Author's website: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles

Disclaimer: The story is not meant to reflect on the lives of the actors who portrayed the characters.

Author's Notes: Part of the Swingers Series--A Sentinel crossover series.

Story Notes:

medley(plural medleys) noun 1.music: musical sequence of different songs: a continuous piece of music consisting of two or more different tunes or songs played one after the other 2. mixture of things: a mixture or assortment of various things

Chapter Three
Points of Mutual Reference

Vecchio was watching Jim with those sapphire bright eyes. The doors of the elevator started to close.

Blair and Fraser were paused back near the office. Blair was speaking animatedly, hands flying about in illustration. If you cuffed Blair he'd be rendered half mute. Well, except for some real interesting moans and whimpers, Jim reminisced. He didn't have to dial up his hearing to know that the Guide was on one of his patented Sandburg cultural rambles. The Mountie looked enthralled.

Jim reached up to block the sliding doors and was surprised when Stanley took hold of his sleeve and tugged his arm down. As the doors slid closed he said, "They snooze, they lose. Fraze would rather take the stairs anyway." He punched the ground floor button, then leaned back against the metal wall, folding his arms. "So, Ellison. You married?"

Jim put his fists on his hips. "Pretty direct, aren't you, Vecchio?"

Stanley shrugged. "Just finding points of mutual reference. Myself, I'm divorced."

"Me, too."

"Amicable, or nasty?"

"Not really nasty, but it hurt. No kids, thank God."

"That was one of the main problems with mine: no kids. Stella and me didn't see eye to eye on that, so I guess it was a mistake from the start." He was silent for a moment. Then, "You with someone?"

"Ye-ah, actually, I am." Jim paused. "But he's the understanding sort." He watched Stanley carefully for his reaction. If he'd misjudged this, he'd fucked up royally.

Stanley's eyebrows rose. "Good."

There was a ping and the doors slid open. Jim found himself facing a red wall, which on second glance turned out to be Fraser.

"Ray," he scolded. "That was rude of you." He looked at Jim apologetically. "I know it was not your fault, Jim. Ray has very peculiar ideas of humor. I myself did not mind, Ray, but Blair should not have been forced to exert himself in that manner."

"Hey, I didn't mind, Benny." Blair piped from behind him. I bet you didn't, Blairboy. You followed that ass all the way down, didn't you? And I notice that it's already 'Benny' instead of Fraser or Benton. Jim explained, "My hand slipped, Benton. Come on."

They trooped back to the holding cells, and were shown into the one containing Solomon Tyson. He was curled up on his bunk, shivering. The room stank of vomit and shit, and the toilet in the corner was in none too fresh a condition. Jim wished that he could dial his sense of smell down below normal.

Now Jim remembered Tyson: a skinny guy with bad skin who looked like a Yorkshire Terrier had climbed up on his head and died there. He also smelled like said Yorkie had been there for some time. Still, it was hard not to feel some sort of pity for the poor prick, since he was so obviously miserable. His ratty face was pasty, and coated with sour smelling sweat. While his tiny eyes had never been bright with intelligence, and seldom with good will, they now positively glinted with pain.

Any sympathy evaporated the second he opened his mouth. "Mother fuckin', cock suckin', sunuvabitch, shitheel, crappy asshole lickin', dickhead pigs!"

Jim felt the urge to cover Benton's ears. The Mountie turned a shade only slightly paler than his tunic. He said primly, "Mr. Tyson, I understand that you are in pain, and thus are not in the best of moods, but there is no call for such language."

"Who da fuck are youse? Em'ly Fuckin' Post?"

"No, I am Constable Benton Fraser, and..."

"Fraze, that was a rhetorical question," Stanley interrupted. "We love you, too, Solly. How's the gut?"

"Feels like I done swallowed fuckin' groun' glass mixed wit' lye, dat's how. How's yer slut mother?"

"Collecting what your ma makes on her back with the fleet. Are we through pissing now? Can we talk?"

Solly groaned. "I got nuttin' ta say onnacounta my lawyer sez stuff it."

"Public defender, Solly?"

"Nah." He gave a smug sneer. "Unca Bernie sent me a real lawyer. You ain't extractin' me back ta Chi. I'm stayin' here, an' dis pissant pot bust is gonna go away."

Stanley squatted down next to the bunk, putting his face on level with Solly's. Jim admired his dedication to work. Personally he didn't like being in the same building with the creep. "Is that what he told you, Solly?" Stanley glanced at Blair in grave enquiry. "Is that so, Detective Sandburg? Has someone tried to make Solly's bust go away?"

"Why, no, Detective Vecchio, they have not." Benny gave Blair a look of approval at his verbal correctness.

Stanley looked back at Solly. "See, Solly? Uncle Bernie doesn't give a rat's ass if you rot inside or not. The DA back in Chicago, on the other hand, is willing to do a deal and keep your skinny, stinky butt out on the streets."

"Are ya fuckin' kiddin' me? Bernie would toast my nuts an' feed 'em ta me. He'd fuckin' kill me."

Benton was looking around the room, puzzled, as his partner spoke to the prisoner. Jim and Blair watched in astonishment as he bent down and sniffed at several places on the floor. At last he said to Blair, "Blair, are you aware of the schedule of your extermination regime for the holding cells?"

"What?"

Stanley translated. "He wants to know when you last sprayed for bugs." He addressed his partner. What's that got to do with anything?"

"There is a peculiar odor." He leaned over the toilet and sniffed. Jim tried not to gag. Could dedication be taken too far?

"I don't know," Blair said. "Quarterly? Not any time lately, anyway." He looked at Jim for affirmation. Jim nodded. He would have known. It would have been absolute hell with his sense of smell.

"Very odd. Excuse me." He bent close to Solly's face, sniffing.

Solly jerked back. "Whatarya, queer? Geddaway from me!"

Fraser frowned. "Mr. Tyson, has anyone other than a corrections officer given you anything to eat or drink recently?"

"What of it? It was jus' a fuckin' cuppa coffee, an' it tasted like shit anyways. I t'rew mosta it away after da suit left."

Fraser's forehead puckered in concern. "Oh dear. I do believe that Mr. Tyson has been poisoned."

"Huh?" "Whaddafuck?" "Poisoned?!" "FRAZE!" Blair, Solly, Jim, and Stanley all spoke at once.

"There is a distinct odor of bug spray in Solly's vomitus and around his mouth. Potassium chlorate, an ingredient in many insecticides, can induce nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, and abdominal pain. I believe that it would be prudent to have Mr. Tyson treated for ingestion, as well as being tested for appendicitis. Inducing vomiting is usually the first method of treatment in such cases." He glanced again at the toilet. "However in this case, such actions would be rather redundant."

Two paramedics, rolling a gurney before them, arrived just as Fraser finished speaking. The law officers exited the cell to allow them to do their job. Fraser told them of his suspicions, and they nodded agreement. Before a groaning and even more distressed Solly was wheeled out it was decided that Stanley would accompany Solly in the ambulance rather than cuffing the prisoner to the gurney, as usual. Fraser would follow with Jim and Blair.

It was crowded in the cab of the truck, not that either Jim or Blair minded. Fraser took the center after Blair confided that he just didn't feel secure riding anywhere but shotgun, even though it meant his long legs were a bit cramped. Then the anthropologist threw his arm across the seat back, behind Benton's neck, and had an excuse to fall against him when Jim took a corner. Jim reflected that if they drove far enough Sandburg would probably find a way to work himself into the Mountie's lap.

Stanley was allowed to accompany Solly back into an exam room mainly because he simply refused to hear the nurse's protestations. "There's a chance that someone is trying to off our prize song bird, Florence. I'm not leaving him till I find out for sure." The other three went to the cafeteria to wait for word.

When Blair saw Fraser considering the shriveled remains in the steam table, he said, "Benny, tell me you aren't seriously considering eating hospital food when you aren't hooked to an IV?"

"Well Blair, while it does not seem very palatable I am sure it is mostly harmless, inexpensive, and bound to be nourishing. In any case they did not serve a meal on the plane, and we did not had time to go in search of a noon time repast. Now it seems we have the time, and I am feeling quite peckish."

"But don't give in and subject yourself to that. It shouldn't take long to find out about Tyson. Hang on and Jim and I will treat you and your partner to dinner."

We will? Sure, standard Sandburg theory. Studies have shown that the desire for food and sex are two of the strongest drives in man. Ergo, feed them, then fuck them. "Sure. It'd be our pleasure."

"That would be most considerate of you. I am sure that Stanley will be pleased."

They settled on coffee which probably tasted marginally better than the bug spray laced stuff Tyson had gotten. Blair opened the conversation by asking, "Tell me about your wolf, Benny."

"Diefenbacher. Well you see, he is not really mine. We are companions. He is a fine beast, with few bad habits. Since coming to Chicago I fear he has acquired bad dietary tendencies. The officers at the station are careless about where they leave their jelly donuts. I am not so worried about his pizza habit as it includes meat and dairy products, but I do wish he would stick to plain cheese. The pepperoni is bad for him, and the anchovies make his breath unpleasant."

Jim settled back to listen, reflecting that perhaps Blair, with all his natural herbal remedies and meditation, wasn't quite as far into the fringe as he'd thought.

End Medley, Part 3 by Scribe: poet77665@yahoo.com

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