Young Writers Society

CHAPTER ONE

77th Street Precinct

October 25th 2015

9:52PM

“Well done on the case crew,” Captain Watts stood in the middle of a sea of desks. The detectives of the 77th street precinct watched him, the rookies with their eyes twinkling and the vets with their eyes studying his antics. He gestured like the fucking president delivering a speech about a terrorist attack just thwarted, Euan thought, had just about as much as a hand in it as well. He held his blazer suit closed with one hand, the other wrapped behind his back, and he spoke from an invisible podium.

“Detective McLaren and his team lent the Bureau a significant amount of assistance,” he smiled his politician smile and waved them an open palm, “said they couldn’t of done it without you boys,” he shot Euan and his team with a finger-gun, which Euan was sure should've been inappropriate given their career path.

“What a load of shit,” Fletcher whispered, “entitled bastards probably won’t even send us a card,” he put his feet up on his desk, cradling his head with his arms.

“We sent two more big fish to Tucson,” Euan said, “good enough for me,” he ran a hand through his long hair, which was short on the sides and brushed behind his ears, and a bundle of curls bounced onto his forehead.

“You want a cake or something Fletcher?” Brice spoke over top of a newspaper and snapped it straight.

“Damn right,” Fletcher said, “almost took a bullet for this one,” he pointed to his shoulder, which was perfectly fine and had no real relevance to his point.

The Captain was still talking. Euan hated to admit it, but the old man could command an audience. He had some sort of aura to him, made you feel like he was saying something important and worth looking over the newspaper for.

Once you got past his pasty white skin and his crooked nose and his wiry hair and the way he always smelled like mouthwash, even from across the room, you’d get swept into his body language. The way he met every single person’s eyes as if he was speaking directly to them, telling them about the most important thing in the whole world.

It was an old trick though, the guy only cared about how much money he could stuff into his pants before his pockets bulged. He had a reputation to uphold after all, which was surprising considering his other favourite past time was sticking himself into every street legal intern he could find.

“You guys free tonight?” Fletcher flicked a paper ball at his computer monitor.

Brice didn't look impressed, “then you wonder why the thing never turns on,” he rolled his eyes.

“Hey Rookie, don’t tell me how to do my job and I won’t tell you how to chill with your homedogs, you dig?” Fletcher smiled his smile that was just a little bit too perfect. Euan thought it must’ve been a habit he formed back when he still hoisted paintings out of museums in the middle of the day. Back when he was the one that should’ve been sent to Tucson. A smile that was just a little bit too genuine to actually be genuine.

“Fletcher, you know I grew up in a nicer neighbourhood than you right?” Brice reached over to Fletcher’s desk, which was beside his, and kicked his chair.

Fletcher steadied himself by slamming his palms into the desk.

“Let’s hit Taverlies after shift,” he continued in a whisper, “gotta show the rookie here how to play some pool.”

Brice nodded, “sure white boy,” he looked back to the Captain, the one rookie who didn’t give a shit about what Watts ever had to say.

They looked at Euan as they often did when making decisions, decisions of any kind really. Not like kids looking at their parents, but like kids looking at a teacher they thought was cool, but didn't know why. The way the teacher wore a leather jacket when lecturing the class, or the dirty jokes he made, or the way he drove a Harley to school. There was just something about him.

“If you guys end up throwing down again” he gave them a serious look, “I’m locking you both up,” he slid a cigarette behind his ear, it’s orange tip poking out through a curl.

“He fucking started it last time,” Fletcher tattled with a point.

Brice rolled his eyes again, “man you called me a-”

“It was over a chicken wing,” he looked up at Fletcher and Brice, “and there was two left,” he shook his head and grinned.

“Alright thank you,” the Captain finally concluded with a wave of his hand, as if addressing paparazzi.

“Get some rest folks you’ve earned it, and remember to give the Gang Crimes team a pat on your way out,” you pointed to Euan and his team.

“Fucking finally,” Fletcher spat, he jumped to his feet and buttoned his blazer, while cursing under his breath about being kept late.

Taverlies Bar & Pub

October 25th 2015

10:15PM

The air reeked a cocktail of sweat, booze and convenience store deodorant. A sweeping cluster of faceless bodies lined the dance floor, and a tacky disco ball hung on the ceiling that seemed like it hadn’t been functional for at least a decade. The mass swayed and jerked, some silhouettes jostled to the left while others to the right. A deep rhythm pulsed, the floor jumped, and the walls begged to implode. The bass seemed to feed the crowd. In Euan’s eyes they were insatiable animals that huddled along each other, like a choir, they would take their dancing cues from the person next to them, matching their pitch and tone.

He felt sick to his stomach and it wasn’t on the account of the smell or the humidity. The air was rife with tension, like the electric buzz on a dead rainy day. The crowded little dance floor nauseated him for some reason. It nauseated him because it was packed, mostly acne ridden college kids on a Sunday night, with the exception of some thirty year olds that still hadn’t let go of their high school years; that they really had nothing fucking better to do.

Fletcher sarcastically danced forward with his hand raised, pumping his fist to the beat. Brice seemed indifferent to the whole situation. He double checked the clip on his holster, the only precaution he took before heading into No Man’s Land behind Fletcher.

The three of them weaved through the dance floor. The bar was just across the room through a door, and a staircase that led up to the balcony. The place was a little too tacky for Euan McLaren’s taste, but they served cold pints for three bones a pop, and they often had piano men that ironically, hated playing the song.

Fletcher screeched to a halt.

Despite being over six foot, Euan couldn’t see much over the college kids, the weeds that bobbed in the wind.

“What’s up?” he tapped Brice on the shoulder, and yelled over the music.

He shrugged, and stood to the side, indicating he’d let him pass ahead.

He squeezed through, almost knocking some guy with glow sticks stuck into his headband over, and tapped Fletcher on the shoulder.

“Fletch,” was all he could muster up over the mist that seemed to be gathering from all of the body heat, the mist that was suffocating. Or maybe it was the cigarettes, he thought maybe he should switch to lights.

Fletcher was talking to an ogre wearing a varsity jacket, despite clearly being over college age, even if he had taken his time with a few victory laps. Everything about him was big. His nose was big, his eyes were big, even his fucking teeth were big, and he was big. People don’t get big without biting off a little more than they can chew, and so Euan held his badge over Fletcher’s shoulder, letting it unfold and drop down. He didn’t want trouble on his post-shift pint, and flashing the badge was usually the best way to avoid trouble.

Despite seeing the badge, his bulbous eyes sliding from top to bottom in recognition, he seemed ready to jump on Fletcher, who was much smaller than he was by at least a head.

The man shrugged, and turned towards his group of friends, knocking into Fletcher’s shoulder.

His friends cackled and chortled, like witches, Euan thought, around a cauldron spewing curses and eating monkey dicks, or whatever the fuck witches ate.

Suddenly Brice came up from the side, a row of drunken ravers fallen over in his path, like dominos sacked with a twelve gauge. He shook his head out of impatience and stiff armed his way through the circle.

Fletcher looked at Euan, flashes of light revealing his smug grin and him shrugging. They followed through the trail of broken weeds and jogged up the staircase.

“Fucking clubbers man,” Brice complained. He was already sitting at the bar, a big square that outlined the rooftop, with a small stage and a handful of pianos in the middle. There was a set of pool tables beside benches, off to the side, and a railing that overlooked the city streets.

A tarp, held up by wooden posts, sheltered the roof from the slight patter of rain, and twirls of Christmas lights, tiki torches and candles lit the floor. There was a breeze now, and it felt good, it felt refreshing to Euan.

“You’re only like three years older than those pricks,” Fletcher said, stealing a gulp from Brice’s beer.

Brice squinted at him scrutinizingly, the way he did when he had nothing clever to muster up.

Euan caught the bartender’s eyes, a twenty five year old Arab with a shaved head, chinstrap, and shiny diamond earrings, and signalled him a two. He nodded.

His name was Rami or Radi or something, it was always too loud to tell, the obnoxious thumping from the floor below had a way of disorienting conversations on the rooftop.

The bartender always solved arguments Brice and Fletcher had, and so the team decided they liked him.

They’d shoot passive-aggressive one liners to the other bartenders that subbed for him, about how he poured pints better or mixed drinks better. They felt it was their responsibility as loyal patrons of Radi, or Rami or whatever.

“Hey boys,” the bartender greeted them with a salut, and placed two pint glasses in front of Euan and Fletcher.

“Evening buddy,” Fletcher saluted him back.

Euan nodded as he took a swig, and held a pack of cigarettes out to him.

“Thanks,” he slid one out and tucked it into his lip.

Euan lit both their smokes.

“Save the world today?” his accent was noticeable, although deeply Americanized.

“Just another day,” Brice held his pint up.

“First rounds on the house then,” he gave them a thumbs up and a smile. He walked away.

“Cheers,” Fletcher shouted after him.

“Fucking love Radi man,” he continued.

“It’s Rami man,” Brice gave him a stern look and scratched his shaved head, “Rami,” he slapped his lips together, emphasizing it.

“Whatever,” he took a drink, “a rose by any other name.”

Brice looked at Euan, “motherfucker just quoted Shakespeare.”

“Let’s go Rookie,” Fletcher finished his pint and nodded towards the end of the roof towards to the pool tables.

Euan and Brice finished their beers as well, and Euan pulled out another cigarette and placed it on the inside of the bar area for Rami.

Fletcher rubbed his hands together as if he were about to walk on water or absolve somebody of their sins. Both of which he could probably convince someone he could do.

“I’m breaking,” Brice said.

“Whatever man.”

Euan leaned against the pool table, smoking his cigarette, when a woman from across the bar caught his attention. He felt her gaze, and hoped, hoped to fucking God, that she wasn’t looking at him. He peered up, and took a deep sigh of relief when he noticed her pointing to Fletcher, laughing with her friend.

“Fletch,” Euan exhaled, smoke pouring from his nose.

“What’s up McLaren,” he had the pool cue behind his back, leaning on the table with one thigh.

Euan pointed with this smoking hand.

Fletcher’s ears perked up before he had even seen the woman. Like a wolf sniffing the air. Within an instant he had dropped the pool cue onto the table, and was raking his long blonde hair back. He adjusted his tie, and the rest of his three piece suit. Euan always wondered why he wore a three piece suit.

He walked over to the blonde, who Euan admitted was actually a really pretty girl. But he was still glad that she hadn’t been looking at him.

“Really man?” Brice said, his hands by his sides, the pool cue still clenched in a palm.

“Fucking white boy, man,” he looked to Euan, and pointed to Fletcher as if he couldn’t believe his decision to abandon their sacred game.

“Tell me about it,” he smiled. He stuck his cigarette out in the hip ashtrays Taverlies had, little metal oranges sliced into four pieces, with a hole in the middle.

The two of them headed back to the bar, where they sat before and ordered three more beers.

They could hear Fletcher from where they sat, now. He smiled that con-man smile, and stood tall, and Euan wondered if that’s how he lugged million dollar paintings out of museums, with just a smile.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Fletcher declared moreso than asked, not the woman who had been eying him, but her friend, arguably the more attractive one.

“Sorry I have one,” she raised her glass up as if proving she wasn't lying, “but she doesn’t yet,” she motioned to her friend. Her eyes struggled not to meet his, and as he stood there with this hands on his hips it was apparent that she was trying her best not to talk to him.

Fletcher, still smiling his smile, grabbed her drink and emptied it down his throat. He slammed it on the table, and got close to her.

“Can I buy you a drink now?” he smiled.

Brice burst out laughing, slamming his fist into the bar table. Euan, smiling, elbowed him.

“Shh.”

The two of them had watched Fletcher play this game millions of times, if not billions. Brice found some sort of excitement in hoping that one day he’d witness Fletcher get rejected, although that never happened, but still showed respect to the guy’s game anyways. His way of acknowledging that Fletcher was actually good at something.

Euan, on the other hand, took the enjoyment of it at face value. It reminded him of when he’d make an ass out of himself, hitting on women with his soldier buddies in random bars in the world. When the only things he cared about where women, booze and not getting shot.

The first woman, the one that had pointed to him when they were playing pool, was covering her mouth with a hand as if he had just committed the most heinous act conceivable.

Her friend looked flustered, and still struggled to avoid his eyes.

“Uh, you, um,” she stuttered.

“A Cosmo, and a Three Wise Men,” Fletcher raised a finger and hailed Rami from across the bar, who was also giggling.

The friend was blushing now, and finally met Fletcher’s eyes. He swooped into the stool beside her without looking away. Neither of them had even noticed that the first woman had already walked away.

“Fucking white boy,” Brice cheered in a whisper, this time with a smile. He raised a fist.

Euan bumped his fist, “tell me about it.”

It’d been about twenty minutes since Fletcher started talking to Colette, Euan heard him call her. Euan and Brice had gone through another pint each, and were talking about the guy Brice had bulldozed downstairs, the novelty of Fletcher’s new pickup grew old, just like his beer did as it sat between them, bubbling and warm.

“Guy’s probably gonna key your unit,” Euan said, he was leaning on the bar with his arms, a cigarette hanging between his teeth. He spoke in bites, mouthfuls, as words struggled past his clenched teeth.

“Doubt it man, guys like that are all talk,” Brice was playing with a coaster, he spun it around with a finger.

“What’d I miss?” Fletcher slithered in between them back into his chair, and shot Rami, who was drying a glass, a cheeky smile.

“A mirror by the looks of it,” Brice snorted, he stuck a napkin to Fletcher’s face.

He looked stunned, as if Brice had implied that he was having a bad hair day or that his tie wasn’t on straight. He turned to Euan for a second opinion.

“Lipstick,” he said with a smile.

Fletcher dipped the tissue into a glass of water and scrubbed his face like he was banishing some flesh-eating parasite from his skin.

“So where’d Colette go?” Brice raised an eyebrow, and looked around the rooftop.

“Home,” Fletcher said, folding the napkin carefully on the bar.

“Oh, rough buddy,” Brice wrapped an arm around his shoulder, “you’ll get ‘em next time.”

“Actually she invited me back,” Fletcher said matter of factly, folding his arms and closing his eyes, “playing the long con, boys,” he winked and showed the phone number scribbled on his hand.

“Never doubted you for a second,” Brice said vacantly, reclaiming his arm and taking his final sip of beer.

“Alright let’s head out,” Euan said, he tugged his leather jacket sleeve up and peered at his watch, “It’s almost one.”

“Yeah Em’s gonna wonder why I’m out so late,” Brice said.

Fletcher nodded in agreement, “well my work here is done after all.”

Brice rifled through this wallet, and Fletcher attempted to finish his warm beer, but gagged and stopped halfway.

“Well that’s gross,” he smacked his tongue against his cheek, and pulled a cigarette out Euan’s pack, which he left on the bar top. He turned around to light it, despite Euan’s disapproval, and stopped.

“Fuck,” he said, dropping the cigarette back into his hand.

Euan and Brice turned around.

“What?” Brice said, a few bills in his hand.

Across the bar was a woman. She looked twenty, but the way she was dressed, professionally and well put together, made Euan conclude at least thirty.

She had straight, shiny, brown hair, that was lighter at the ends, and framed her face like a portrait, and was thickly layered. Her hair was long, and scaled halfway down her back. Her face unmoving, perfectly symmetrical like a bust sculpted by a master artisan. Her lips, even from across the rooftop, seemed perpetually red although she didn’t wear any makeup, and she had a small beauty mark on her upper lip.

“Damn,” Brice said “yeah she’s a looker, but let’s go,” he flopped the bills down on the bar and saluted Rami as if in a hurry since remembering his wife still existed.

Fletcher grabbed his shoulder, keeping him from fleeing.

“Yeah,” Euan said, “lets go.”

But Euan didn’t move. He stood there just as if Fletcher had his claw wrapped around his shoulder as well. He puffed his cigarette and let the smoke flow from his mouth into his nose, he took a deep breath.

Fletcher turned to him, as Euan snapped out of it, “listen man,” he grabbed him by the shoulder and plopped him back onto the stool.

Brice sighed and followed.

He lit the cigarette and coughed, “all tar and no tobacco these fucking things,” he held the cigarette between his fingers and squinted at it, blowing a rush of smoke to the side.

“You need to talk to her,” Fletcher said, restoring his attention.

Euan rolled his eyes, “how old are you Fletch?”

He shrugged.

“You’re like a high school kid stuck in the body of a cop sometimes,” Euan put his cigarette out in one of those orange ashtrays.

“This is more than that,” he said, “you haven’t been happy in a long time man.”

Brice jumped up from his stool, “what’s wrong with you,” he slapped Fletcher in the back of the head.

“Fuck man, but it’s true,” he rubbed the back of his head with his free hand, he shared looks between Brice and Euan.

“Seymour how are you going to say that isn’t true?” he sipped his cigarette, and looked at Brice, desperate for some sort of backup.

“Man, you’re out of line,” Brice said, he looked the other way in disbelief, “that’s none of our business, you know what he’s gone through.”

Fletcher slid close to Euan, almost to the edge of his seat, to the point of falling off of it.

“It’s been five years” he held up his fingers, the cigarette stuck between them, “you know I love you brother, but five years. You need to move on, or you’re never going to.”

Brice slapped him again.

Euan lit another cigarette, twirling it around his fingers with an expert nimbleness.

He was angry at first. If the two guys sitting beside him were anybody else besides Fletcher and Brice, he would’ve knocked both their teeth out. But he knew they understood him, maybe not fully, but more than just about anybody else and that counted for something, he thought.

He knew that Fletcher was right, about one thing. He hadn’t been happy. But he didn’t think he would be happy either. He didn’t know if he deserved to be, or if it was even possible. He forgot what it was even like. Maybe, he thought, he was happy but didn’t know it.

“Come on man,” Fletcher said, “I’m not asking you to propose to the fucking broad. Just talk to her,” he took another drag of the cigarette and pinched it between his fingers.

“What’d they say when you got back from the Gulf?” he continued, “it’s a process,” he put a finger down against the bar top as he found the word.

Brice sighed “I think Fletch is right,” he raised another finger to Rami, who was used to the group’s impressive ability to prolong their stay at Taverlies.

“You’re not forgetting man,” Fletcher got closer, and spun his stool in front of Euan’s face, who was still looking at the woman, “you’re moving on.”

Euan got to his feet, and bit the filter on his cigarette, he felt it get soggy and the smoke choked out to nothingness. He stubbed it into the ashtray.

“You knocked out a mob boss today,” Brice said, “this is no big deal,” he added.

Euan felt woozy. He wasn’t nervous, and he wasn't drunk, he never got nervous or drunk anymore. He didn’t even really care much for the woman with thick brown hair, who dressed well, across the bar. Sure, he thought she was gorgeous but what did gorgeous really get you. It got you a fuckload of problems is what it got you.

He thought to himself, that he wasn’t doing this for himself, he was doing it for Brice and Fletcher. They were worried about him, and had been for the past while.

The way Fletcher looked at him, just then, was worried. They’d known each other for over four years, and Fletcher rarely acted like that. Even in the middle of firefights, with guns held to their fucking domes, he never once had a look of worry in his eyes.

And Euan wanted to move on, he did, but at the same time he was complacent with going to work during the day and filling his gullet with bourbon, and his chest with cancer smoke at night. Drinking himself into an alcoholic hibernation until the sun rose, when he’d get a call telling him some white supremacist from The Brotherhood got shanked, or some poor fuck from the 77th Crew caught a bullet between the eyes.

He was doing it for Brice and Fletcher first, and himself second he decided. If he could be happy, if he wasn’t already, great, if not then tough fucking luck. Not everyone gets to be happy, he knew that first hand.

He walked slowly at first, and sped up as he rounded the corner of the rooftop. He smelled her perfume from about two feet away.

“Hey,” he spoke calmly and slid up the bar beside her.

She looked up, her eyes covered by the voluptuousness of her hair, she tucked it behind her ear, and pivoted her chin towards him.

Her eyes were green, a dark shade. Not like emeralds, no, they were forested and dark, and her lashes were dark and long. They demanded his attention like a fucking blackhole, blotting out everything else around him, and for a second he forgot where he was.

He blinked and instinctively reached for the cigarette behind his ear. Fuck, he thought, he must’ve dropped it.

“Hi,” she smiled at him. Her red lips curled up, revealing her perfect smile, a smile that reminded him of Fletcher’s, but honest and real. She smiled grandly, and even though her eyes were big and attentive, they winced into slits almost like her smile took up too much of her delicate face.

He reached his hand out, “Euan,” he smiled back.

“Madeline,” her eyes wandered back to his, but he dared not to meet them again.

“Can I,” he gestured to the bar with a finger.

“Take a seat? Of course,” she stuttered and moved her purse from the stool in front of him.

“I meant buy you a drink,” he cleared his throat.

He decided to look at her nose, it was the easiest, her eyes reminded him of his ex-wife and her lips reminded him of Madeline.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, she placed her manicured hand on the bar top, “I’m here with someone,” she looked both ways as if she expected them to walk in just then.

Euan reached behind his ear again, and ran a hand through his hair. A clump of big curls bobbed down into his eyes, “Oh.”

“Yeah my boyfriend,” she laughed politely, “I’m sorry if I-”

“It’s okay,” Euan laughed politely as well, “that makes more sense.”

She smiled her grand smile again, her perfect grand smile, “well it was nice meeting you,” she said dismissively, but her eyes asked him to stay.

“Right, you as well.”

He walked back towards Fletcher and Brice, as he turned the corner he saw the two of them, silhouettes at the bar and the lights attached to their stools.

He slid a cigarette out from the pack on the table, that Fletcher was fiddling with.

“She’s here with someone,” Euan exhaled smoke through his nose.

Fletcher jumped to his feet, and hugged him, “McLaren the legend!” he patted him on the shoulder “feels good yeah?”

Euan shrugged “don’t feel much beside the booze and smokes.”

Brice patted him on the shoulder as well, reaching over Fletcher.

“She carried though,” Euan said.

“Like a piece?” Brice asked.

“Yeah, must be a cop,” he replied.

“No fucking way,” Fletcher hit Brice with the back of his hand, he pointed to where Madeline was sitting.

The ogre from the dance floor, was sitting beside Madeline his arm around her. Sweat stains, black puddles, around his neck and pits, and his varsity jacket slung over top of the bar top. He looked massive next to her, or maybe she looked tiny next to him. She couldn’t be any taller than five-five, Euan thought.

Euan snickered which eventually led into a bellowing laugh, he held his cigarette steady in one hand, the other on his knee. He bent viciously with each breath he took.

Fletcher’s eyes went wide, and he looked Brice from the corners of them. After a few seconds, he started laughing as well.

“Hey ask Seymour if he’ll beat up her boyfriend for you,” Fletcher laughed hysterically and paused, putting his hand on Brice’s shoulder, before continuing.

“Fucking white boys,” Brice chuckled, and finished his beer.