Blindsided

There was nothing to suggest my Wednesday morning was going to be anything but routine. Stop at Happy Donut. Snappy repartee with Bea, and then out with Lesley to catch the bad guys. I still hadn't figured out a way to deal with Lesley so I buried my head in the sand for another day.

It was about noon when we received an urgent message to return to the station. No good was going to come of this. Lesley drove carefully but quickly through the heavy lunchtime traffic. The parking lot was full so she had to search for a space.

I went to Lieutenant Odette's office and reported as requested, not relishing this meeting.

"Close the door Pemberton," Billie barked at me.

Not good.

"Sit."

I did, and on the edge of my seat.

"You must have fucked up pretty good. Chief wants to see you, pronto."

"Shit."

"That right Max, shit. Whatever you've done, this better not splatter on me because then I'm really going to have your ass."

"Do you know anything else?" I asked her.

"Nothing. But no one gets called back in the middle of their shift to see the Chief. Now get out of my office. You're keeping the Chief waiting."

I went to the Chief's office, wondering if I was a dead man walking. It was guarded by his long-time administrative assistant April. April knew everyone and everything that went on in the station. There was a gleam in her eye when she spotted me, and that wasn't good.

"Chief's inside," she said, pointing to the open door to his office. I could see a man and a woman engaged in an animated conversation with the Chief. I thought I recognized the woman. Chief Bradley Anderson took over for Saul Groesbeck, Lesley's father. He was fifty-three and only a year away from his thirty year retirement. It was common knowledge in the station that he was looking forward to his soft landing.

"What's this about?" I asked April.

April also wielded a fair amount of power on her own. She dispensed this valuable information, knowing some day she'd ask me for a favor.

She held her hand up to shield her mouth from the eyes inside the Chief's office. "It has something to do with Jumbo Williams and his mother," she whispered.

I was blindsided again. Jumbo? And his mother? How could they make this kind of trouble for me?

I'd only met Chief Anderson at a few holiday parties with nothing more than a pleasant greeting. I didn't think he knew who the fuck I was. All three sets of eyes fixed on me as I stepped into the office.

"Come in Pemberton," Chief said to me. He didn't have a cap on and had the top two buttons of his shirt open.

"Pemberton, I have two buttons open because I have a mild heart condition, and I'm getting overheated. Do you know why the fuck you're here?"

I could answer with what I'd heard, and that would give up April, something I would pay for the rest of my career. I lied. "No Sir," I answered.

He remained standing, as did we all. "I'll tell you why. I've got Frank Moore, the head of government affairs and Jean Ramsey, the head of my legal department, with me to figure out what we're going to do with this citizen complaint for destroying over $10,000 in Mrs. Adine Williams's china. You fucked up with a capital "F." Why the fuck did you assault Jumbo Williams in his mother's house?"

I decided to simplify things. No reason to throw my partner under the bus too.

"He made a lewd remark about my partner, Sir."

He put his hands on his desk. "In what book does it permit assault for a lewd remark?" he shouted at me.

"It seemed like the right thing to do. I didn't know he was going to bump into his mother's china cabinet," I explained.

"We're fucked," said Jean. As the department's top attorney, she defended all the police brutality cases and apparently property damage ones as well. "And this complaint was drafted by Sondra Karlsson . . ."

"You mean Sondra Karlsson of Saylor, Browning and Bair?" I interrupted. I knew Sondra from my pursuit of DaVanna. She was a tall Scandinavian blonde with a killer body. I thought she was on my side, but obviously not. Fucking attorneys.

"The same," said Jean. "They've retained a lawyer with a stellar reputation. She's expensive and she wins."

"I agree," said Frank. I hadn't seen him before. He looked at me as if I was vermin. "And that reason doesn't cut it," he continued. "Fucking lame ass excuse if you ask me."

"I'm sorry," I said (and I didn't ask for his opinion). "I'll pay for the damages and write Mrs. Williams an apology," I offered.

Frank responded to me. "You don't understand Pemberton. Adine Williams is a deacon in Reverend Sharpe's church, the Cavalry Baptist Church of Cincinnati. The Reverend prepared and then delivered the citizen's complaint for Mrs. Williams about an hour ago with a television crew present."

I didn't think it could get any worse but it had. Reverend Sharp had the largest Baptist church in Cincinnati. It was located in the West End, only two blocks from Jumbo Williams's home. His congregation numbered in the thousands and was primarily African-American. Chief Anderson was African-American and attended Cavalry Baptist Church.

"I was told that I was supposed to visit him . . ." I started to say.

"Were you also told to shove him and break his grandmother's china?" Chief asked.

"Well . . . uhh . . . no . . ." I said, the words stumbling out.

"Fucking right no. You created a major community incident . . ." the Chief said, now stating the obvious and twisting the knife.

"Jumbo Williams is the biggest drug lord in the West End," I said, interrupting the big boss.

"So fucking what? Have you proved that in a court of law?" he asked, challenging my statement.

"Not yet," I answered more softly.

"Then you don't have jack shit."

Chief slammed his fist on the desk.

"What do you propose to do Pemberton?" he roared.

"I said I'd apologize."

"That's not fucking enough."

"I'll take Jumbo Williams down on a drug charge," I proclaimed boldly.

"The fuck you will," said Chief. "No one's been able to make anything stick. What makes you think you can do it?"

"Because I'm fucking crazy and he pissed me off. I'll figure out a way."

"I've got fifty that says you'll be writing parking tickets by the end of the month," Chief said.

"You're fucked Pemberton," said Moore, sneering at me. "The media's going to have a field day with this one."

Jean piled on, as if she had to. "And Sondra Karlsson isn't going to quit until she gets her pound of flesh."

I left his office stinging . . . with my career about to go into the shitter and wondering how Lily found out about this before I did.

* * *

"What happened?" Lesley asked, standing in an empty break room. Her eyes were a bit glassy and it was barely past lunchtime. Fuck. I was up to my asshole in alligators and my partner was using right under my nose.

"You know that little incident in Jumbo's house? The one that you started by beating on a guy that outweighs you by two hundred pounds?"

"I told you I'm sorry Max."

"It's going to be on the local news tonight."

"What?"

I told her all about the complaint, that Sondra Karlsson drafted it, that Reverend Sharp and Adine Williams hand delivered it to the Chief with a news crew in tow, and that my career was about to get ass fucked with a broomstick.

"Fuck Max." She sat down.

"Yeah fuck Lesley. You're going to have to find a new partner."

* * *

There were only two things that could salve the lambasting I just got in Chief's office - - sex or alcohol.

I hadn't heard from Courtney in two weeks. My voicemails and texts must have gone into the ether. I wasn't sure if I'd ever hear from her again.

That meant the liquor store, and Nigel.

Nigel had already lasted there for a year, probably eleven months longer than anyone else in my experience. Try working in the West End in a shitty liquor store that was open all night. First of all, it practically said "rob me" with the bright lights and the cash filled register. Second, it was in the West End, and your clientele was the dregs of society. I guess I might say "present company excepted" but that might not be true. I was a drunk living in a fleabag motel in the West End who was about to be unemployed.

Nigel was watching some stupid game show that was adapted from one that was popular in Britain.

I could see he was angry. "No . . . no, that's not the way you do it," he said, scolding the television screen.

"You're killing your brain cells watching that shit," I told him.

"They've fucked up that game show . . . it's a travesty," he complained, pointing to the grainy image on the screen.

"The travesty is my girlfriend hasn't returned a phone call in two weeks and that I'm about to be fired."

"That bad?" he asked, forgetting for a moment his ire at American television.

"Uh huh. It's definitely a two bottle night," I confessed to him. If you can't confess to your provider of alcohol, then who can you confess to? Your addiction is out in the open.

"Max . . . the drinking . . ." he started.

I cut him off before he could continue. I sensed it was the "you're drinking too much" speech I often get after a person gets to know and like me. They don't understand that part of why I drink as much as I do is I don't really like myself. I had a fairly strict upbringing, and what I've become was not the vision of my parents. I was gay and promiscuous and into some pretty kinky sex. I knocked heads for a living and worked in the worst neighborhood in Cincinnati. Drinking gave me a temporary pass from my failings.

"Nigel, I know," I said.

He nodded furiously. He knew he was dealing with a sensitive subject and had hit a nerve.

"Of course, of course," he blurted. "I didn't mean to offend you."

I gave him a smile to reassure him. "You didn't offend me. I appreciate your concern. I'm working through my problems."

"I like you Max," he said, to tell me he had good intentions.

"I know. And I like you too," I said. "Now about those two bottles . . . on the budget side?" I was about to be fired, and had to conserve cash.

"Right away," he said. He knew to pick the cheapest bottle on the shelf. Another flavored vodka that no one wanted that was marked down. He put two bottles into a brown paper bag. It cost me less than ten bucks.

"You take care Max," he said. Another customer brushed by me as he said it.

"You too Nigel. You're one of the good ones," I told him.

* * *

Down to business. I had four slices of cold pizza, two pints of vodka and three back to back episodes of Seinfeld to watch, that show being one of my many guilty pleasures. You have to understand that the enjoyment level of cold pizza can surpass the deliciousness of a fresh pie in the right circumstances. In my case I hadn't eaten in eight hours and I desperately wanted to cover the vile taste of tangerine flavored vodka. I checked the proof on the label. It was 86, so it was the right payload, but the delivery method was some evil concoction that tasted more like licking a rusty fence post than a bright citrus flavor. I needed all four slices to drown out the two pints of vodka.

By the third episode, I was draining the second bottle and all was right with the world. Kramer was infuriating Jerry, and George was saying the stupidest shit imaginable. I was laughing my ass off and not thinking one second about the fucked up shit I was involved in, both in my work and personal life. It was 9:30 p.m. and I would likely pass out in an hour, getting six hours of sleep before my 4:30 a.m. alarm.

I usually silenced my cell when I was getting my drink on, but I forgot, and as I was nodding off I heard the ding that signaled a new text message. It was from Courtney.

Sorry, in St. Moritz for two weeks. Just got back. You free?

St. Moritz? Fuck, I forget that the last time I saw her she said something about going on a ski vacation. She didn't mention it was in fucking Switzerland. I blinked my eyes hard. Did I want to see her?

I know you're thinking that I'm hopelessly pussy whipped and what self-respecting woman would take Courtney back yet again? But this is Max talking, and I've already admitted that I did not have the requisite amount of self-respect to resist the best fuck of my life. I was drunk, horny, lonely, depressed and let's just say my self-esteem needed a little help.

I tapped out my answer.

Yes.

Moments later the reply came back.

Your place? 15 min?

In for a penny, in for a pound.

OK.

Really ask yourself. Could you resist Courtney? Don't think less of me if you answered that question "no."

* * *

Courtney wasn't one to criticize my housekeeping, but my place was a pigsty. My room was only cleaned once a week so there was an accumulation of pizza boxes, empty beer and vodka bottles, and dirty clothes and towels strewn on the floor. I found a clear plastic garbage bag and loaded it up. I threw on an old sweatshirt and a pair of jeans and stepped into the flip flops I kept near the door. It was dark, but not cold, as I went outside.

I went down the stairs holding a full garbage bag. I went left at the bottom of the stairs towards the dumpster in the back alley adjoining the rear of the Royal Palms. I avoided stepping on several used needles lying on the ground. I tossed the garbage in the dumpster and went back to the stairs. On the way there I saw headlights flash as a car swerved into the parking lot. The car went awkwardly into a parking space, the tires hitting the concrete bumper separating the parking lot from the sidewalk that ran in front of the rooms. I thought the driver was drunk.

A tall woman got out of the car. As soon as her face was illuminated by the security lights above I saw it was Alessandra. What was she doing at the Royal Palms at almost 10 p.m.?

She spotted me right after I saw her.

"Max!" she exclaimed as she saw me. As she got closer I noticed her eyes were red and puffy, telling me that she'd been crying. There was a bright red spot on her cheek.

I put my hands on her shoulders and held her at arm's length.

"Who hit you?" I asked her, dreading the answer.

She sobbed first. "Les . . . Lesley," she said, half speaking, half crying.

Fucking shit.

"Why?"

"I . . . I'm not sure. We had an argument. I don't even remember what it was about," she said, sniffling as she spoke.

"She hit you."

"I'm not sure she meant to . . ."

Of course she meant to.

I put my arm around her. "You want to stay with me for the night?"

"Maybe just this one night? Until I can figure this out."

"Of course. Whatever you need."

I helped her upstairs to my room. The usually self-confident Alessandra was an emotional wreck. She'd been living with Lesley for months. I thought there was a good chance they'd get married. Now this.

Fortunately I'd tidied up my room. Then I realized Courtney would be at my room. I checked my phone. Five minutes.

"Max. Max, can I use your restroom?" she asked as soon as she stepped in. There were tears streaked on her face and I'm sure she needed a few minutes alone to pull herself together.

"Did you bring anything with you?"

"No. I was too shocked by what happened. I just got in my car and went to find you."

"That's OK." She followed me to the dresser. I opened the top drawer.

"Here's a t-shirt and some stretchy shorts you can wear to bed."

I handed them to her. She took them and went to the bathroom. She turned on the light and shut the door. I sat on the bed wondering what I'd say to Courtney.

A few minutes later she knocked on the door, punctual as usual. I opened it, and she came in bearing a box holding an expensive bottle of scotch. She handed it to me before I could say anything.

She threw her jacket on a chair.

"I'm sorry . . . " I started to say.

"About what?" she asked, interrupting me before I could finish.

"I have someone here . . ."

"You're fucking with me, right?" she asked, interrupting me again.

I was frustrated.

"God damn it Courtney, let me finish."

She held up her hands. "OK, OK."

I couldn't believe how sexy she looked. I was feeling profound disappointment, both that my partner hit one of my best friends, and that I was missing one quality fuck.

The door to the bathroom opened. Alessandra stepped out of the bathroom wearing my gauzy t-shirt and stretchy shorts that made it look like her legs were a mile long. She had brushed her hair and washed her face. I'd always thought that Alessandra was naturally beautiful, and she needed no fancy clothes or make-up for her to look good. Courtney was startled to see her.

"You weren't fucking with me. Is this your way of telling me to fuck off? To get back at me for what I did with DaVanna?"

Courtney had jilted me for DaVanna, but that was almost a year ago, and I'd forgiven her.

"No, no," I insisted. "Alessandra just showed up on my doorstep a few minutes before you got here. She got into a fight with her girlfriend and got hit by her."

Courtney noticed the bruise on Alessandra's cheek. Her anger subsided. "Sorry, I didn't know."

I wanted to scold her for cutting me off before I could tell her the whole story but stifled myself. "Don't worry Courtney. It was a surprise for both of us."

"Maybe tomorrow?" she asked, getting up and retrieving her jacket.

"Sure," I answered. She left without another word, but not mad.

Alessandra immediately came up to me.

"I'm so sorry Max. I didn't know you were expecting company."

"That's OK Alessandra. This is much more important, and you can see that Courtney understands."

"I'm sorry again. And Courtney is cute. I recognize her from Nicky's."

I'd brought Courtney to Nicky's many times so I was sure they'd seen each other before. Courtney would also remember Alessandra was living with Lesley.

"I'm not too keen on my partner now," I told her.

"You mean Lesley?"

"Uh huh," I acknowledged.

"Thanks Max, again."

"Alessandra. Let's sit on the bed and you tell me everything that happened."

My buzz was completely gone. Alessandra looked so sexy in my underwear, but I banished the thought to the back of my mind. She was much more composed and told me about how Lesley had gotten incredibly moody since she got back from the hospital. I told her about the pills Lesley had stolen and that she was, without a doubt, high on the job.

"She's finished, isn't she?" Alessandra asked, sensing the end of Lesley's career and likely their relationship.

"Not yet," I said. "But I've got to talk to her. I've been putting it off, but now there's no tomorrow."

* * *

It was an incredibly awkward five hours in the same king size bed with her, though we slept on opposite sides and didn't touch, though the thought of snuggling up against her entered my mind. It was a restless sleep and I woke up exhausted when my alarm went off.

Alessandra was already up. I could hear the water running in the bathroom. I laid in bed waiting for her to finish. My head hurt from last night's drinking and my tongue was dry and swollen. She emerged from the bathroom wearing a towel around her body and one wrapped around her head. She was tall enough that the towel barely covered her breasts and crotch. She looked spectacular. I couldn't help but harbor salacious thoughts about my partner's girlfriend.

"Oh Max, I guess you're up," she said, picking up the clothes she wore the previous night off the floor. She bent over, giving me a view of her smallish breasts.

"Every day. 4:30 a.m."

"I usually get up at that time. I like to go to the wholesale produce market. It opens at five."

"What do you want me to say to Lesley?" I asked, addressing the elephant in the room.

She sat on the bed. "I couldn't sleep last night."

"I can't imagine why."

"You snore," she said, laughing.