Meantime, Part 11
11 – 46 & 2
Roan’s first night tailing Campanelli was as boring as hell.
He followed him to the QFC, where he spent twenty minutes before emerging with a single plastic bag. He then followed Campanelli to his condo, where he went inside and stayed for the night. Roan made sure of that by watching his condo until an hour after the light went off in his unit. After he didn’t sneak out by then, Roan figured he wasn’t going to.
It was late, but Panic was still open, and Dylan was probably finishing up his shift, so he drove to the club. For a weekday night, it was relatively busy, but he imagined that meant it’d be good for tips.
Mighty Mouse just welcomed him back and waved him in, and he braced himself to be overwhelmed by the noise, scents, and lights. It didn’t help, it still hit him like a punch in the chest, but between the painkillers and the strangely pleasurable painful prickling of his scalp , it wasn’t so bad.
It was easy to spot Dylan in spite of the mottled gel lighting, mainly because he’d know his chest anywhere. The other bartender on duty was Luis, who hadn’t changed much since he last saw him, except he had a new haircut. Some of the people recognized him and moved aside, so he could cut through the crowd easily. Dylan must have seen him come in, as he was right there when he sidled up to the bar. Dylan graced him with a knowing smirk. “How did I know you were going to show up?”
“Because you’re psychic now?”
Dylan raised an eyebrow at that. “If I was actually psychic, sweetheart, I probably wouldn’t have gotten involved with you.”
“Oh, ow,” he said, grabbing his chest. “I think you just made my heart hurt.”
Dylan leaned over the bar and gave him a chaste kiss on the lips. “You’re so cute when you’re insecure.”
“I am not insecure,” he protested, but of course he knew that made him sound exactly that way. Sometimes there was no way to win.
A guy who reeked of some expensive cologne came up to the bar, and Dylan switched his attention to him. “What can I get you?”
The guy was in his thirties, solidly built, with expensively cut brown hair with frosted tips. In spite of all the expense he poured into his grooming, he was wearing a generic gray t-shirt at least one size too small for him, and jeans that were tight enough in the crotch it actually made Roan’s groin ache in sympathy. He gave Roan a very suspicious glance before looking at Dylan. “I’d rather be served by the other guy.”
Dylan looked genuinely baffled, but Roan got it instantly. That look he just shot him gave it away. “And why is that?” Roan wondered.
“This isn’t your business,” the man replied coldly, not looking at him.
Dylan was starting to get it, but he hadn’t quite grokked what was going on. “He’s busy. I can get you a drink now.”
“I’d really rather you didn’t.”
“Why?” Dylan’s question betrayed genuine puzzlement. He didn’t know.
“’Cause of me,” Roan said, giving the man a death stare. “Isn’t that right?”
The man finally deigned to look at him again, staring right back. “It’s not PC, but I don’t want to get what you’ve got, all right?”
Now Dylan got it, and it looked like someone had just punched him out of the blue. He couldn’t believe it. “You don’t want me serving you drinks because my husband’s infected?”
The guy just looked at Roan with a smug smirk, his blue eyes full of the bland emptiness he ran into too much nowadays. “Look, I’m sure people like to show how tolerant they are by putting up with you, but you know you’re putting gay rights back by a thousand years, right? ‘Cause of you and your ego trip, you’re just reinforcing the idea that all us gays are diseased freaks. You -” Water splashed against the side of his face, making him gasp and recoil. A bit of it splattered Roan, but it made him smile, as he didn’t have to look to see Dylan holding an empty glass. He may have been a wonderfully tolerant Buddhist, but you didn’t bad mouth his man.
“You’re barred,” Dylan said. “Get the fuck out of here.”
The man glared at Dylan and moved in closer to the bar, like he was going to jump it, but Roan shoved himself into the man’s personal space, figuring he’d react badly to it. He did, jumping back as if Roan was made of static electricity. “He said you’re bounced,” Roan told him, walking towards him and forcing him to back up. He almost backed into a clot of twinks near the dance floor, who smelled like an ocean of hair spray. “I suggest you go.”
The man tried to get indignant, but it wasn’t the easiest thing to do from a defensive position. He wiped some of the water off his face as his hair sagged under the dampness, and said, “He can’t bar me. I haven’t -”
“There’s a sign that says they can refuse to serve anyone at any time for any reason. Want to try again?”
He scowled, the action cutting deep furrows into his face. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”
Roan simply nodded, although he couldn’t quite stop the evil grin that crept over his face. This guy was scared and stank of it, the fear overpowering his cologne, and the closer Roan got to him the more frightened he became. “Uh huh, so are you. So I guess that means we’re perfect for each other, huh?” Only then did he realize he was growling low in his throat.
“Just get the fuck away from me, you freak.”
“Hey,” a bearish guy standing nearby exclaimed. He not only had an impressive mustache, but sideburns that came to a sharp point near his cheekbones. “Watch the insults.”
The guy, whom Roan had mentally dubbed Douche, shot him a disbelieving look. “This guy is playing it up. Can’t you hear him growling at me?”
“He’s a hero, he saved some kids today, stop riding his ass,” Sideburns snapped, proving not only did he recognize Roan, but he must have seen him on the news.
“Hero my ass,” Douche snapped back, but in spite of the loud house music washing over everyone, people were starting to look at them, some with nothing but curiosity, others with nothing but contempt, and it seemed like this was a fight he couldn’t win. Actually that had always been so, but he was unaware of it, because he was a giant douche.
He was saved from getting snapped in half by the arrival of Mighty Mouse, who must have been summoned in from the door. He simply made a get out gesture, and after taking a good, long look at the huge boulder of humanity that was Mighty Mouse, Douche decided to head for the door with a dramatic huff. Roan waved after him, even though he didn’t look back. Mighty Mouse gave him a sort of “knock this shit off” look, and then followed Douche, to make sure he obeyed his instructions.
Roan returned to the bar, where Dylan was finishing up mopping the water with a bar rag. “Remind me never to piss you off,” Roan told him, smiling.
Dylan sighed and didn’t roll his eyes, but clearly meant to. “You do all the time. But that guy … Jesus. Sometimes I think because we’re all gay, we’re all on the same side, and then some asshole like this shows up.”
“We’re not the Borg, we don’t have a hive mind, no matter what Focus on the Family says.”
“The Borg? Sometimes I forget what a geek you are.”
“I’m not a geek, I’m a nerd, thank you very much.”
Luis breezed past, but on his way by he put a glass of iced tea in front of Roan. “You’re a very butch nerd. “
“Thank you.”
Roan hung around, sipping his iced tea and keeping an eye out for trouble, but it looked like the trouble was over for the night, and he was glad. He did wonder if he caused the problem simply by showing up, that this wouldn’t have occurred if he stayed away. But maybe Douche would have caused another kind of trouble regardless. Still, it was a painful reminder that he was just a complete disaster in everyone else’s life.
He didn’t question the fact that Luis kept giving him non-alcoholic drinks. Either he assumed he was driving Dylan home, or he assumed he was still on painkillers. He didn’t ask, and decided it didn’t matter.
Roan hung around until closing time, which was funny because they’d be driving separate cars home, but at least they’d be driving their own cars, as they gave each other their keys back.
Once at home, they split a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream, and Dylan asked if he was really going to hurt that asshole. Roan admitted he didn’t know, but he suspected that, if the guy actually threw a punch, he’d probably be waking up in the hospital about now.
Roan was still plagued by this odd wave of painful/pleasurable prickling sensation along his scalp, and it was just along his scalp. What the hell was this? He wondered if he should bring it up to Rosenberg next time he saw her, but figured no, fuck it. If it was something that was going to kill him, he wanted to preserve the surprise.
But how bad could it be? He still managed to have sex with Dylan, and while he did bite him on the shoulder, he managed not to break the skin too much. The tiny amount of blood seemed to satiate the lion.
He slept like a stone, until woken up by an early morning phone call. Well, fairly early; at least before noon. The sky was faintly overcast, so filtered light was coming through the gauzy, opaque curtains. It turned out they needed him at the precinct house, as Salome was back to Human, and it was decided (presumably by the Chief, but Seb didn’t clarify) that Roan should talk to her. Of course that was going to happen. Was he really shocked that it did? He dealt with the infected, that was the only reason they kept him on the payroll.
The prickling sensation was gone, replaced by the dull thud of a mild headache. He made himself a piece of toast and had some codeine before heading out. Rosenberg had called him while he was in the shower and he listened to it while waiting at an insanely long stoplight. He was right about her being a hybrid cat, as she had traces of leopard and cougar viral DNA in her cells. But there was probably only one way that could have happened, and Roan winced to hear it. She was fifteen, for fuck’s sake, she went to a good, upscale Christian school. Oh hell, what was he thinking? None of this was shocking, not nowadays.
He arrived at the precinct house to find it surprisingly quiet. Maybe he got in before the lunch rush. Seb met him in the foyer, dressed in a fairly snazzy dark brown suit paired with a pale blue shirt and a navy tie, his badge hanging from a lanyard around his neck. “We’re doing our best to keep the parents in another room, but keep in mind we can only run interference for so long.”
“Are they raising a stink?”
“Yeah. We’ve told them we could only release her to their custody if they agree to bring her back to a holding cell tonight, since it’s unlikely they could get a room secured in their house in time. They’ve been calling us fascists, accused us of interfering with her parenting, they’ve called their lawyers in, but they haven’t arrived yet.”
Roan stared at him. “There’s nothing they can do. You could legally hold her until the end of her viral cycle if they don’t have a cage or a specially equipped room in their house.”
“They can cause a shitstorm that we don’t need, and they’re working very hard on it.” He grimaced and shook his head, and Roan knew it was bad because Seb rarely showed that kind of frustration. If they could crack Mr. Stoic, they were pushing the obnoxiousness up to eleven. “So the sooner you cam get through this, the better.”
“Can’t rush an interview, but I’ll see what I can do. She had anything to eat yet?”
“No. She said she was feeling nauseous. All she’s had is water and some painkillers a paramedic gave her.”
Roan nodded, glad he remembered to grab the bottle of ginger pills before he left the house. “Got any doughnuts in the break room?”
Seb raised an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, some. You gonna steal our doughnuts? You bastard.”
“I’ve got an in with a gay bakery, I’ll have them send you cookies.”
“Cookies aren’t doughnuts,” he replied, but with a dry edge. Roan started towards the break room, but Seb touched his arm and made him pause. “Hey, you comin’ to Gordo’s retirement party? It’s Friday at seven at O’Doyle’s.”
“Retirement? Holy shit, I never thought Gordo would retire.”
“Yeah, I know, but he has heart problems, and he was being shunted to a desk job, which he couldn’t stand. So he’s retiring instead.”
“Understood.” Gordo, unbeknownst to him at the time, apparently had a second, mild heart attack after his first one. Eventually he had surgery, but unlike Dick Cheney, he couldn’t afford the absolute best health care, therefore while he was healthy enough, he was weaker than he had been before his heart attack. He probably hadn’t been cleared for field work, hence his push back to desk jockey. Roan didn’t blame him for retiring out instead, as he’d have done the same thing.
He retrieved the box of doughnuts from the break room (only five left out of what had to have been two dozens), and got a Coke from a vending machine before going to the interview room, where Salome Little was waiting for him. She probably didn’t know she was waiting for him.
As he expected, she was small. It was impossible to say what her height was since she was sitting down, but the cat he’d slung over his shoulder was under a hundred pounds and barely five feet even, and he was sure that still held to be true. She had long brown hair the same color as the cat’s fur, and a pleasant round face with exceedingly delicate features. She wasn’t pretty, but she had the potential to be. She was wearing SPD sweats that were far too large for her, and it looked like her clothes were trying to eat her. “Hi, Salome, how’re you feeling?”
She glanced at him with hooded brown eyes, both slightly stoned and in a lot of pain. It was terrible and yet a relief how that could only happen in a few certain situations. “How do you think?”
“I think you feel shitty and nauseous.” He put the box of doughnuts on the plain wooden table, put the Coke down beside it, and sat down in the only empty chair. The walls were a theoretically soothing pale green, although there was one long two way mirror on the opposite wall. “Luckily I brought something for you.” He pulled the bottle of ginger pills out of his pocket and set it in front of her.
She picked it up and looked at it, reading the label. “Ginger pills? Like, the stuff they put in Chinese food?”
“Yep. Really works, although you can always go over to Dramamine if you’re more comfortable with pharmaceuticals. See, it may feel like you’re gonna barf, but really you’re so hungry your stomach is rebelling. Take a bite and you’ll see.”
She opened the bottle and shook a couple of pills out into her hand, then looked at the can of Coke and scowled. “Y’know how many empty calories are in that can?”
“You can’t think like that anymore. Ironically, corn syrup and trans fat are now your friends. You need to load up on all the calories you can during your transition phase, because you burn calories so fast that it’s actually possible to starve to death within hours. So your dieting days are over. Remember that.”
She kept eyeing him warily, but cracked open the can of soda and swallowed the pills while Roan opened the box of doughnuts. The pastries smelled good, and despite the sheer amount of them missing, they were probably pretty fresh. He wanted one, but it was only fair to let her go first.
She looked between him and the box as if she expected them both to bite, then said, “You’re that guy, aren’t you?”
Well, it was better than “kitty fag”. “Probably.”
She seemed to accept that, and reluctantly reached into the box and grabbed a doughnut. She kept examining it like it might have broken glass in it as opposed to jelly, but finally she took a tentative bite. She looked braced to barf, but after a moment the light went on in her eyes and she took a huge bite, shoving half the doughnut in her mouth at once. “Remember to chew,” he advised. Not that he didn’t sympathize, as he usually woke up ravenous even after a minor change. The fun the virus had with your metabolism. He took the opportunity to take a doughnut before she ate them all.
This was going to be difficult. Trying to get a fifteen year old girl to admit who infected her was a tricky thing, especially if she (A) felt something for them, (B) disliked the cops, (C) was too embarrassed by all of this, or (D) didn’t want to get anyone in the cat brotherhood in trouble (all of the above was a true worse case scenario). All were possible, and he wouldn’t know which until he got her to open up more. This certainly wasn’t anything he could rush.
His plan was to let her talk, but she was busy cramming doughnuts in her mouth, so he was forced to fill the silence. Mainly he told her what she should know about transformations, how the need to carbo-load and protein load before the change was important, and not to worry if she started getting a bit pudgy between times, as it would most likely be gone by the next change. It suddenly occurred to Roan that maybe he should put together a “what every infected needs to know” packet and release it to the internet. It might be better than Wikipedia. From what he understood, the Wikipedia page on infecteds kept getting hacked by both cultists who downplayed the negatives, and from haters who liked to say they were all abominations under the Lord and should be slaughtered like the children of Satan’s butt hole that they clearly were. Why couldn’t there be a happy medium between “best thing ever” and “kill them all”?
By the time he’d finished his one stolen doughnut, she’d finished off the box. Unselfconsciously she licked the sugar glaze off her fingers, then gulped down the Coke. “So what am I?” she asked, failing to suppress a burp.
“You don’t know?”
That made her pause and look down at the table. “Well, yeah, maybe …”
“Would you be happier if I said cougar or leopard?”
Now she looked at him. She probably should have been ashamed in some regard, but a teenage defiance burned in her eyes. She was so fucking young, he had no idea why she had done this to herself. “Have you told my parents yet?”
“That you’re a cat? They already know.”
She gave him an ugly frown. “No. About … that.”
“About you sleeping with two different infected guys on the same night? No. Luckily most people aren’t perceptive enough to pick out the differences in a cat. They chalk up any physical oddities to the person beneath the transformation.”
“Two? It was -” She stopped abruptly, aware she had given too much information away.
Roan wanted to sigh in disgust, but held it in. She didn’t allow a bunch of infected guys to run a train on her, did she? “Three? Four? Less than ten?”
Salome made a noise of disgust and crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “What kinda slut do you think I am? It was just three.”
Just. He rubbed his forehead, and wondered why more school shootings didn’t happen. At least she was only infected by two separate strains of the virus and not three. “You were that desperate to get infected?”
Her look was defiant, indignant, and angry by turns. She might not have been capable of shame, which was both good and bad. “Why not? It’s better than being me.”
That sort of flabbergasted him. “What?”
“Don’t deny it. It’s better than being you, isn’t it? If you were just some guy, no one would know you. But ‘cause you’re the cat guy, everyone knows who you are. Nobody at school knew who I was. Now, I bet I’m all they can talk about. “
Holy shit. Roan just sat there, staring across the table at her, and wondered if it she was monstrously unhappy, monstrously stupid, or the shallowest person in the world. Which was better?
