California, April 1975
Bill Maxwell sat next to his former partner, Harlan Blackford. The two made themselves as comfortable as possible in a pair of old lawn chairs outside the metal trailer that Harlan called home.
"Bill, I could really use someone back here to help me out every now and then. It's been hard here, ever since this happened..." Harlan pointed to his dark sunglasses. He tried not to use the word "blind" too often in front of Bill. His former partner had been through a lot recently. Harlan's blindness didn't help matters at all.
"What are you talking about, Harlan? You don't need anyone. You're still the best shot in the whole damned state!"
"Come on, Bill. You can put in for a transfer. And they all know you here. They know you're a real good, top notch, Grade A Fed."
"Harlan, I've got a kill record of 22. I'm all washed up."
"And you average that with what you had back here in the L.A. office? And with your ratio back in Detroit? You're still above national average!"
The two sat silently for a few minutes. Finally, Harlan spoke.
"You remember Johnny the Dancer? That guy you've been after, since Detroit?"
Bill looked at Harlan, nodding his head. He finally remembered that from now on he would need to provide verbal answers.
"Yeah, Harlan. I remember."
"Well, then I bet you know he just moved out to L.A. Way I figure, I think he could really use a babysitter. Someone to check in on him, from time to time."
"The way my track record is going, Harlan?"
"Well, Billy, I have to thank you. You're so damned depressing, it makes my situation look a whole lot brighter." Harlan raised his hands to his glasses, reminding his former partner that things could be a whole lot worse.
"It wouldn't be the same, Harlan. Who am I going to go treasure hunting with on my weekends?" He paused, about to say what Harlan already knew. "And Lil's left me, you know. She took off, with a used car salesman named Larry. Straight to Vegas."
Harlan was dying to make a wise crack. "You never were good enough for her, anyway" came to mind. But Harlan didn't have the heart to kick his friend when he was so down. Instead, he decided to change the subject.
"You're smoking now, Billy?"
Bill was silent. He had gotten so used to it, he didn't smell the nicotine on his own clothes anymore.
"Only when I'm drinking, Harlan."
"Well, that's gotta stop, Bill. No more drinking. No smoking. And no more feeling sorry for yourself!"
"Harlan, I got kicked in the garbanzos by everyone that ever mattered to me."
Insulted and furious, Harlan took his cane and whipped it around. Not knowing exactly where it would land, he was glad that it landed straight in Bill's lap, and not on the head.
With a grunt, and through gritted teeth, Bill corrected himself. "Everyone but you, old man."
Harlan corrected his young friend and former partner, as he went down the list of good buddies in the L.A. area who were anxious to have Bill back in town.
"And don't forget," Harlan added. "Your old friend Tracy Winslow is here, too. So who cares about Phoenix, anyway?"
Bill sat back in the garden chair, and thought about the possibilities. Perhaps L.A. was ready to welcome back F.B.I. Agent Bill Maxwell. And perhaps Bill Maxwell was finally ready to come home.
The End
