1955, L.A.; the Victory Motel, or what's left of it. Through the walls, all Swiss cheese bullet-holes and cut-rate plaster thin as paint, I can just hear the Andrews Sisters glide by on some security hack's radio: The usual oh-three-hundred swing-by, then back to that demolition company portable down the hill for another fifty-plus of clockwatching and booze--*drinkin' rum and coca-cola, workin' for the Yankee dolla.* And me, Bud White, lying back on the bed in my undershirt with both shoes kicked off and Edmund Jennings Exley's smart tongue shoved hard between my teeth, his deft little hand so far down my pants I can feel his watchband scratch my balls. Exley, glasses still on, like he thinks he's gonna have to write somebody a report on this later, high-strung wiry to my bull-neck bulk--greying a little now in his nice grey suit, panting like a racetrack dog now the starter gun's popped; Exley, on top of me. For now.
     (Ah, but...you mean *Ed*, surely. Don't you, laaad?)
     'Cause: What with all the two of you done--apart, together, *together*--might be you could feel free you've earned the right to call the boyo by his Christian name, at the very least. WENdell.
     But: That's Bud, you dead Mick motherhump. And don't you fuckin' forget it.
     (Sure, laaad. Sure.)
     No light but my cigarette, burning down to ash on the bedside table; mildew-stink and neon on rucked sheets, with some brown-black bloodstain under my ass gotta date from back in the bad old days under ex-Cap Dudley Smith, poundin' heads and takin' names to keep this dirty city clean. Thing's the exact shape of Arizona, with a little bump could be Bisbee down the bottom diggin' into my cheek as Exley shifts again--lip to lip, cock to cock, inseam to inseam. Can't help but remind me of Lynn's sad little wish-pillow in that tiny room she kept for "real" sleep, all homey felt cover and straggly frontier stitches. Just her and me, in there, first time to last: Both our jobs gone out the window in a tangle of breath, sweat, sweetness; Bracken and Wendell, skin on skin, with no LAPD or Victoria Lake bullshit left in sight...
     Exley pressing down, right now, panting. Making me dredge a rusty groan. Voicebox never been quite the same since that night--gotta get up pretty close to make an impression, these days. Then again, not like we TALK, him and me.
     Much.
     Words, that was always *his* thing. Little bastard can break a skell down to zero with his mouth, faster'n I can with my one-two--and THAT's sayin' something. Still remember watching him work those three perps on the Night Owl, gettin' 'em to give themselves up along with each other; I mean, turned out they didn't have shit to do with shit, but that ain't the point. Point was--just the way, the *way* he did it...
     Him with his badge and mouth, me with my badge and gun; I broke 'em, but he cracked 'em. Like we were always workin' together--even then.
     Ancient history, but worth repeating: Happy ending with Lynn collapsed, like we always knew it would. Only took about a year. Not enough people to beat up in Bisbee, for me; too many ghosts in our bed, for us both. 'Specially...one, in particular.
     So I left there, came back here. Traded one desert for another. Came back for him, *to* him. And found him--waiting.
     Now we meet here, at the Victory Motel. For him, mostly, 'cause he cares what people think; who knows what, and how much, about who's doin' who. Typical Ex-...Ed: He's that kinda guy, always was. Always will be, probably.
     Me, now--I never really gave one runny Jack-shit WHAT people knew, 'less *I* needed to be in on it. And these days, these days...
     ...I just don't give a damn for much of anything, I guess.
     (But him.)
     Growl and grab, so I'm not the one by the balls, for a change--twist high, then higher, just to hear him wheeze. And see that one fierce vein pop up along his forehead as he bites his lip, like he's still afraid somebody's gonna hear him, even though this shot-up dump has to be the safest place in all L.A. for two cops--one ex-, one not--to do the righteous Big Daddy bone dance in peace. Sid Hudgens's been dead three years, feeding worms and throwin' press conference pot busts in Hell; no catch-up Hush-Hush peepers gonna be trawlin' *this* place for celebrity homo ammo,a nytime soon. Besides which--
     --you are NOT a celebrity, L-T E. Headlines aside.
     (Now c'mere, golden boy.)
     I *said*...
     ...c'MERE.
     Pain-fog misting his lenses, eyes like gone wide like flat brown stones. Another gasp: Words, yet. Or--*word*.
     "White--"
     "'S Bud," I correct.
     A huff. "Look, *Bud*, I..."
     But I just grin, into his sweaty neck. And growl, again--
     "No, YOU look: Shut the fuck up, okay? For Goddamn once."
     (*Ed*.)
     Sharp knees, sharp hips and elbows; sharp teeth on my shoulder, snapping fast, as I flip and pin him--get my knees between his and push 'em wide, push his glasses up onto his head, and come in for more of that tongue, that mouth. He's already got my fly down, so I return the favor; touch that red, wet thing popping up through the slit of his boxers and hear him hiss like the snake I always thought he was, and remember back when the closest I wanted to get to him was far enough in to do him damage. After the Nite Owl, when he ragged me over Stens; after I drop-pieced Inez Soto's rapist, when he said I didn't know what justice meant. Arrogant little prick'd have a flatter nose'n he's already got, if Dudley didn't pull him off in time for the rest of the boys to pull ME off.
     *You should stay away from a man when his blood is up, Edmund.*
     And Ed, sneering back: *His blood's ALWAYS up.*
     (Remember THAT, Joe College?)
     Well, you better.
     'Specially next time I make you scream, like maybe a couple of minutes from now--so loud. I bet that dick-for-hire down the drive's gonna think it's two cats fuckin'.
     Got his pants to his knees now, hobbling him. I rear up, shaking free of my own; pop the buttons on his shirt and twist it up over his head, trapping his arms. Watch him squirm, flush rising--memory coming over me again: Flashbulb pop, sodium-white glare. That first time back into L.A., when I knocked at his door bent on "working things out"; made him match me shot for shot through a bottle of Jack, then brought up what Lynn always used to say about how she told him fucking her wasn't fucking me, but HE didn't wanna talk about it...
     ...so he just went ahead and *did* it, instead.
     Almost beat his head in over it, afterward--slamming him up against that filing cabinet so hard his glasses flew across the room. Hers, too, standin' there in the rain--never could apologize enough, for all she said it didn't matter. Another reason to let what we had go, eventually, right there: Good, bad, indifferent.
     (*Think, Goddamn you! Think...*)
     Sorry, Lynn.
     But now...
     ...now, at least, I know why.
     Slurring his words, sloppy drunk: *Guess it wazn' li'...'t woulda been wi'...*
     (Me?)
     Which gave me a reason to lean forward and ask, in a throat-cut voice so hoarse it was almost a whisper--
     *Wanna find out?*
     And then: Our lips met, fume to fume. And that--
     --was fuckin' THAT.
     Meanwhile: "Get ready," I tell him; see him nod. 'Cause, fact is, he kinda *likes* takin' orders, even from a muscle-job thug like me--and I found THAT out, too. That first night.
     One last flip, and I got my target. Spit, scrub it up and down; jack my skin back and forth enough times to wet my dick, but much too quick to make myself pop off. Then I lower in as he lifts up, me grunting, him back to hissing: Hot, slick, squeeze tight enough to hurt. One good thing about bein' born with a stick up your ass, I guess--gets you ready for the *idea*, but it also keeps you nice and ahrr, ah, OH my GODDD--
     (See, Ed?)
     TOLD ya I'd make ya--
     --*scream*.
     Coming right when I come, and I can feel it, everywhere. Like a fucking SHOTGUN.
     We fall down hard, and stay there one long damn time. Fall down, lockjawed and dazed, like we just shot our brains out: Him onto the mattress, me into him. For a minute, we're just as smart, or just as dumb--equally...equal, I guess. No Ed the politician, no Bud the piledriver; just him and me like me and Lynn, cop/whore, whore/cop. Skin on skin, on breath, on sweat...
     (...together.)
     Lying here, tangled up in the sheets of the Victory Motel, as the fake-cop car comes swinging back around, radio still blasting through those thin, thin walls: *Slipping around, afraid that we'll be found...*
     *I know I can't forget you, and I've gotta have you near
     But we just have to slip around, and live in constant fear...*
     (Always knew the two of you'd be the death of each other, laaad.)
     That's why I had to keep you apart, understand--keep you at each other's throats, for fear you'd end up in each other's pants. Or...
     (...worse.)
     Yeah, well--
     --not yet, Dudley.
     Not yet.

THE END