Gross Misrepresentations Gross Misrepresentations by Nathan Alderman Ray Vecchio heard them coming halfway down the hallway. Hot, sticky summer air seeped into the District 27 squad room from the dark outside, and the tiny tin fan on Ray's desk wasn't moving much of it around. The little hand on the squad clock stretched toward two, but the room was packed; word on the wire had the Capelli family moving a big shipment of china white down across the lake tomorrow morning, and there were preparations to be made. The crowd didn't do much for the temperature. Ray ran his fingers absentmindedly over the surface of his desk blotter, tapping on all the numbers of the vintage Buick dealers he'd called about a replacement. He didn't even want to think about insurance rates right now. What, blowing the car up wasn't enough, they had to set it on fire and drive it into the lake? Never give anyone else the keys again, Ray swore to himself. The coffee on his desk sat untouched in its styrofoam cup, which was okay-- he was pretty sure Frannie had spit in it sometime between him asking her for it in his usual courteous manner and her placing it on his desk with a look that said "I hope you burn your tongue." He could have used it, though-- at this hour the paperwork was all starting to blur together into one gray mass, and Ray was about to pass out face-first in it. Then, over the phones and the gossip and the five different radios playing three different stations, and the rustling of paper and the orders and questions and file cabinet drawers slamming open and shut... he heard clicking. Nails on linoleum. Dog nails. No, check that-- wolf nails. Then the voices. One, more Chicago than Chicago: "I'm telling you Fraser, it never happened." Another, clipped and polished: "Yes, well, are you certain, Ray? Because I seem to recall--" And there they were, walking into the squad room. Stanley "Ray" Kowalski, in leather jacket, sweaty T-shirt and jeans. And Benton Fraser, Supermountie, in comic-book red serge. Diefenbaker the wolf skipped any introductions and beelined for the snack machines. "Where the hell have you guys been?" Ray shouted. "Last I heard you were sledding off into the Yukon." "Territories, Ray," the Mountie said calmly as Ray walked up to them. It was like he'd been gone a couple hours, not three months. "Oh, and congratulations on your marriage. Shouldn't you be in Florida?" "What?" blurted Ray. "Your marriage," the Mountie explained. "To Stella." "What?" said Kowalski. "And the bowling alley in Florida," the Mountie added serenely. "Benny, what are you talking about?" Ray marveled. "I didn't marry Stella." Kowalski resumed breathing and unclenched his fists. "I didn't move to Florida," Ray continued, "and why on Earth would I open a bowling alley?" "I don't know, Ray," Fraser replied. "It's your bowling alley." "What's this about you and Stella?" Kowalski asked suspiciously. "Wait, Ray, are you absolutely positive you didn't get married?" Fraser asked. "Yes!" Vecchio replied. "Geez, Benny, what do you take me for? Like I'm going to meet some girl, get married and go running off to Florida to set pins for cranky retirees? How long have you known me, Fraser?" Fraser considered. "I guess you're right, Ray." "Thank you," said Ray. "You sure you didn't marry Stella?" Kowalski asked, just to be certain. "Of course not." Ray told him. "We're engaged." Kowalski clenched his fists again. "Well, I'm very happy for you, Ray," the Mountie said. "And how is Francesca taking motherhood?" "What?" Vecchio nearly choked. "You know," Fraser went on, "Francesca and her eight immaculate conceptions?" Kowalski intervened. "'Scuse him. Sgt. Preston here kinda got hit on the head by a big chunk of ice while we were up North. He was delirious the whole way back. You ever put up with a delirious Mountie, Vecchio?" "Yeah. Did he sing?" "Oh, God, yes." Kowalski rolled his eyes in disgust. "The Ballad of Somebody or Other. I think in Canada, if you like discover a rock, you get a ballad. Maybe it's a law or something." "So Turnbull didn't get hit by a bus?" Fraser asked suddenly. "No," the two Rays said. "Oh dear," Fraser pondered. "I guess I'll have to cancel those flowers I sent. But Ray, we found the hand of Franklin, didn't we?" "That was your hand, Fraser," Kowalski told him. "It got half-buried in the snow and you started looking at it and going, 'We found it, we found it.' And then you started singing "O, Canada." "I did?" "Several times. Loudly." "That chunk of ice that hit him on the head," Ray asked. "Has that worn off yet?" "God only knows," Kowalski replied. "And Inspector Thatcher's not in Iraq?" Fraser asked. "Don't I wish," Ray grimaced. "Nah, she's still here. She's been working with us on this whole Capelli sting. Or more specifically, she's been telling us how to work. " "Yes, that sounds like her all right," the Mountie replied. Was there a note of fondness in his voice? "Hey Fraser, that reminds me," asked Kowalski, "that last night in camp, did you and Thatcher-- um, well-- you know--" "I beg your pardon, Ray?" "Never mind." Kowalski studied the water stains on the ceiling tiles. "And Dewey and Huey didn't open a comedy club?" Fraser asked. "Not unless it opened and closed in the span of one evening," Vecchio responded. "Hmmm. Well, I suppose that's possible. And you didn't cough up a golden bullet?" "Exactly how hard did that chunk of ice hit you, Fraser?" "I'm not sure, Ray. I believe I was unconscious at the time. But Lieutenant Welsh is still here?" "You kidding me? I'm sure he's going to be real happy to see you two. He's probably stocking up on Pepto-Bismol already." "I wasn't, like, supposed to come back here or nothin' after we finished that case up in Canada, was I?" Kowalski asked, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "Cause I kinda figured I'd get reassigned anyway..." Ray just indicated a desk pushed up next to his own. As Kowalksi approached, he could see a freshly minted nameplate: DET. RAY KOWALSKI. That, and stacks and stacks of paperwork. "Welsh decided I needed another partner, preferably one who actually had citizenship in this country," Ray explained. "Assuming you ever came back, anyway. It's all yours if you want it." "Wait-- you, uh, you aren't mad about the car?" Kowalski asked. "'Cause I was meaning to tell you about it. Really." "Course not," Ray lied. He hoped Kowalski enjoyed losing at poker. "And you, you aren't mad about Stella? We were going to telegraph, but we didn't know where to reach you..." "Course not," Kowalski lied. After all, they weren't married _yet._ "Partners?" Ray asked, extending his hand reluctantly. "Ah, what the heck," Kowalski replied. "I guess so. Partners." They shook hands. "Well," Fraser remarked to Diefenbaker, watching the two Rays bicker over whose stuff was on what side of the desks, "if none of that ever happened, then why on earth did I write it all down in my journal?" Diefenbaker ignored him in favor of the two-pack of cellophane-wrapped twinkies. "I don't suppose..." Fraser wondered. He looked around. "Dad?" he asked. Nothing. The sounds of the squad room. A phone rang in one of the offices away down the hallway. "No, " Fraser sighed. "I guess not." Diefenbaker whimpered sympathetically. Across the room, Welsh stuck his head out of his office door and bellowed, "Vecchio!" Both Rays turned. "Get in here! Yeah, both of you. Kowalski, where the hell have you been?" Welsh turned his head and saw the Mountie. "What, are you still hanging around here?" he asked. "Don't you have something Canadian to do?" Which of course meant: welcome back. "Wait, don't answer that. I don't got all night. You might as well get in here, too. I think somebody wants to talk to you." He moved aside to reveal Thatcher, framed in the doorway, her face as close to being lit up as bureaucratic protocol would allow. She was trying very hard not to look beautiful, and failing miserably. Their eyes met for a long moment. "Understood," Fraser said quietly, and followed the two Rays into the office. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Nathan Alderman "Progress has always been Northwestern University made by people who took n-alderman@nwu.edu ICQ: 8457866 unpopular positions." http://charlotte.at.nwu.edu/nma912 -- Adlai E. Stevenson Return to Due South Fiction Archive