"What bugs you most?"
A CSI fan-fic story, started May 2003; WIP, but I was bitten in a recent plot bunny attack (October 2007) and decided to dust this one off and see where it goes. It is a much longer companion piece to the "Better Brass biography" posted over at the "jimbrass" Yahoo group.
The usual disclaimers: none of the CBS or CSI characters belong to me, and I make no money doing this kind of thing. I am not affiliated with CBS or CSI in any way.
Spoilers: this is set sometime between Seasons 4 and 5 (so lots of water under the bridge since I started this fic). Greg Sanders is still in the lab.
Rating: T for adult themes and language in later chapters.
Pairings: Jim/Catherine; Bobby/OFC.
Chapter 05/??
"Comfort Food"
(A Wednesday night in mid-May)
It was about 5:00 in the evening when Brass pulled up at the Hilton Convention Center, and recognized Mickey sitting at a shaded bench along the crescent driveway. Sunglasses on against the bright afternoon sun, she was partly facing the other way, apparently engrossed in what looked like a well-worn paperback novel. He eased along the curb behind her, then hit the police lights and bells he had in his car for a few seconds. She jumped to her feet, startled at his voice:
"Hold it right there, Miss!" He said it through the open passenger side window, loud enough that she and a few passersby could hear him.
"Jee-zus!" Mickey turned to see who it was. Then she laughed when she recognized the cop in the unmarked car. "Pain in the ass…"
Jim was laughing as he got out, coming around to help her with her travel bag and briefcase. A few pedestrians had stopped, curiously watching them and wondering who was going to be arrested or something. Brass had his badge to wave at them as he put it into his coat pocket.
"Evening, folks," he said as he put his sunglasses in another pocket. He chuckled as he leaned down close to her ear: "Scared you, didn't I?"
Mickey grabbed her travel bag and slung it to the backseat, leaving the briefcase and laptop computer for her uncle.
"I'm telling my mom on you," she said, climbing in on the front passenger side. She waited until he got in on the driver's side. "Oh, nice tie rack, Uncle Jimmy," teased Mickey, making fun of the collection of half dozen or so neckties that rested over the center of the front seat of his car.
He smirked at her and put his sunglasses back on, pulling out onto Las Vegas Boulevard. "You better shush." His shirt collar was open at the neck: no tie selection had been made yet for work. "Whatcha readin'?"
She showed him the cover. "Robin Cook's 'Toxin'. This one's about E. coli contamination of the U.S. ground beef supply."
"Oh, okay. That sounds like fun," he said, rolling his eyes even though she couldn't see his face. "What's good for dinner, kiddo?"
Mickey scrunched up her nose and reached into the backseat to put the book in the outer pocket of her briefcase. "Please, anything but hamburgers. I'm a little grossed out right now."
"I bet."
"What's with all of the lobster in these places? It's advertised everywhere on the Strip."
Brass shrugged. "Tourists want prime rib and lobster, living the Las Vegas high life. They think all the rules change out here."
"Any good?"
Now it was his turn to scrunch up his nose in distaste. "Not if you've been to Boston or Maine. You see any oceans out here, Doc?"
She nodded in understanding. "Makes sense. I got spoiled purely rotten in Bar Harbor with all of the twin lobster dinners. Cheap and right off the boats, but too much effort. I've switched to lobster rolls if I bother."
He agreed. "How about Italian? I know a place over by Nellis."
"Oh yeah, that'll work."
The restaurant was a small, family-owned place, on a quiet side street. The name "Angelo's" glowed invitingly in red neon from the front window. Jim ushered her inside ahead of him with a gentle hand at her back. There were eight red and white checked, cloth-covered tables, a red glass and candle gleaming from each one. Mickey and Jim were the first customers of the night, but it was early yet.
"Jimmy! JesusMaryandJoseph," came a strong voice as an elderly woman made her way around the counter to greet them. She wore the traditional black of a Mediterranean widow and was drying her hands on an apron she had around her waist. Maybe five feet tall on a good day and in high heels, she beamed up at him until he bent to let her kiss him on both cheeks. "Captain Jimmy. You look happy today. Come in, come in."
"Hi Jackie," he said when she finally let him stand back up. "Jackie, this is…"
"Who's your pretty new girlfriend, Jimmy? Good for you," she continued, reaching over to pat Mickey's arm. "You gonna get married or you just shacking up for now?" Her accent was thick, East coast Italian, and it made Mickey smile in recognition of the real Newark, New Jersey neighborhoods.
"Jackie, meet my niece, Dr. Mickey Kaye. She's visiting this week from Florida," Brass explained, winking at Mickey over the wizened head.
Mama Jackie gasped with delight, and pulled Mickey's face down to kiss both cheeks and generally make a big fuss over her. "A pretty and smart niece! And a doctor? Good for you, Jimmy, good for you."
"And Mick, this is Mama Jackie Turgeon. She runs the place."
Mickey smiled warmly and reached to take a gnarled but strong hand in hers. "Glad to meet you, ma'am."
"What's this ma'am bullshit? You call me Mama Jackie, okay?" Mickey was pulled by the hand to a table in the back; Brass followed in their wake. "Best table in the house, for you, beautiful Mickey. Hey Tony!" She called into the kitchen as they were seated. "Come and meet the new doctor."
A middle-aged man came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands dry on a tomato-sauce stained apron. He was balding and thickset; an extremely powerful looking man, but not very tall.
"Yeah, Mama. What's up?" he asked, then he recognized Brass. "Hey hey, Jimmy! Right on time, every two weeks." He greeted Jim with a thump on the back, smiling broadly at his friend. Mama Jackie patted Mickey again on the shoulder, and made her way into the kitchen, leaving her son to his waiter duties.
"Tony, this is my niece, Mickey, from Florida," Jim said by way of introduction. "Mick, Little Tony Turgeon."
Mickey grinned and shook his hand, glad that all of her digits remained intact after his strong grip. "Hi, Tony."
"Little, my ass, huh Jimmy? Nice to meet you, Mickey. Too bad you're related to this Capitano Ottone," he teased, translating the detective's surname. "Nothin' good looking can be related to this guy."
"Grazie mille," she replied easily. "He's okay." She winked at Jim, appreciating Tony's joke.
Tony laughed heartily, a big belly laugh. "Lei parla italiano, bella Doctora?
"Si, un poco. Non parlo bene la sua lingua; mi dispiace." Jim's lower jaw dropped in surprise listening to her. He spoke a tiny bit of Italian, but it wasn't exactly the mixed-company kind, and certainly not in front of his own niece. It was too idiom-rich.
"Coulda fooled me then, Doc. What'll you have to drink?"
"House red, please," said Mickey. Tony nodded and turned to Jim.
"Iced tea." Their waiter scoffed quietly. "Hey, I gotta go to work after. Gimme a break, brother."
Tony waved. "I'm kidding. I know you gotta go to work at the friggin' cop shop, paisan." He returned to the kitchen, laughing to himself.
Mickey leaned closer across the table. "Hey, if he's 'Little Tony', who's bigger?" she whispered.
"Oh, his dad was 'Big Tony'. He died about eight years ago." Mickey nodded, understanding. "We miss him, too. I had my first college job at their restaurant in Newark when I was at Seton," Jim explained quietly. "I didn't know you spoke Italian."
She smiled, blushing. "I don't. Well, just enough to be polite, order from a menu, have another beer, and find the bathroom. I took French for my Ph.D. language requirement." Mickey chuckled. "I'm much better at picking up accents, though."
"Really? Like what?"
"Jersey, Boston of course, New York, Charleston, whatever. Tommy and I used to do it for fun on road trips." She referred to her next older brother, now a parish priest in Clearwater, Florida.
"Father Tom does accents? No way." Jim had to smile trying to picture it: saying Mass and sounding like John Wayne, Richard Burton, or Marlon Brando. Yikes.
"Yes way. His boss at Holy Spirit parish is from Dublin. Tommy just kills me with that one," said Mickey. "I don't know if he's ever done it in front of the guy or not. Probably has."
Mickey poured olive oil onto the small plate of herbs and swirled it around with a piece of bread from the cloth-covered basket that Tony had just brought them. Jim chuckled.
"I always wondered what that was for," he said, indicating the fresh herbs.
Mickey frowned slightly, thinking he was kidding. "I thought you worked at their place back in Jersey?"
Brass held up both hands and waggled his fingers, chuckling slightly. "Dishes, in the back. I was too Irish for Big Tony to let me wait tables."
"Excuse me, Jimmy," said Tony, placing an iced tea in front of him, followed by a carafe of wine and a single glass in front of Mickey. "Paisano red alright, Doc?" She had a mouthful of bread, but gave him a thumbs-up. Tony expertly poured her first glassful and then collected the pair of menus from the edge of the table. Jim and Mickey hadn't even looked at them.
"What's for dinner, folks?" he asked.
"I'd like the chicken parmesan, please," said Mickey. Jim held up two fingers, making Tony nod and grin at him.
"And the usual for the Captain; two chicken parm. I'll be right back with your salads."
Jim tried the olive oil and herb mixture on the fresh bread, and decided that he liked it. "I checked the baseball schedule, and the 51's are on the road all week. So, no baseball I'm afraid."
"Fifty-ones? What's that name from?" She took a taste of the wine, savoring it.
"As in Area 51, where Uncle Sam supposedly keeps the aliens." He widened his eyes spookily.
"Oh, I love it. Who's their Big League big brother?" asked Mickey.
Jim paused, thinking a moment. "Dodgers."
She had to smirk at that and commented: "National league candy-asses."
Brass shook his head and laughed, fondly amused at her use of her grandfather Brass' old expression. It was a completely illogical bias against the league that made the pitchers also take a turn at bat. American League teams, such as the Boston Red Sox, used designated hitters (DH) in place of the pitchers who were supposed to rest between innings. This practice had been initiated in professional baseball in 1972.
Turgeon returned soon with their salads, and Mickey went to work removing several large rings of raw, red onion, setting them aside on a paper napkin. Jim grinned and scooped them up for his plate.
"Oh, come on, Doc. These are good for you," he teased.
"Gross," she said, reaching for the salad dressings in their tiny carousel and reading their labeled spoons. "Hmm, what do I feel like today? French, Ranch, Bleu cheese, Italian…" Mickey went with the bleu cheese and immediately speared a huge piece of the moldy cheese from atop her salad.
"Gross yourself," said Jim, grimacing at her enthusiasm. He went with the Italian dressing.
"No, live bugs," she told him. "Have you ever seen how they make cheese? It is so nasty."
He eyed the bleu cheese container suspiciously, trying not to smile. "Really?"
Her eyes were twinkling and he knew he had found a topic she had taught in her classes at the college.
"Yeah, really. I love doing the food micro lectures; yogurt, pickles, sauerkraut, cheese, soy sauce, you name it. My students get a little freaked out sometimes, especially after we do the labs…"
"Like what labs?" Jim continued eating his salad and broke off more of the fresh bread.
"Making yogurt and sauerkraut; separately of course. Both are pretty disgusting while in production." Mickey laughed heartily.
"And you eat this stuff?" He was starting to wonder if anything made Mickey squeamish, apart from a few paperback novels.
She shrugged. "Sure. I've got to set a good example and evaluate their lab work."
Brass laughed with her, shaking his head. "Sounds like a helluva class, kiddo."
"My favorite," said Mickey. "I was wondering, do you ever get back to Boston, Uncle Jim?"
"It's been a while. Just Dad's funeral in '92, and Mom's of course, after college, but that was closer. I was still in Jersey back then," he told her. "I talk on the phone with Pete, Johnny and your mother every couple of weeks. Petey's the only one without e-mail."
"I know," she replied with a chuckle. "I was up there last October. He doesn't like computers. Daddy finally got a Dell system; we kids pitched in for his birthday two years ago and got it set up at the house. Man, it took forever to convince him to not write in emails in all caps."
"What's that mean?"
"It's the Internet equivalent of shouting. He said he was used to it from the Navy. I guess all their memos are in capital letters or something."
Just then, Tony came by with their dinner plates, both of which were heavily laden with chicken Parmesan, penne pasta and a gorgeous tomato sauce. Mama Jackie had obviously put her heart into this meal for her adopted son and his niece.
"Oh my goodness," exclaimed Mickey when she saw the portions. "Tony, I can tell you right now I'm going to need a to-go-box."
Tony laughed. "You got it, Doc. Anything else? Jimmy?"
Jim didn't answer right away since he'd already taken a bite and was chewing furiously, trying not to burn himself. "No, brother. I may die happy here and now. We're good."
Tony patted him on the shoulder. "Enjoy."
Mickey cut her entire serving in half and pushed some of it aside on her plate. "Wow. This is great."
"Yeah, Mama Jackie makes all of the sauces herself. None of that can or jar B.S." He sighed with pleasure and remembered to tuck a napkin under his chin to at least partly protect his white shirtfront. "I think hers is a food group unto itself."
"Good thing I swam this morning," said Mickey.
"How far do you swim each day anyway?" Jim asked. "Just curious."
Mickey shrugged. "I try for a mile or more every day. Sometimes two or three miles; it depends what kind of day it's been."
"At sixteen hundred yards per mile?" Jim sounded incredulous. "Jeez."
"Sure. Two or five thousand on a good day in the summer, especially if I'm stressed out," she told him, and then she laughed at the look on her uncle's face. "What's so funny?"
"I nearly drowned like a damn rat doing one hundred yards for the Police Academy back in Jersey. Our cadets out here swim one-fifty downtown."
Her eyes widened. "There's a pool at your office? You didn't tell me that!"
Jim grinned. "I didn't? Yeah, it's down in the basement of the PD. The morgue is under the labs." He pantomimed two buildings side by side with his hands.
"I'll have to check it out then." Mickey sighed, pushing her plate to one side and poured another glass of wine from the carafe. "Great choice, Uncle Jimmy. This has to be the best chicken parm I've ever had; the real deal."
"Which is why I only come in every two weeks," he told her. "Any more often and I'd be bigger than my house. Hey, swimming reminds me…you still going out with that Spanish swimmer you met on the Master's team?"
"Portuguese. Um, no. Gustavo developed some serious memory problems later in our relationship," Mickey said as evenly as she could. She was silent for several moments, finishing the glass of wine and pouring another. Brass had interviewed enough people over the years in the course of his job as a detective to see that her eyes had gone hard. He also knew when to ask another question and when to wait. He waited.
"Yes, he somehow forgot to mention that he had a wife and three kids back in Lisbon," she said, shaking her head. "We were together for not quite two years, and I had no idea. How stupid was I, huh?"
Jim smiled at her gently, sympathetically. "Not at all, Mick. You don't cheat, you don't suspect, right? It sucks, I know."
Mickey looked at him then, grateful. She finally understood something she had heard years ago about her Aunt Nancy, Jim's ex-wife. She exhaled loudly before she continued, looking back down at her wineglass. "What I still don't get at all was his reaction when I confronted him about it, like I was the bad guy in the whole situation."
Watching her fiddle distractedly with the base of the wineglass, and with the ring on her right hand, Jim got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The air of sadness about her was heartbreaking to him.
"Did he hit you?" he asked quietly, concern in his tone.
She didn't look up, but shook her head. "No."
He reached across the table to touch her on the arm. "Mickey, look at me please."
"His style was more verbal abuse, I guess," she said, looking him directly in the eye. Jim could see tears brimming, but her voice was steady. "But there sure as hell were times when I wish he had; then I'd have some proof about what was going on." Mickey sighed again, this time almost tearfully. She finished the wine and poured yet another. Brass thought she looked completely sober when she excused herself from the table. "I'll be right back, Uncle Jimmy."
Jim shook his head and was a little startled when Tony came over with the check. "How was everything, Jimbo?" He transferred Mickey's leftovers to a takeout tray, and set it with a pre-made package of bread, herbs and olive oil.
"Oh, outstanding as usual, Tony," he replied finally, sounding distracted to his friend. He counted out several bills from his wallet after a quick glance at the ticket.
Turgeon chuckled. "I thought she was the one drinkin' since you gotta go to work tonight."
Jim literally shook himself to pay attention. "Yeah, I'm sorry. Mickey was just telling me about the dipshit ex-boyfriend back in Florida. A real sweetheart."
Tony tutted in disbelief, his eyebrows knitted. "You gotta be kidding me, and a looker like the doc? Guy needs his head cracked open."
The two old friends sat and chatted a few minutes. The restaurant was not yet busy, but a few other diners had arrived for an early dinner. When Mickey came back to the table, she downed her wine in short order and saw that Tony had prepared her to-go package. They stood when she arrived.
"Thanks for that, Tony. Leftover Italian is still one of my favorite breakfasts," she told him. Both men could see that she'd been crying in the ladies room and sensitively made no mention of it.
"Absolutely my pleasure, Doc," he said, taking her hand in both of his and looking very seriously into her eyes. The image was humorous since his hands were so big. "And enjoy the rest of your stay in Vegas. You need anybody taken care of, you just call your pal Little Tony. That goombah back home is a friggin' idiot, pardon my French." He winked at her as he spoke.
Mickey glanced over at Brass who just shrugged an apology. He was glad when she didn't seem to be angry about his letting the cat out of the bag, so to speak. She smiled very faintly. "I may just do that," she said, finishing the last of the wine. A mischievous glint had returned to her eyes.
Tony laughed heartily and hugged her. "Now that sounds like a kick ass Brass I know." He and Jim shook hands and embraced roughly.
"Take care, brother," said Jim.
"Yeah, see you in a coupla weeks, Jimbo."
Back out on the street, Jim put one arm around Mickey's shoulders and pulled out his cell phone with his free hand. She had her hands full as they walked together to his car, keeping pace perfectly.
"I found some stuff at the house that might cheer you up, kid. How about we get a gallon of that Dago red and take the rest of the night off? What do you think about that?"
She looked at him questioningly. "What about the bad guys, Uncle Jimmy? Won't they miss you?"
He grinned as he hit the speed dial to reach LVMPD dispatch. "They can take the rest of the night off too. We have a family emergency to take care of."
Mickey actually grinned back, appreciating his generous offer. "Cool."
TBC