard, both from the walk and the laughter.
"I've heard it, yes sir." Deakins lied. "One of my Detectives told it to me."
"Sherlock tells dirty jokes?" The Chief asked somewhat surprised.
"No sir, actually." he paused for effect. "Eames does."
That brought a fresh new round of laughter from the Chief, and Steve joined in. Deakins laughed himself, because that part was true; get her in the right mood, and Alex Eames could make the 5th fleet blush with her dirty jokes. Poor Howard, who hadn't had the pleasure of meeting either detective, and didn't understand why that was funny, forced out a few limp and unsure chuckles.
-Later-
The Nineteenth Hole was crowded, a storm front having moved in, forcing everyone inside. Every bar stool and table were full, and the place smelled of cigars, beer and wet polyester-cotton blends, with an underlying touch of stale sweat.
Fellow golfers, some of them city workers in one fashion or another, had begun to form a swarm around the Chief, allowing him to hold court. Deakins took advantage of the facelessness the crowd allowed and snuck away to the bar. Behind him he heard the Chief regaling the crowd with the joke Howard had told not an hour ago. "So the bartender says 'Looks like a duck to me.'" A boom of laughter broke out as Deakins slapped a five on the bar and said "Whiskey, short" to the bartender.
The drink delivered and the change kept, Deakins took a sip of his drink and headed over to the double doors that lead to the club patio that overlooked the course. The hard rain had stopped, only a fine mist falling. Jimmy took another sip, looked over his shoulder then let himself out onto the patio, shutting the door on the uproars of laughter and stale smoke.
Holding his whiskey in his right hand, he slipped his left into his pants pocket and breathed deeply, enjoying the view and the quiet.
His privacy was short lived. Moments later, he heard unmuffled laughter that told him the door was open, then the click of the door and footsteps told him he was no longer alone.
Steve Montgomery stepped up quietly next to him, and repeated the deep breath and a moment later broke the silence. "Better out here."
Deakins made a noise of agreement, and the two men stood in silence again.
"Jim" Steve began, a note in his voice told Deakins he was bringing up a subject he didn't want to bring up. "I was going to wait until tomorrow, but I thought you should have the night to think about it." He turned, facing Deakins.
Oh no, Deakins thought to himself, but didn't say anything just took another sip of his whiskey and waited for Steve to continue.
"The boss is going to open another position, another Assistant Chief." He let that sink in a moment, and went on. "It's essentially the same thing you're doing now, working on the major cases, but with an Assistant title."
"And all the kiss ass duties that come with it." Deakins was still looking out over the greens, and caught only the last few traces of the look stealing across Steve's face. Realizing what he's just said, he turned, facing Steve, who had turned back to face the course. "Sorry, Steve. You're not a kiss ass." His tone was genuinely apologetic. Deakins took a sip, and then another, draining the glass.
Still facing away, Steve raised his own drink, a dark amber bottle of beer, and took two long swallows. He nodded, a sign of forgiveness, and began again. "Chief wanted to spring his on you tomorrow, at the department meeting, thought that if he surprised you, you wouldn't be able to say no. Anyway, I thought you should have the night, talk to Claire."
Feeling even more like an ass, Deakins looked at his shoes. He didn't need the night, didn't have to talk to his wife, he knew the answer already. "I'm going to turn it down, Steve."
"Yeah, I kinda thought you would." Steve said, nodding again. "Figured it was to much smoozing for you."
"It's not just that . . . ." Deakins began before Steve cut him off.
"No need to explain." He held up his hand, thumb and forefinger wrapped around the neck of his beer, the other fingers splayed into the air. "I never thought you'd be happy with it anyway."
"Who's next on the list?"
Steve smiled slightly, slyly. "Sherlock."
Deakins nearly dropped the empty glass he was holding, his mouth dropped open, his cheeks turned a little red. "Whhhhaaaa. . . ." he stopped when Steve turned to face him fully, the twinkle in his eyes and sass in his smile clearly saying it was a joke. "God Steve." Deakins placed a hand on his chest, still breathing a little hard. "Don't do that!"
Waves of laughter broke out from behind the door, this round louder than any other. The two men turned toward the noise and each smiled. "Shall we go back in?" Steve asked.
Deakins nodded. "Yeah. But maybe we should try to find a duck first."
"Jimmy!" The Chief of Detectives called out to him. "Jim, you know what a golf game really is?" Deakins plastered on his small, curious fake smile and shrugged in answer. "It's a nice Sunday walk ruined by a little white ball." The Chief's belly shook with his laughter, and Deakins forced out his own guffaw.
"That it is, sir. That it is." Deakins reined his smile back in as he approached the tee, and bent down, balancing the golf ball on the wooden tee. He took a step back, positioning himself into what he like to think of as his thinking stance, leaning slightly on the club under his right hand. He stared at the ball, glanced out to the orange flag that marked the hole he was supposed to shoot for. As he moved his eyes back toward the ball, he allowed himself a quick peek to where the others stood. They were watching him, as he knew they would be, and he hoped that he was giving them the impression that he wasn't bored out of his ever lovin' mind. Deakins hoped he'd taken enough of a pause to let them think he knew what he was doing, as he stepped up toward the ball, and addressed it. Swinging the club back, and bringing it back down swiftly; he closed his eyes and prayed he'd at least made contact with the ball. When he opened his eyes, he vaguely saw the shadow of what he hoped was his ball bouncing a few hundred yards away. He let out an inner "whew" and turned back toward the others, smiling a "what'da'ya think about that" smile.
The Assistant Chief of Detectives grabbed Deakins bag and clubs and joined him next to the tee. "Good shot Jim."
Deakins took the bag from him, slipped the club in his hands into it then slung it over his shoulder. "Thanks Steve."
The two of them set off side by side, following a few feet behind their boss, the Chief and the fourth man, Howard, the Chief's best friend.
Steve Montgomery was a short man, almost to short to have joined the force in the first place. At the Academy, he'd given new meaning to the phrase "inched by" when he made the required height, with only ¾ of an inch to spare. Out of his height, or rather lack thereof, had grown an attitude, Steve thought that the respect he didn't earn at first glance, he would have to earn with his stance, his posture and the lift of his chin. It was the chin part, plus the attitude, that had earned him the nickname "Napoleon" That name had fallen by the wayside when he'd been named Assistant Chief, becoming everyone's boss. Deakins had heard the nickname a time or two in passing, but had never felt the urge to use it. Steve had never been anything but friendly and professional with him.
"How's Sherlock?" Steve asked, a few steps into their walk. Deakins smiled inwardly at the mention of one of his two prize detectives. That was one nickname he didn't mind using once in a while.
"They're working a suspected kidnapping ring." Deakins lifted his left arm and pulled back the cuff of his sweater, revealing his watch. "In fact, I was expecting them to have called in with their collar by now."
"Ah, well." Montgomery said. "Looks like you'll just have to finish the game." The two men laughed at the implied meaning, Deakins wanting an excuse to leave.
"So the bartender says 'Looks like a duck to me.'" Howard finished what Deakins was sure had been a raunchy joke and he and the Chief each burst in to laughter.
"Hey Jimmy, Steve . . . ." the Chief puffed out in between guffaw's. He'd stopped walking when they'd reached Deakins ball, and now as the two men behind him approached, he held out his arm in an expansive gesture. "did you hear that one?" He asked breathing hard, both from the walk and the laughter.
"I've heard it, yes sir." Deakins lied. "One of my Detectives told it to me."
"Sherlock tells dirty jokes?" The Chief asked somewhat surprised.
"No sir, actually." he paused for effect. "Eames does."
That brought a fresh new round of laughter from the Chief, and Steve joined in. Deakins laughed himself, because that part was true; get her in the right mood, and Alex Eames could make the 5th fleet blush with her dirty jokes. Poor Howard, who hadn't had the pleasure of meeting either detective, and didn't understand why that was funny, forced out a few limp and unsure chuckles.
-Later-
The Nineteenth Hole was crowded, a storm front having moved in, forcing everyone inside. Every bar stool and table were full, and the place smelled of cigars, beer and wet polyester-cotton blends, with an underlying touch of stale sweat.
Fellow golfers, some of them city workers in one fashion or another, had begun to form a swarm around the Chief, allowing him to hold court. Deakins took advantage of the facelessness the crowd allowed and snuck away to the bar. Behind him he heard the Chief regaling the crowd with the joke Howard had told not an hour ago. "So the bartender says 'Looks like a duck to me.'" A boom of laughter broke out as Deakins slapped a five on the bar and said "Whiskey, short" to the bartender.
The drink delivered and the change kept, Deakins took a sip of his drink and headed over to the double doors that lead to the club patio that overlooked the course. The hard rain had stopped, only a fine mist falling. Jimmy took another sip, looked over his shoulder then let himself out onto the patio, shutting the door on the uproars of laughter and stale smoke.
Holding his whiskey in his right hand, he slipped his left into his pants pocket and breathed deeply, enjoying the view and the quiet.
His privacy was short lived. Moments later, he heard unmuffled laughter that told him the door was open, then the click of the door and footsteps told him he was no longer alone.
Steve Montgomery stepped up quietly next to him, and repeated the deep breath and a moment later broke the silence. "Better out here."
Deakins made a noise of agreement, and the two men stood in silence again.
"Jim" Steve began, a note in his voice told Deakins he was bringing up a subject he didn't want to bring up. "I was going to wait until tomorrow, but I thought you should have the night to think about it." He turned, facing Deakins.
Oh no, Deakins thought to himself, but didn't say anything just took another sip of his whiskey and waited for Steve to continue.
"The boss is going to open another position, another Assistant Chief." He let that sink in a moment, and went on. "It's essentially the same thing you're doing now, working on the major cases, but with an Assistant title."
"And all the kiss ass duties that come with it." Deakins was still looking out over the greens, and caught only the last few traces of the look stealing across Steve's face. Realizing what he's just said, he turned, facing Steve, who had turned back to face the course. "Sorry, Steve. You're not a kiss ass." His tone was genuinely apologetic. Deakins took a sip, and then another, draining the glass.
Still facing away, Steve raised his own drink, a dark amber bottle of beer, and took two long swallows. He nodded, a sign of forgiveness, and began again. "Chief wanted to spring his on you tomorrow, at the department meeting, thought that if he surprised you, you wouldn't be able to say no. Anyway, I thought you should have the night, talk to Claire."
Feeling even more like an ass, Deakins looked at his shoes. He didn't need the night, didn't have to talk to his wife, he knew the answer already. "I'm going to turn it down, Steve."
"Yeah, I kinda thought you would." Steve said, nodding again. "Figured it was to much smoozing for you."
"It's not just that . . . ." Deakins began before Steve cut him off.
"No need to explain." He held up his hand, thumb and forefinger wrapped around the neck of his beer, the other fingers splayed into the air. "I never thought you'd be happy with it anyway."
"Who's next on the list?"
Steve smiled slightly, slyly. "Sherlock."
Deakins nearly dropped the empty glass he was holding, his mouth dropped open, his cheeks turned a little red. "Whhhhaaaa. . . ." he stopped when Steve turned to face him fully, the twinkle in his eyes and sass in his smile clearly saying it was a joke. "God Steve." Deakins placed a hand on his chest, still breathing a little hard. "Don't do that!"
Waves of laughter broke out from behind the door, this round louder than any other. The two men turned toward the noise and each smiled. "Shall we go back in?" Steve asked.
Deakins nodded. "Yeah. But maybe we should try to find a duck first."