Characters belong to Baltimore Pictures & NBC. Standard disclaimers apply. Please send feedback. Back in the Good Old World Luna
The Waterfront isn't a cop bar any more. It's still across the street from Headquarters, but the walls are sage green now instead of grubby brown. Misplaced tourists sit between the potted plants, drinking bubbly things with grenadine. They might get a captain, even some lieutenants, but no detective or uniform worth his ass would be caught in there. The Waterfront isn't a cop bar anymore, but Kay Howard's sitting at the far end, and that's all the integrity you could ask.
You sit down a few barstools away from her and ask for a glass of milk. Kay's nursing a Natty Bo; she's probably the last person on earth who still drinks those. At first she doesn't notice you, then she does, and you crack a smile when her face blushes the color of her hair.
"Tim." She says your name like it hurts her mouth, takes a deep breath, smiles. "Tim. It's been a long time, huh?"
You chuckle at the awkwardness, take your glass of milk and slide down next to her. "You look good, Kay," and she does, same as ever. Thin perfect skin over small pointed bones. And her hair, and her eyes. She doesn't say you look good. She never could lie.
"Are you staying in town?" she asks, swigging some beer. Casual. Like she's used to you passing through, once every seven years. You're a locust.
"With my mother." You can't help adding, "Only as long as I can't help it."
She's quiet for a second and you look around. Strange that after seven years and several different owners there's still a ghost of familiarity here. They've changed the arrangement of the liquor bottles. Someone must have thrown out the photograph of three guys in old-time copper uniforms and fake mustaches.
"It must be--I can't--" Kay pushes her hair back, sighs, starts over. "I guess I don't have to ask you what it's been like."
"I started smoking again," you say, taking the pack out of your pocket.
She bites her lip. "But you quit drinking?"
You light a cigarette and look down into your milk. "Maybe. Maybe I just haven't started again yet."
The bartender--skinny, black, female--brings Kay another Natty Bo without being asked. She glances at you with hard jet eyes. Probably she can guess where you've been. "It's not the same," Kay says.
"The bar? No."
"Nah, I meant the department." She squares her shoulders and drinks. "Everybody I ever worked Homicide with is gone. Long gone."
You wince, she winces; neither of you needs to name names.
"Except Lewis," she goes on, "and we were never what you might call pals."
You're not thinking about Frank, because you've taught yourself not to think about Frank, and you're not going to lose that discipline now that you're outside. The milk is cold and clean in your mouth. It would've been sour if this were still a cop bar. "You still have friends," you say.
She snorts gently. "You didn't drop in to hear a sob story, huh?
"Well, I didn't drop in to tell one." You smoke your cigarette down, exhale, and cough: not from the smoke. "Kay, you were always... you stayed friends with Ed Danvers."
If you'd never seen her work a suspect, you might not think she was startled. But she blinks once, and her knuckles are white against the brown of the beer bottle. "Yeah," she says, "I did."
Your throat is starting to hurt. You look up at the mirror behind the bar, wonder how they keep it that clean. Your face is gray, thinner than it used to be; so is your hair. You're younger than Kay and aging twice as fast. You try to catch her eyes in the mirror, but she won't quite let you. "Danvers cut me a deal," you say. "He could've scored points taking down a wrong cop. He cut me a better deal than I would have asked for."
She swallows, so hard that her chest hitches. Turns and looks at you straight on. Her eyes are soft and sad, sorry, but there is no sign of guilt. Slowly, so slowly, she nods her head. "Yeah, he did."
Of course you figured out years ago why Danvers gave you this gift: eight to ten and less since you behaved yourself. You're still a good detective. Still, the confession is what closes the case.
You nod back to Kay and put your cigarette out in your glass of milk. The girl behind the bar glares at you as if you'd flashed her. "I just came to find you--" You cough. Stand up and try again. "I'm doing okay, is what I wanted you to know. I'm doing my time."
Her eyes are wrinkled at the corners and maybe a little wet. She's too smart to try and tell you that you've done your time already. But she reaches out; her fingers stroke your sleeve.
"You were never a wrong cop, Tim," she says. "Wrong cops have it a hell of a lot easier."
You bend down, close enough to smell her hair, and almost kiss her on the cheek. No. You pull back and squeeze her hand. "Thanks," you say, and when you do, it hurts your mouth. She gives you a tiny thin smile, and you let go.
You have to duck a spider plant on the way to the door. You give a glance to the jukebox, a shining silver machine with songs by shining silver teenagers you've never heard of. No Coltrane. No Teddy Pendergrass. This isn't a cop bar anymore. With one hand on the door, you glance back, at Kay, who's watching you through the foliage. In the bar-light her hair's the brightest sun you've ever seen.
"Keep an eye on the place for me," you say. You turn your back as soon as she nods, and walk out, alone, into the street and the night and the world.