Ebb Tide Ch. 02

"You never asked. Had you asked, I would have told you it was none of your business and Dabney isn't my girlfriend -- she is a girl who is a friend. She has had some personal difficulties, so I'm letting her crash at my place until her life becomes less complicated," I opened up a tiny bit.

"Let me get my sandals," Dabney turned around in her super-tight, body flattering jeans and flounced over to the sofa. My manhood grew to 'main mast' proportions. I had this bizarre idea that she'd painted those pants on. That was not where I needed to be focused on at the moment. I entered my domicile, held the door for TC, then shut and locked the screen door unobtrusively. No need to freak the cop out.

"Get you something to drink?" I asked Trixie Crowe. She was studying my living room.

"What is the cot for?" she pointed at the collapsible bed I had stood against the wall.

"Oh, that's where Vance sleeps," Dabney let her words drip with honey while her eyes shot solar flares at TC. "He doesn't sleep with me, or Ms. Norquist. We use his bed."

TC's eyes flicked to me before dropping a heaping helping of condescension on Dabney.

"Are you gay?" TC mumbled.

"No, he's all man," Dabney finished putting on her sandals, then hopped up swiftly enough to put a good deal of bounce in her awesome rack.

Dabney wasn't dressed like a whore, yet she couldn't help acting promiscuous and inviting. She started to snuggle next to me.

"I'll take some water," TC requested.

"Dabney?"

"I'd kill for a good, dark beer," she teased me. The only alcohol in the house has a more utilitarian purpose. "V8 please, V." I nodded and off I went.

"So, are you really a cop?" Dabney asked. The way she used 'cop' made it sound like an insult ~ as in 'so, you say you have chlamydia?'

"Are you old enough to drink?" TC shot back.

"I'm 26," Dabney retorted. TC hadn't been giving a compliment. She'd been insinuating that Dabney was being immature. I showed up with the drinks, in glasses, because I prefer to drink from clear glasses whenever possible.

"Thank you, Mr. Vardanyan." TC.

"Thanks Babe." Dabney.

"Mmmm...this water tastes...tasteless," TC observed.

"I filter all my water -- not a fan of parasites, toxic chemicals, and ground animal bits," I stated.

"The city filters its water," TC defended her hometown.

"Name the five common chemicals they treat the water with? The type of screens they use? How many cycles do they use to flush out contaminants and what is the water to particle ratio that they deem acceptable?" I tested her.

"I don't know," she confessed. "Do you?"

"Yes."

"Of course he does," Dabney rallied to my side for no better reason than to piss TC off.

"I know because they give tours of the waste and water treatment facilities. All you have to do is ask them," I enlightened her.

"V is one super-smart guy, and he saves lives," Dabney rubbed up against me. I doubted Dabney was a nymphomaniac. Sex had been the currency of her life for nearly a decade. Offering up her sexuality for security was her stock and trade. I counteracted that by ruffling her hair as if she was that ten/eleven year old shy kid I used to know. "Oh, by the way, Dear, how was your day," she tacked on.

"Nothing to write home about. A few bumps, bruises and bad drug reactions," I recalled.

"Let's go out to eat," Dabney moved along. "Is she coming along with us?"

"I don't think so," TC changed her mind.

"Trixie Crowe, I'm not dating Dabney, I'm not dating you, and I'm not dating G -- Ms. Norquist," I told her. "Dinner is dinner."

"Okay," she reluctantly agreed. "Where are we going?"

"Las Vegas Mini Grand Prix Family Fun Center," Dabney sung out. She was clearly psyched about going to a massive arcade complex even though this sort of place was not one of my favorite venue. TC was staring at me.

"Let's go," I shrugged.

"You'll have fun, Grouchy," Dabney teased me. "So TC, have you ever been there?"

"Not since I was nine," she snobbishly regarded Dabney.

"Well...I want to go and Vance needs to unwind, so we are going," Dabney sniped.

I put an end to the sniping by issuing an authoritarian command to pile into my car. I put Dabney in the back seat with the suggestion that she could lean forward and rub my shoulder, play with my hair and tickle my ear. Since Henderson is on the South side of Las Vegas and I lived on the north side, we had plenty of time to talk -- ugh. It took Trixie Crowe all of two minutes to start laying into my house.

I had the sneaking suspicion that she thought I was paranoid. I used my standard first line of defense argument: it is better to be prepared and never have a crisis than have a crisis and not be prepared. The fact that she was going out to dinner with me within twelve hours of meeting me spoke volumes against me being a true paranoid. Like most intelligent people, she settled on the idea that I was odd.

Dabney was dying to tell TC about our shared history over the past 72 hours, but she was smart enough to know that her story would have too many holes that TC could fill in; things like me blowing up Vegas Fantasies and disposing of Pablo, her old pimp. Instead, she began talking about growing up in the city.

That mollified TC somewhat. It confirmed that I was also a native ~ I admired her distrustful nature ~ and got her to open up. Then we collided with the iceberg.

"Buchannan...police...wait, were your parents gunned down by drug dealers?" Dabney blabbed. TC went rigid. Clearly, I was the only one in the dark. I chose to err on the side of knowledge.

"What happened, Dabney?" I spoke softly. Dabney had noticed her faux pa too.

"I...ummm...TC...I mean, Ms. Buchannan...do you mind?" Dabney inquired sympathetically.

"It doesn't matter," she grunted. At that point, I would have changed the subject.

"Your father was an undercover narcotics officer...he was involved with some really important case, but some gang-bangers tracked him home...to your house..." Dabney worked her way through a difficult recollection. "They killed your mother and burned your house down too."

"Not gang-bangers," TC grumbled.

"I...the news..." Dabney stammered.

"All the news that is fit to print, doesn't mean what you think it means, Dabney," I stated.

"Huh?"

"It means there is a gap between what happens and what makes the news," I explained.

"It was Hermosa Pena," TC said in a very flat voice. I'd never heard of the guy. That didn't mean anything to me, but I'd never been in the drug crowd and Las Vegas was a big place. "Two of the killers were gang-bangers. They gave his name up. Pena was shot and killed by the LVMPD evading arrest. Case closed."

That was the point where I knew she was lying, knew she didn't want to talk about it, knew there was more to the case and knew she hadn't let it go, both emotionally and professionally. 'This was not my problem' rang hollow. I was taking on too many people's problems.

"Is that why you are in IAB?" I asked.

"What?" Trixie looked my way.

"Nothing," I sighed. No words were exchanged for several seconds.

"I'm sorry," Dabney apologized. TC shrugged. Emotionally, the women were moving in different directions. It was not a big deal; I had learned multitasking and situational awareness in a very rough school.

Try being rushed by five different armed assailants from three different directions in a disorganized assault while shoving a syringe full of adrenaline into a comrade's heart because I was having a personal disagreement with Death over his misconception that he can take my guy. If I hesitated more than a few seconds, all my efforts at CPR would have been wasted.

If I didn't start shooting people, they were going to kill both of us. In that case, I drew my .45, shot the closest, then the most exposed. That bought enough time for me to shove the needle in, remembering to not put the 'just fired' gun on any of my buddy's exposed flesh. Seven seconds of CPR later, I shot the bravest one, then the one who thought running around a confined space with a loaded RPG-7 was a good idea.

He spasmed, pulled the trigger (the safety had been disengaged), the grenade went flying into the ceiling over his head. The last guy was fried by the back-blast and then had chunks of the upstairs fall on his head. After stabilizing my patient, I sprinted over and finish off that last guy. He'd been concussed, but I still viewed him as a threat.

I made him a 'post-threat' before prepping my teammate for evacuation. Seconds later, my MCPO called me up to see what the explosion was about.

"I should have Royce (the wounded man's call-sign) stable within the minute (my first priority). Five dead. Declaring our exit route secure seems to have been prematurely optimistic," I relayed with all the zest of trimming a hangnail.

I heard chuckling from several of my mates. They'd been worried about Royce and my blithe tone eased their concerns. Balancing two women, one who wanted to sulk and the other, who wanted to unwind in a childish manner, was a walk in the park in comparison. It was also a learning experience. Good cops and good whores share a surprising number of traits.

Both have to put distance between themselves and the misery they witness. Both have to lie convincingly and notice when others are lying to them. Both have to be alert for conscious and subconscious violent behavior. They differ in how they respond to these situations. Cops look for an advantage. Whores look for a way to mollify the threat.

I could tell TC was studying me, evaluating my words and actions, then reevaluating them as I alternated between engaging her and Dabney. Dabney was trying to make me happy. When that didn't work, she elected to accept the attention I was giving her. She knew I was trying to make her happy, rewarding her for not fucking up all day...yeah...

Dabney also took comfort in the fact that I was sexually responsive to her and not to TC. That was what she wanted -- to bridge the gap between the teenage boy she once loved and the creature in front of her now. The more humane I could pretend to be, the more she could ignore my carefully concealed menace. Pimps used subliminal, and direct, coercion to keep girls in line.

She was deluding herself that this would only be the face I showed the outside world. To her, I was her protector once more; lethality that warded her, not hurt her. In the way of women, she convinced herself that this ruthlessness within me would never be turned her way. Sammi couldn't help her ~ she had her own children to worry about now. I was all Dabney had left. Lucky for her, that particular delusion was based in reality.

TC was a different type of woman. Like Dabney she had been burned by life. Dabney was immersed in the emotion game. TC built up a wall around herself to keep the game at bay. She was unhappy alone, yet less unforgivingly miserable than anywhere else. If I had to make a guess based solely on my experience, it was something -- some promise -- her father made before he died; that unfulfilled promise was a betrayal she could not forgive.

It wasn't something horrible. It was probably "I'll see you on Sunday" and then Sunday never came. My psychological training was primitive. Trauma was what I knew well. After Dabney and I had reveled in two hours experiencing the childhood we wished we'd had, we elected to finish off our night tag-teaming a 40 oz. Slushy. TC decided to offer me an opening.

"What did you do in the Navy?" she questioned me again.

I knew I was changing in the same way I'd always changed. I was doing what I needed to do to survive. The truth was, I couldn't stay here and survive on my own. Abandoning Dabney wasn't even something I was considering. The same went for G. It wasn't how my mind worked. Besides, Lloyd wasn't going to let go until he was dealt with.

"Hospital Corpsmen (TC's frowned deepened) -- Marine Corpsmen -- SARC 'Special Amphibious Reconnaissance Corpsmen' -- SEAL teams -- DEVGRU 'United States Naval Special Warfare Development Group', though you will find no evidence of that and I'll deny it if you ever bring it up again."

"For the past three years, I was with the CIA's SOG -- 'Special Operations Group' which I will categorically deny as well." Trixie Crowe wasn't frowning, though she remained dour.

"That's a lot of 'specials'," Dabney whispered.

"Did you kill many people?" TC asked.

"Yes."

"Did you ever break the law?"

"Yes."

"That's not how I do things," TC stood up and shook her head.

"Tell me about your mother and father's murder," I remained still.

"Are you going to drive me back home, or do I need a cab?" she glared.

"Come on, Dabney," I tapped the younger woman's hand. "Let's go." We drove away in silence. Dabney was heavy on the affection. She sensed the disturbance coming.

Jumping out and running away wasn't going to work for her either, so she curried favor with me instead. I made sure to pet her hand and played a little thumb-tag.

"Why do you call Dabney, Dabney," TC inquired, "while I'm TC and G is G?"

"Memory cues," I answered. "Before I was trained how to organize my mind, I knew Dabney, so now I think of Dabney as Dabney. G was always G."

"I'll rarely call you Lieutenant Buchannan because you aren't a lieutenant in any branch of service I respect, or an authority of any kind, in my book. Constantly calling you 'cop' would get on both our nerves. Your name is Trixie Crowe so I call you TC," I responded.

"Stop doing it. I don't like it."

"I don't care what you like, or dislike. As I keep telling you, I don't like cops. Now I don't like you as a person either," I let her know. "Pain, I understand. Your pain making you stupid is something I don't need."

"What the hell? You don't know anything about me," she snapped. Dabney grew worried, so I squeezed her hand.

"I've seen enough to realize I don't want to know anymore, TC. You are more fucked up than I can handle right now. I gave you a shot and you disappointed me," I said.

"Fuck you! I opened the case on those officers," she growled. "I showed up at the Detention Center in time to get your bacon out of the fire."

"Had I thought you incapable of doing your job, I would have chosen someone else to do it instead," I told her. "Your failing is as a human being, not as a law enforcement agent."

"Oh, so I was supposed to hear about your glorious service record then pour my heart out to you?" she seethed.

"You don't date much, do you?" Dabney muttered just a hair too loud.

"Shut up, Whore," TC started to turn on her. I know how to hurt people in numerous ways that leave little, or no mark. I had also studied acupuncture which wasn't relevant at the moment. I used my hand to chop down on a spot above her left leg. It kicked forward into the bottom of the dashboard quite painfully.

"Ow!" she gasped.

"TC, you have decided you would rather be on the outside, looking in. You don't get to talk to Dabney that way. I don't, G doesn't and Dabney doesn't refer to herself that way and we are the only three opinions that matter," I cautioned. "I didn't tell you my background to get into your pants, or your head."

"I told you my career history to give you a chance to make an informed decision about solving your life's crusade. You chose to be the same friendless bitch you've always been, so that's that."

"You hit me..." she complained as she rubbed her knee and shin.

"So? What are you going to do about it?" I replied. She had to think that over.

"I'm not afraid of you," she simmered.

"Then you are an idiot," I told her. "Your only protections are your badge, your gun and your reliance on my good behavior. I don't give a fuck about your tin, I can kill you before your hand touches your hip holster and I'm not known for being even a decent human being," I said. "Worse, you now have a clue to what kind of person I can be and you still are acting moronically." We finished the drive in a renewed stillness.

Dabney wanted to drag me inside the house. A confused, frustrated, pissed-off female cop with a gun was in our driveway. What she saw as a bad thing, I saw as forward progress. I'd put a chink in Trixie's social cocoon.

"Pena was a cut-out," TC spoke into the night air. She was staring off into the starlit sky.

"The police officer who killed him was on someone's payroll. Four years ago, IAB was closing in on him, but before they could flip him, he 'committed suicide' -- swallowed his piece," she let us in. "The autopsy was flawed. The body -- cremated. I've been backtracking his case history, trying to put pay-offs to faces and figure out where the money goes."

"Do you want my help?" I offered.

"I won't break the law to get whomever was behind my Father's death," Trixie declared.

"Of course not. That is what people like me are for," I reminded her. "I am not now, nor ever have been, a mercenary. I've always fought for a cause."

"I don't trust you," she insisted.

"I'm fine with that," I shrugged. "You go consider the numerous courses of investigation you've yet to examine. I'm going inside." Dabney slipped an arm around my waist.

"I didn't say I wouldn't work with you," she cooled down. "But it has to be on my terms."

"I understand you concerns, but you need to meet me half way," I stopped and looked her in the eyes. "I will not inform you of the evil I commit. You won't ask how I do what I do. I'm not interested in convictions. That is your gig."

"I won't break the law, or instigate you breaking the law," she stated.

"I'm okay with that. Can you accept someone stumbling into your office and spilling their guts about all their wrong-doings without pressing too hard on what caused their change of heart?" I offered.

"You really think you can pull off something like that?" she expressed her serious doubts.

"I think he can," Dabney spouted off. TC shot a look her way. It was an 'I'll interrogate you about that later' gaze.

"I will give you an option; if it ever becomes too much for you, I'll quit," I promised. I wasn't worried about that coming to pass. TC was a psychologically haunted soul. The more I proved my usefulness and the closer she got to her goal, the more she would rely on me.

I didn't force people to trust me. I didn't trust others until they proved themselves to me. In the military it was easy. By the time I got to my second year, I knew who I worked with and they knew me. I made a point of getting to know all the people I'd be taking care of. It helped them when they knew my name and I knew about them and what mattered to them.

This was the same thing. With Dabney, it was easy and she showed her trust in a way most people wouldn't get. When she'd doubled back in that container yard to kick Pablo the pimp repeatedly in his shins then bounced a rock off his skull, she had expressed her trust in me. I would safeguard her from any retaliation -- I had also given her the freedom to express her pain, fear, rage and frustration without being judgmental.

We had never talked about her actions, or mine. We didn't have to. I'd backed her up in a life and death situation and that was all that mattered. She wanted to turn our relationship sexual. I was warming up to the idea. TC was confused about the proper procedure for parting company. I wasn't a date, a comrade, or a friend. I stepped up and offered my hand. She gave my hand two firm shakes, turned and departed hurriedly.

"Are we going to see her again?" Dabney asked as she led me inside.

"Can you give me a good reason not to?" I reposed, giving Dabney the sense that her vote counted in the affairs of 'our' household.

"Since you don't trust her, I guess it would be okay," she allowed. "What now?"