Private Dicks

by Samantha M. Derr

  Shortly after that, things got loud again. The paramedic team came out of the building with the three men who'd been traitors to Llewellyn. They were followed not long after by armed men escorting several handcuffed individuals: some of the more loyal lackeys, as well as the man himself.

  Llewellyn was limping badly and looked as if he might literally explode from rage. Jason was glad to be standing with several police officers far, far away from Llewellyn as men from the SWAT team maneuvered him with some difficulty into a police car.

  Shane came out shortly after, meeting up with an older member of the police force who greeted him heartily. The man's face looked vaguely familiar until Jason suddenly placed it as the face of Boston's chief of police. Since Eric was Shane, and Shane O'Neil was the son of the police chief, that meant the man was Shane's father. They spoke for a long time, too far away for Jason to hear what they were saying. Liam was in an animated conversation with one of the officers who was standing with them, from which Jason managed to pick up that everything had worked out ever so perfectly for some kind of long term operation the police had been trying to run to take this gang down. Jason ignored them in favor of staring at Shane.

  He tried and failed to reconcile Shane O'Neil with the man he'd thought was Eric Donahue. He couldn't figure out how he felt about it. If anything, he felt numb. A memory floated briefly to the surface of his thoughts, and he nearly snorted. Eric had 'met him, sort of,' indeed.

  Eventually, he decided he was angry. Once the thought entered his head, he found the emotion growing stronger with every passing moment.

  "You okay?" Liam asked worriedly, apparently done with his conversation. Jason hadn't even noticed.

  "Fine," Jason returned shortly. Liam recoiled, and Jason immediately felt awful and tried to calm down. "Shouldn't I be the one asking you that?"

  "I'm not the one who looks like he'd be lighting fires with his mind if he could," Liam returned, staring down resolutely at the ground. He raised his head briefly, looking at Jason from the corner of his eyes. "Just try to go easy on him?"

  "Butt out," Jason replied. It wasn't Liam's fault that 'Eric' had been lying to him—to everyone—for months.

  Before long, Shane turned and approached them. Jason tried to glare a little less obviously.

  “I talked to my father about having you both give statements tomorrow.” He paused a moment and glanced at Jason with what might have been wariness. “Can I give you two a ride home? The nearest train station is a ways away.”

  "That would be awesome. Thank you so much," Liam said quickly, looking much more appropriately grateful than Jason.

  The car ride began with a long, moody silence. Well, Jason was moody; the other two were just silent. Liam was sitting in the back, and Jason had taken the passenger seat by force of habit. It might not have been the best idea, but it was too late to change now. He stared out the window, glaring at the trees.

  "I'm sorry," Shane finally said, breaking the silence. "That probably wasn't the best way for you to find out."

  "You think?" Jason scowled, but didn't say anything more. It was tempting to go off on a rant, but he knew it wouldn't help. He wasn't in the best position to criticize people for having major life secrets. Also, even as resentful and angry as he felt, he knew that wasn't the problem. The problem wasn't that the man sitting next to him wasn't Eric Donahue. The problem was that Eric was Shane O'Neil, local hero, detective extraordinaire, son of the police chief, and, even if Jason had had a chance in the first place, completely out of Jason's league. The anger was useless and misdirected, but it helped Jason to not think about the embarrassment or the crushing disappointment he felt underneath that anger.

  The car devolved back into silence. Jason sat brooding a while longer. Finally, he sighed with some resignation and spoke. "I'm sorry. You really don't deserve this shitty attitude from me."

  Shane's tone gave nothing away as he replied, "Don't worry about it. I understand why you're upset."

  "Why did you do it, anyway?" Jason asked, unable to filter the lingering sullenness out of his tone. "Pretend to be Eric Donahue."

  Shane frowned and looked thoughtful, as if he were trying to compose a good answer. "Well, part of it was actually about this particular gang. They were trying to undermine the Irish syndicate, and to that aim they focused a lot of their activities on South Boston. We also knew they had a particular interest in psychic and paranormal things. I went undercover as a special class private investigator with less name recognition hoping that I might get a case that would give us something to take them down with."

  "And me and my brother fit ever so conveniently into your stupid plan," Jason muttered bitterly.

  "I do actually like to help people," Shane said, sparing a brief glance at Jason.

  "So you lie to them," Jason replied before he thought to stop himself.

  "Jason, would you have asked me to help you find your brother if you knew who I was?" Shane asked pointedly.

  "Well, no," Jason admitted. He might have found someone else, but he knew he never would have dreamed of trying to contact someone like Shane O'Neil.

  "It's why I became an S-PI in the first place, actually," Shane continued. "I like helping people. I'm not allowed to join the police force on account of being part Tuatha, and I've never really liked the BPI, which was my only other option for this kind of work. Being Eric Donahue was also a way to help people whom nowadays I normally can't."

  "I'd like to thank you on my and my brother's behalf, Mr. O'Neil," Liam said, speaking up from the backseat for the first time since they'd gotten in the car. "I very much appreciate your assistance, and I know my brother does, too. He'll get over it. I think he's really just upset because he likes you."

  "Liam!" Jason exclaimed in horror, twisting backwards to glare at him accusingly.

  "Yes?" Liam had the innocent angel face down perfectly, and Jason just turned back around and made a noise of frustration.

  More time passed before Jason felt up to speaking again. "I'm sorry I'm being like this. You saved Liam. Without you, I don't know if we ever would have gotten out of that."

  "I'm glad to have been able to help," Shane replied. After a long pause, he spoke again without prompting. "Just … for your information, I suppose, I didn't actually develop a separate personality or anything like that. What you saw was me, just without the name recognition." He smiled slightly, and Jason was struck by the familiar expression on the unfamiliar face. It was just a simple facial expression, but it really brought home the fact that Shane O'Neil was Eric Donahue. Or that Eric was Shane. Not that it really mattered, Jason supposed. Shane was a big-time hero. Tomorrow he'd go back to being just that. He'd probably forget all about this one case among what must be hundreds, filing it away as that kidnapping case that took down some big vicious crime gang. The thought was depressing.

  Eventually, Shane pulled up in front of the townhouse Jason and Liam lived in. They both got out of the car; Liam poured more heartfelt thanks on Shane with Jason in subdued agreement.

  Once they were inside, Liam barely paused to change before crashing on his bed. He was asleep in moments. Jason stood by his doorway, watching Liam sleep for a long time. He needed the reassurance that his only remaining family member in the damn universe was finally home safe.

  *~*~*

  "Quit moping and just fucking call him already," Liam said a week later, standing in the doorway of the living room and staring accusingly at Jason.

  "I'm not fucking moping," Jason objected from where he was slumped on the couch, but he couldn't even muster up enough annoyance to hypocritically chastise Liam for foul language.

  "Yes, you are," Liam replied, standing firm in his conviction. "Call him now. Something's gonna remind you to in a minute anyway, I think."

  "Stop making self-fulfilling prophecies," Jason complained, straightening up. Then something did suddenly occur to him, and it almost made him forget to be annoyed at Liam for predicting it. "Fuck. I hired him
. I never actually paid him."

  "Told you so," Liam said, smirking in satisfaction. It was annoying how often he did that, but Jason couldn't muster up real frustration with Liam, not so soon after what had happened.

  It took some digging through pockets before he found Shane-slash-Eric's cell phone number. Dialing the number, Jason realized he wasn't sure if Shane was still using that phone. He might not even get an answer. Then again, he wasn't quite sure if he wanted to.

  After a couple of rings, there was a click, and then a far too familiar voice came on the other line.

  "Hello, Jason?" Shane's voice had a strange tone to it that Jason didn't have the mental capacity to identify at the moment.

  Jason forgot to breathe for a moment from the sudden rush of anxiety. "Um, hi," he began, already feeling like an idiot. "I was wondering if you'd be available to meet me? For discussing payment?"

  "Oh," Shane said, and Jason wasn't sure if he was imaging things or if there really was a note of disappointment in his tone. "Sure. I should be available in an hour or two. I'm downtown; I can come meet you somewhere …?" Shane trailed off, making it a question.

  "Commons Park?" Jason offered. "Near the wading pool?"

  "Sure. I can be there by six."

  Jason couldn't shake his anxiety for the next couple of hours, to the point that Liam finally got sick of it and hid in his room.

  He was running a little late by the time he actually reached the park, and Shane was already at the wading pool, sitting on a nearby wooden bench. Jason's pulse started racing the moment he saw him. He swallowed hard before approaching, and then he voiced an uncertain, "Hello."

  Shane looked up and smiled, and Jason noted that he was every bit as interested in Shane as he had been in Eric. Only now, his chances were even more dismal. Someone like Shane O'Neil could not date a broke, low class nobody like him. Harshly, Jason reminded himself that he hadn't come here for that. He wanted to settle things, maybe part on less unpleasant terms. That was all. Breathing in deeply, he steeled his resolve and sat down next to Shane on the bench.

  He was trying to recall his rehearsed speech when Shane startled him by speaking first.

  "You know, I'm sorry I pushed you away that time in my office. I actually was interested; I just … wouldn't have wanted to start something on a lie. You didn't know who I was."

  Any chance Jason had at remembering what he'd planned on saying crumbled into dust and blew away. "What?" was all he could think of, gaping and probably looking like an idiot.

  "I don't exactly feel comfortable getting into relationships as is," Shane continued, resting his arms on his knees and looking pensive. "I get a lot of public attention, and I'm not sure it's safe for me to get close to people."

  "I can take care of myself," Jason responded automatically, scowling.

  Shane smiled slightly and glanced sidelong at him. "I suppose you're probably right."

  There was a long moment of silence. Jason still wasn't feeling up to forming coherent thoughts, much less sentences, and Shane continued staring quietly at nothing in particular.

  "I don't actually expect you to still be interested after all that happened. I just wanted you to know."

  "I—what?" The words were not something Jason had ever dreamed of expecting, but damned if he was going to let an opening like that slide away, awkwardness or no. "I am definitely still interested."

  Shane smiled at him, and for once, it was full and real, not some unreadable half smile.

  Jason steeled himself and forced the words out of his mouth before he could convince himself not to. "So then, uh, did you have any other plans? This evening? For right now?"

  "Not particularly," Shane responded, leaning back against the upper half of the bench.

  "Want to … maybe have dinner somewhere?" Jason asked, certain he sounded almost as awkward as he felt. He held his breath, trying to mentally prepare for the inevitable rejection.

  Instead, Shane smiled again. "I'd love to."

  They both stood up, and then a thought struck Jason. "Oh man, I completely forgot the whole reason I wanted to talk to you in the first place. I should pay you."

  Shane glanced towards him, face perfectly neutral. "I don't think that'll be necessary."

  "No way," Jason responded vehemently. "I'm not accepting charity."

  "It's not charity," Shane replied in an almost exaggeratedly casual fashion. "I just figured that your future services as a consultant would cancel out anything you might owe. Unless you'd rather not?"

  "Actually that … that sounds awesome," Jason replied, taken completely by surprise. Everything about that idea sounded amazing. Too good to be true, almost. Being directly helpful would make him feel less like he had to climb a mountain to be even with Shane.

  "So, anywhere in mind?" Shane asked.

  Jason shrugged. "Doesn't really matter to me."

  His last thought before they left the park together was that Liam would never let him hear the end of it.

  CASE 04: The Virginia Gentleman

  INVESTIGATOR: Alison Bailey

  The oil lamp light pouring out of the open doors and un-curtained windows of the dance halls, saloons and unscrupulous hotels cast the dry, dusty streets of Lovell in a golden glow as the "Virginia Gentleman" rode into town. Cowboys and prospectors, sheep herders and drifters, outlaws and worse filled the dance floors, barstools and beds of the small Wyoming cowtown with the Gentleman intent on joining their ranks for the evening.

  The only thought the Gentleman entertained as he dismounted his dapple gray horse was that of taking a long swallow of whatever was fit to pass over his tongue. He tied the horse to a well-worn hitching post outside the nearest saloon, a two story, hastily constructed establishment called The Knotty Pine. With a gloved hand, the Gentleman pulled his silk handkerchief down from where it rested over his lower face and ran a finger lightly under his nose to wipe his mustache clean. Heading stiff-leggedly toward the open door of the Knotty Pine, he lifted his hat to shake loose the remains of the trail from his bevy of elk-brown curls.

  He'd been on the trail for days, stopping only for a drink and some information before pressing on. The unseasonably warm, dry winds off the distant Absaroka Range had been strong enough to push even the most minute bits of dust through the gaps and stitches of his long oilcloth duster, leaving his entire body browned with a thin layer of sweat-soaked mud. The silk handkerchief he'd bound around his face had kept the dust out, but it had also allowed the dry air to pass through in abundance. His mouth and nose were dried and cracked and tasted of blood.

  The air inside the saloon was thick with smoke and off-key piano notes. Groups of dirt-covered men played cards, telling jokes and laughing heartily as they gambled away their earnings while the boys danced with a handful of upstairs ladies, hoping they might get a discount for being gentlemanly. In such a jovial atmosphere, the Gentleman let down his guard in order to tend to his thirst before surveying the barroom for any signs of danger. The dry sides of his throat nearly stuck together, choking his words as he called for a whiskey from the barkeeper.

  The Gentleman put a boot up on the bar rail and leaned onto the counter to stretch his back as he took a few tentative sips from his glass. He'd been a younger man when he'd started hi life in the saddle. Not so much younger, but there sure seemed to have been a lot fewer aches and pains back then. Or maybe he'd simply grown soft. With the cracks and sores in his throat sufficiently wetted and numbed by the alcohol, he took a final swig from his glass, and then signaled to the bartender for another. The Gentleman dug in his trouser pocket and left a few coins on the counter, which the barkeeper quickly scooped up for his troubles after filling the glass. The Gentleman grinned at this; then he turned to look out over the room. If he'd bothered to count, the barkeeper would have seen that the Gentleman had overpaid him quite generously for such weak alcohol. The Gentleman had hoped to cully some favor with him, expecting a few useful pieces of information in return. He'd inform the b
arkeeper of his error later, when there weren't so many patrons around and he wouldn't risk making a scene. For now, he had a room full of potential sheriffs or sheepherders to sort through.

  With the aches in his throat quieted, the Gentleman could savor his drink and brought it to his nose for a casual whiff as he surveyed the room. Whatever the saloon owner was using to extend his homemade brew, it was pleasant enough, much like the assembled masses in the Knotty Pine that evening. No finer group of drunkards, working men, and no-goods to be found 'tween California and ol' Virginia herself. Not one badge or cautious eye or overly serious face in the bunch. If there were any lawmen or any other of the Gentleman's "acquaintances" present, they must have been laying as low as he. And so long as they all continued on that way, the night would pass without event. As he moved to throw back his second shot of whiskey, something caught his eye at a shadowed, out-of-the-way corner table, and his gaze lingered over the mismatched trio gathered there.

  A well-dressed, thoroughly out-of-place looking man spoke in hushed, nervous tones. He was clean-shaven with close-cut, dark hair parted down the side and slicked back. His coat and suit were dark and dusty, matching his hair, and paired with what had once been a starched, white collar. A pair of half-moon glasses had slid down his nose and was threatening to continue their descent off his face. He pushed the glasses up to their intended resting point whenever he turned to glance about the room, which he did quite often. The gussied-up look of him set him apart in the smoky saloon; he was more banker than bank robber. His hand constantly moved toward his breast pocket as he carried on a heavily one-sided conversation with a burly bear of a man who sat across the table with a critical look on his face.

  Hulking arms were crossed over the man-bear's broad chest and even broader middle. A trail of tobacco juice stained the graying red of his considerable beard. He tilted back his head so that he could look out from under the brim of his low-drawn black prospector's hat, and it was impossible not to feel looked down upon under that stare. Even from across the room, the Gentleman couldn't help but feel he was being looked on as inferior under that gaze. Everything about the man said he would do as he pleased, no matter. The Gentleman had seen grizzlies that didn't look as formidable and had met rattlesnakes that had seemed friendlier.