STANDARD DISCLAIMERS:  They ain't mine, and if their 
owner, Dick Wolf, knew what I was doing with `em, he'd 
probably have a coronary.  No profits made, etc., etc., so 
hopefully he won't sue me when he recovers.

This takes place in Season Five, about a week after "One Night 
in Grammercy".  It might be a little harder to follow if you're not 
familiar with the show, but it's not really necessary.  Send 
comments to trigfish@yahoo.com.  I love feedback of all 
kinds--even the "Ewww, that's gross!" kind.

This particular story is actually rated PG-13, for mild profanity. 
Sorry, no sex in this one.  But, it does set up the next story 
nicely...and that one *will* have sex.

And, by the way, I'm aware that my version of Claire is a lot less 
prissy than she was portrayed in Season 5.  I just happen to 
think that she's a wild one when she gets out of those power 
suits. ;)

*****************************************

                              Midnight on 67th Street
                              =================


"So, we're thinking of going out somewhere to eat first, then 
heading over to the Shot.  Huh?  Yeah...Lennie wants to play a 
few rounds.  It's one of the very few things he can still whip my 
ass at, and I figure the old guy could use an ego boost after last 
week's poker game."

Detective Briscoe shot his partner an incredulous stare over 
their communal pile of paperwork, and received a challenging 
grin in return.  He rolled his eyes in mock disgust.  "Whenever 
you're done tying up the phone lines with personal business, 
we've still got two reports to write up and four interview 
transcripts to go over.  And, may I remind you that Van Buren's 
been spitting nails since the beancounters from City Hall 
showed up this morning."

Thus reminded of their lieutenant's current mood, Logan 
glanced around quickly, making certain that she was still fuming 
in the privacy of her own office, then returned to the phone. 
"Claire, I gotta go.  Our favorite senior citizen is getting antsy. 
So, do we pick you up?  Well, assuming nobody *else* takes 
out a QuickieMart with a sawed-off shotgun this afternoon, we 
should be there by 7:00pm.  Uh-huh."  Logan laughed, and gave 
Briscoe another smart-assed grin.  "No kidding.  I'll let him 
know.  He'll be thrilled.  OK.  See you at seven.  Bye, Claire."

Briscoe watched expectantly as Logan hung up with a flourish, 
still chuckling.  "I'm almost afraid to ask."

Mike snickered.  "Claire says that Viveka Zadorsky's been 
asking about you.  Wants to know when 'that nayce 
po-leeecemannn' is coming around again. Seems she's made 
some cookies she just *knows* you'll love."

Briscoe swore softly, even as Mike burst into renewed laughter. 
Mrs. Zadorsky was the cleaning lady for Claire's floor over at 
One Hogan Place, a plump, loudspoken woman with an 
impenetrable European accent and a towering beehive of grey 
hair. She'd stumbled upon one of their late night, last-minute, 
court-in-the-morning brainstorming sessions in Claire's office, 
and had proceeded to harangue them in broken English about 
the mess of papers and Chinese take-out cartons surrounding 
them.  While Claire had rolled her eyes in familiar disdain and 
Mike had shown his usual respect for orders and kept on eating, 
Lennie had actually apologised and promised to make sure the 
room was clean and chow-mein-free before morning.  His 
actions had gained him a devoted fan, much to the amusement 
of his young friends...and everyone else on the damned floor. 
Whenever he showed up for a meeting with one of the DAs 
there, Viveka would inevitably spot him, and rush to his side, 
gushing indecipherably.  It was embarassing, but he was too 
afraid of hurting her feelings to ever risk discouraging her, so he 
just suffered through her voluble admiration--and Mike's 
teasing--in relative silence.

"You're such a stud, Lennie."

"Jealous, Detective Logan?"

"Are you kidding?  You're my idol!  Teach me, oh Great One."

Lennie shot Mike another withering glare as the younger man 
collapsed into snickers again.  Just then, a door slammed 
heavily behind them, and a hush fell over the room.  The dozen 
or so cops on the floor suddenly began to busily shuffle papers 
in intent silence as their lieutenant stormed into their midst. But, 
for once, it wasn't the name Briscoe or Logan that she called 
angrily into her office.  The two detectives who weren't so lucky 
got up with a sigh, and followed in her angry wake back into her 
office.  Lennie let out a relieved sigh, and caught his partner 
doing the same.  They both chuckled conspiratorially, then 
returned to work in mutual silent agreement.

Lennie looked up from his list of the contents of a suspect's car 
several minutes later, about to comment sarcastically on the 
fact that the man, a minister suspected of offing one of his 
elderly, wealthy parishioners, had a trunk full of S&M porn.  But, 
he changed his mind, swallowed his barb for the moment, and 
settled in to watch his partner secretly instead.  It was 
something he found himself doing more and more often in the 
past few months.  Indeed, he'd started noticing little 
things--minor but nagging changes in Mike's behaviour--about a 
month before the big blowout.  The way he'd bite his nails as he 
worked silently.  The way he'd start every time someone 
slammed a door somewhere in the building.  The way his smile 
took on a harder and harder edge as time passed.  And then, 
when Executive Assistant District Attorney Benjamin T. Stone 
packed up and jumped town, leaving wreckage of all kinds 
scattered in his wake, those tell-tale changes became far more 
dramatic--and worrying.  Suddenly, Lennie had found himself 
watching Mike like a hawk, constantly trying to pick up every 
clue, every need...because it would be a cold day in hell before 
Logan ever admitted to needing anything from anyone.  Even if 
the person he considered the one and only love of his life had 
just left him hanging, and his world was crumbling around him. 
Even if he was ready to explode.

Lennie was intimately familiar with that kind of devastation. 
Hell, he thought he'd found the real thing three times--and had 
been proven wrong all three times.   He himself had found relief 
at the bottom of a bottle of Southern Comfort, but he'd known 
guys like Mike.  Watched them simmer, steam, and finally 
detonate with grim totality.  So, he did what he could to prevent 
that from happening to Mike.  He distracted him when he got too 
intensely involved in a case, tried to keep him from taking all the 
shit they waded through daily too close to heart. He dragged 
him out to play pool when he saw the directionless anger set in 
on the younger man.  When Mike graduated from biting his nails 
to biting his lip nervously, Lennie marched him to the washroom 
and showed him the red, swollen gash he was unconsciously 
making. When he arrived at work exhausted from what was 
obviously another sleepless night, Lennie covered for him.  He 
bullied him into seeing a doctor about sleeping pills, and 
harassed him about taking the damned things.  And, when Mike 
really started to scare him, he called Liz, perhaps the only 
woman on the planet Mike would ever listen to.

But, Mike looked good today--in fact, he'd been looking good for 
over a week now.  About the same time that he started seeing 
the new EADA again.  Lennie didn't know whether to be relieved 
or worried all over again.  On the one hand, he was thrilled to 
see his partner finally moving on and getting over his first 
serious romantic disaster.  On the other, Lennie wasn't so sure 
that it was a healthy thing to move on with the guy who replaced 
your lover at work.  And, from what Claire kept saying about 
McCoy...

"You're doing it again, Lennie."  Mike didn't look up from his 
paperwork.

"Doing what?"  Lennie could play dumb when required.

Mike sighed, then looked up with a weary, tolerant smile. 
"You're psychoanalysing again.  I knew I'd regret you and Liz 
becoming such good friends.  What, you guys working in shifts 
now?"

"Only with our really annoying patients."  Lennie smiled at the 
glare that earned him. "OK, OK.  I'll back off."

"Good."  Mike returned to work.  Then, stopped with a sigh 
moments later.  "Lennie..."

Lennie laughed aloud.  "I'm trying, I'm trying!  Jeez, since when 
are you psychic?"

"Since always.  Keep that in mind next time you try bluffing me 
at poker."

Lennie chuckled, more relieved than he'd ever let on to see the 
return of the teasing glint in his partner's eyes, then settled back 
to work.  "Hey, Mike.  Remember that preacher that kept going 
on about Sodom and Gomorrah in New York City while we were 
interviewing him?  Well, guess what the boys at the impound 
found in his trunk..."

*  *  *

They worked steadily.  The clock ticked on.  By 4:00pm, Briscoe 
was pleased to note that they'd finished pretty much all their 
paperwork for the day.  Maybe, for once in their lives, they'd get 
out of the station on time.

Just then, as if Fate was deliberately making a point, both their 
beepers chimed.

"Shit."

Mike sighed and picked up the phone, dialing the switchboard 
for the details even as Lennie started gathering the car keys 
and their coats.  "Tell me it's around the corner, and we'll be 
back before five. C'mon, please."

"Yeah, OK, thanks, Kim."  Mike hung up and looked up at him 
with a wry smile.  "Sorry.  We're going uptown.  Washington 
Heights--unspecified vic.  Police already on the scene."

"Oh, perfect.  Washington Heights.  It'll take us an hour just to 
find the place, and another to get anyone to admit to knowing 
the guy.  Ten to one it's another neighbourhood pusher that the 
neighbours `can't remember' ever seeing before."

"Only one way to find out."  Mike shrugged into his jacket and 
grabbed the car keys of Lennie's desk.

"Yeah?  What happened to your psychic powers?  And gimme 
those keys--I can't handle your driving right now." 

It did take them nearly an hour to reach the specified location, 
due in part to Lennie's far more careful adherence to traffic laws 
than most New Yorkers.  It drove Mike crazy about as quickly as 
his own `stuntcar driving' tactics sent Lennie into hysterics. 
When they arrived, still arguing amiably about whether or not 
red lights meant "stop" or "stop if you have the time", they were 
met by two sombre-looking uniformed cops.  The forensics crew 
was already milling over the scene like busy ants.

"Hey, Vesuchi, Norris," Mike greeted the uniforms, leaving 
Lennie to wonder not for the first time how his partner managed 
to know so many of New York's finest by name.  "What have we 
got?"

"It's not good, Logan.  Not good at all."  The older of the pair, 
Vesuchi apparently, shook his head sadly, and glanced at his 
younger partner.  Lennie noticed that the young man was 
looking distinctly ill and shaken.

"What, is it old?" Lennie hazarded, not looking forward to 
spending the rest of the afternoon surrounded by the smell of 
human decay.  It clung to clothes like smoke.

"Nah," Vesuchi sighed.  "It's a kid.  Little baby.  Looks like 
Momma lost it and threw her against the wall.  The neighbour 
heard a thump and came out to see what was going on--found 
her at the bottom of the stairs."

"Ah, shit."  Lennie felt his heart sink.  He could see already what 
this was going to be like, and no matter how many times he saw 
situations just like this, he never got  used to it.  He looked over 
at Logan, and saw by his partner's grim frown that he'd come to 
the same conclusion.  This was not going to be a fun afternoon.

They entered the ramshakled, rotting apartment building and 
found their victim exactly where Vesuchi had stated, a small 
bundle covered by a stained white sheet at the foot of the 
staircase.  Forensics workers in white lab coats swarmed 
around the area, taking pictures and samples of everything, but 
stepping carefully out of the way of the approaching detectives. 
More than one shot Briscoe a quick look, then moved away.  He 
proudly held the title of "Biggest Pain-in-the-Ass Cop" among 
their number, having called more than one of them to task for a 
sloppy job.  He didn't mind the notoriety--it ensured that his and 
Logan's crime scenes were treated with extra care.

Logan knelt down and pulled the sheet back, and Briscoe 
sighed at the sight revealed.  A small, thin infant--maybe a 
couple of months old, but who knew with malnourishment?--lay 
in a crumpled heap, her neck and left leg at an impossible 
angle.  Lennie watched sadly as Mike brushed fine dark hair out 
of the baby's face, revealing a dark blue bruise along her cheek. 
Then, he carefully traced matching sets of yellowish bands 
along the child's upper arms and legs.

"These are older.  Looks like this isn't the first time Mommy 
Dearest swung her around."

"It's not."

They both looked up at the new voice, and saw a grim-faced 
elderly woman clutching an old shawl around her shoulders 
tightly.  Briscoe stepped forward as Logan covered the child up 
again and followed.

"Hello, and you are...?"

"Martinez.  Inez Martinez."  The woman held out her hand stiffly, 
and Lennie shook it with his best sympathetic smile.  She barely 
noticed.  "And that poor nena's name is Claudia Reyes."  She 
shook her head sadly.  "At least, that's what we called her. Her 
mama was too stoned to get her baptised, proper-like."  She 
made the sign of the cross on herself.  "I pray to God that He 
still accept her soul.  Poor baby...wasn't her fault."

Briscoe and Logan exchanged a glance over her bowed head, 
silently agreeing that Lennie would be the more likely to get her 
to cooperate.  With a nod, Mike stepped away and moved up 
the stairs in search of the mother. 

"Mrs. Martinez...why don't we step over here?." Lennie took her 
elbow and guided her gently out of the oppressive, crowded 
stairwell and into a sunlit corner of the lobby.  "Here, this is 
better.  Look," he sighed, and gave her another sympathetic 
smile.  She responded with a tiny smile of her own this time.  "I 
realize that this is hard, and I know that it seems cruel to ask 
this of you right now, but we really need to know anything you 
can tell us."

She closed her eyes tightly for a moment, and heaved a 
trembling sigh.  Lennie could see the pain filtering through her 
even as he watched.  Obviously, Claudia Reyes was more than 
just the kid upstairs to her. "She...she was born in May.  I don't 
know who her papa was.  Her mama's Estella Reyes...a hooker 
on Broadway.  I used to babysit when she...when she was 
working."

Briscoe patted her shoulder sympathetically and pressed his 
spare hankerchief into her hand, which she took gratefully and 
dabbed at her eyes furtively.  He waited while she took a few 
calming breaths before continuing.  "Mrs. Martinez, were you 
the one who found her?"  She nodded.  "OK, can you tell me 
exactly what happened?"

"I..I heard her screaming..."

"Claudia?"

"No, Estella.  She always screams at the nena when she's high. 
She usually gets loaded just before she goes out, you know? 
Maybe it makes it easier..."  She blinked and looked dazedly at 
the still-milling police and forensic people tracking in and out of 
the building.

"Mrs. Martinez...Mrs. Martinez?" Lennie tapped her shoulder to 
regain her attention.  Teary brown eyes refocused on him. 
"What happened next?"

"I heard her yell something like `I'll kill you'...or maybe it was `I 
hate you'.  Then, there was a loud thump, and a bunch of 
smaller thumps.  I open my door--and there she is."  The tears 
started again, but she cut them off with a sharp shake of her 
head.

"You said you babysat Claudia.  Did you ever notice any signs 
of abuse?  You know, cuts, bruises?"

"Si.  My husband, he make me call Family Services.  They say 
that they come, but they never do.  You have to understand, Mr. 
Detective...Estella, she's a good girl.  It's just the drugs.  She's 
a good mama when she's clean."

"And when she's not, she's a fucking psycho."

Lennie and his witness started and turned at the sharp voice 
behind them.  Logan approached, face full of a cold rage than 
Briscoe was all too familiar with.  He could see Mrs. Martinez 
shrink away from his partner as he neared, and subtly moved to 
stand between them.  "What's up?"

"What's up?  Well, that cokehead upstairs just tried to take out 
Officer Brudel with a bowie knife she had hidden up her skirt 
God-knows-where.  We cuffed her and Vesuchio and Norris are 
sitting on her till the ambulance arrives."

"Ambulance?"

"Yeah, apparently she put her fist through the windowpane 
sometime before we got here. Besides, I want as many 
witnesses as possible when we take her in.  I don't want this 
bitch's lawyer coming up with some police brutality plea out of 
left field as a deal-making ploy."

As Logan spoke, the sounds of a struggle descended down the 
staircase.  Moments later, Vesuchio and Norris appeared, 
flanking a wild-haired screaming young woman with a bloody left 
hand.  A young uniformed officer trailed behind, clutching her 
right forearm.  When the suspect spotted Logan, she began 
shrieking at him.  "Hijo de puta!  Capon!  Come on!  Hit me, 
boludo!  I know you wanna!"

"Don't tempt me, bitch," he hissed quietly, then deliberately 
turned his back to the still-screaming woman, moving instead to 
the officer.  "You OK, Jenny?"

The young cop smiled shakily.  "Yeah.  Just a scratch."  She 
removed her hand to reveal a shallow, jagged slash across her 
forearm.  "My own damned fault. I should've known better than 
to frisk her without someone holding her down."

"Hindsight is always 20-20," Briscoe offered with a reassuring 
grin.  "You never know which ones are gonna go bonkers on 
you, or when.  Makes me yearn for the good old rubber hoses 
days."  Brudel laughed, but Mrs. Martinez paled, and Briscoe 
wondered if his little joke was such a great idea after all.  The 
inhabitants of Washington Heights as a rule didn't have much 
faith in cops.  No reason to go around giving them more 
reasons to do so.

"Well, you better go get it cleaned up." Logan patted Brudel's 
shoulder companionably.  "Now, you'll have a scar of your very 
own to show off at McBurney's Friday nights."  Brudel smiled 
shyly and wandered off towards the ambulance outside, tossing 
more than one yearning glance over her shoulder as she went. 
Briscoe repressed a smile--it was a good thing Logan was 
oblivious to over half the come-ons he got per day.  Otherwise, 
the guy would be completely insufferable, and they'd *never* get 
any work done.

They didn't finish at the crime scene until well past 6:00pm, and 
it was rapidly becoming obvious that they wouldn't make it back 
downtown in time to pick up Claire.  By then, Briscoe had 
watched his partner's mood sour steadily since his face-off with 
their perp, till Logan was snapping at pretty much anyone who 
dared get within two feet of him.  Briscoe noted the confused 
glances that the crime-scene workers were shooting each 
other--usually, it was Briscoe that they stepped carefully around, 
doing everything they could through his less caustic partner. 
This time, the roles were reversed.

"Uh, Detective Briscoe?"  The young forensics crew leader (was 
it Jenkins?) approached him after having eyed Logan 
uncertainly.  "We're pretty much done here, and the crew 
upstairs is wrapping up, too.  Want us to do the alley outside, 
just in case?"

"Give it a quick once-over on your way out.  Thanks, Jenkins. 
Good job."  The young man shot him a grateful smile and went 
back to his team, organizing their cleanup.  Lennie sighed, then 
approached his seething partner.  Logan was glaring at 
whatever he'd scrawled into his battered notepad, barely 
sparing his approaching partner a look.  Briscoe sighed as he 
recognized the cold anger delineated in his tight stance.

"Y'know, I think that's the first time Jenkins has actually spoken 
to me directly.  You must've really scared the shit outta the kid."

As he'd hoped, that produced a guilty look as Logan started 
temporarily out of his rage and looked around, noting for 
probably the first time that the crime units were wrapping things 
up.  He paused, as if on the verge of saying something, then 
shook his head and put away his pad tiredly.  "I'll apologize 
later.  Maybe buy him a beer next time I bump into him at 
Callaghan's."

"Buy him two and he'll be your bestest pal for life.  I've never 
seen anyone get tanked as fast as that kid.  It's like giving 
champagne to a little old lady--two gulps, and he's telling you 
how much he loves and admires you."

That produced the desired smile, but only very briefly.  Lennie 
sighed, and tried another distraction.  "Well, we better hurry if 
we're gonna pick up Claire.  As it is, we're gonna be late, and 
you *know* how she gets when we make her wait."

"We've still got to write this up."

Lennie shot his partner an exasperated look.  "Our shift ended 
an hour and a half ago, and we're already both way over our 
overtime budget.  The paperwork will still be there tomorrow."

Mike shrugged.  "Still, I think I'll do it tonight.  I really don't feel 
like going out anymore."

Lennie sighed, holding onto his patience with effort.  "Mike. 
She'll get charged."

"Think so?"  Dark hazel eyes glared at him as they moved back 
towards their illegally parked car.  "Ten to one that she gets a 
`mental defect' ruling, and is out turning tricks by the end of the 
month. And, even if she *does* get charged, so what?"

Lennie waited, recognizing that there was something else 
bugging his partner.  And, as usual, the best way to find out 
what that something was was to wait till he got around to telling 
you himself.   Unfortunately, sometimes that took a while.

Sure enough, shortly after Lennie pulled onto Broadway, Mike 
turned in his seat to face him.  "Hey, Lennie.  Do you remember 
the Dierdre Lowenstein case back about five years ago?"

Lennie doubted anyone in New York would forget that case for 
at least another decade.  "Yeah.  The little girl who got her head 
bashed in by her mom, who was flying high on the rocks Hubby 
gave her."

"That's the one.  Did I ever tell you I worked that case?"

"I remember your name in the papers.  You and Greevey, 
right?"

"Yeah."

Something in his partner's tone made Lennie turn towards the 
man. All he could see in the fading light was the shadow of his 
profile.  "Brutal case."

"No shit.  But, you know what the really brutal thing is?" 
Glowering dark eyes glared at him from across the car.  "Carla 
Lowenstein got out of jail just last week.  Early parole for good 
behaviour."  Mike laughed bitterly.  "She bashed her daughter's 
head in after torturing her for years, and her son drank a bottle 
of bleach a month after his ninth birthday.  Two kids, dead. 
And, she's out early for good behaviour.  Funny, huh?" 

"Hilarious."  Lennie shot Mike a wry smile, hoping to shake him 
out of his grimness.  No such luck.  He sighed.  "Mike, I've told 
you this before.  You can't take it so damned personally.  You're 
a cop, not a superhero.  No matter how good you think you'd 
look in tights."

This time, he got a real laugh...soft, muffled, but real. 
"Whaddaya mean, *think*?  I *know*."

"Right, I forgot. You're Mr. Modesty."

"Hey, if you've got it..."  Mike flashed a smug, teasing grin at 
him, and Lennie rolled his eyes in mock disgust, smiling despite 
himself.   Mike sighed, relaxing a little out of the angry stiffness 
that he'd been radiating since his encounter with Estella Reyes. 
Lennie pulled into the precinct parking lot moments later.

"OK, then.  You run up and report in and sign us out.  I'll call 
Claire and tell her to meet us at the pool hall. Meet you at my 
car in fifteen?"

"Lennie, I don't think--"

"No way.  You're not gonna go home and sulk again.  C'mon, 
Mike!  You really think it's gonna make a difference if you start 
the file tonight?"  The amber eyes wavered, and Lennie moved 
in for the kill.  "Look, we'll even go to that stupid deli you like so 
much after, OK?  Just play a couple of rounds with me--if you 
still feel like shit, I'll drive you home myself."

Mike sighed, then conceded defeat with a weary grin.  "OK, OK. 
But, just for a few games.  I don't think I can handle the 
humiliation of more than a couple of rounds of pool with you in 
one night."

"Oh, don't be such a wuss!  Consider it an educational 
experience."

"Right...and, coincidently, it's also a great chance for you to 
show off in front of the barmaids.  Back in fifteen."

Lennie watched his partner disappear into the precinct, then 
dropped off the unmarked car.  On his way to his own vehicle in 
the employee parking section, he stopped at a payphone and 
quickly dialed Claire's office.  He'd been debating a course of 
action since Mike began to get moody. In the shape he was in, it 
was unlikely that even a night of pool with Lennie and Claire 
would shake him out of his funk.  Lennie knew that the chances 
were pretty good that he'd sulk in the pool hall for the requisite 
couple of hours, then call a taxi and head home for another 
night of grim introspection...a habit Mike had fallen into over the 
last couple of months.  Until he met McCoy.

"Kincaid."

"Claire?  It's Lennie.  We're running a little late, as usual.  Can 
you grab a cab and meet us at the Shot?"

"Sure, Lennie.  I'm almost done here. So, I take it that you guys 
*did* get another QuickieMart shoot-out, huh?" 

"Not exactly.  Uhm...Claire, is your boss still there?"

A pause.  "You mean McCoy?"

"Yeah."  Lennie could clearly hear the puzzlement in the young 
ADA's voice.

"Well, I think he's still--there he is!  Jack!  Detective Briscoe's 
on the line."

"No, wait Claire!  I just wanted to ask if--"

"Yes?"  A familiar scratchy tenor replaced Claire's voice, 
sounding business-like and a little harried.

"Uhm.  Yeah, hi." Lennie paused, his brain suddenly supplying 
him with a million ways that this could backfire and make things 
considerably worse.  As usual, though, his brain's advice was 
lagging about five seconds behind his tongue.  With a 
suppressed sigh, Lennie plowed ahead.  "Hey, McCoy.  I was 
just...uhm...wondering what you were doing tonight?"

There was a stunned pause, and Lennie flushed as he realized 
exactly how that sounded.  He hastily continued.  "What I mean 
is, Claire, Mike, and I are heading out for the Shot, that new 
pool hall on 67th.  I was wondering if you wanted to come 
along."

The silence stretched a little longer, and Lennie could easily feel 
the other man's hesitation.

"Look, McCoy.  It's no big deal.  We go out together a couple of 
times a week, and I thought you might wanna come along this 
time."  No response.  OK, then, time for some blunt honesty. 
"And...well, we just had a real shitty call and Mike's in a bad 
mood. These days, you seem to be the best at getting him out 
of his funks."  Lennie smiled.  "Besides, I get tired of killing the 
kids at pool every time...Claire tells me you're not bad.  I could 
use a challenge."

A chuckle.  "Yeah.  OK.  We'll meet you there.  I should warn 
you, though...I won the Oak Heights billard cup every year back 
in high school."

Lennie grinned.  "Yeah, well a lot can change in a century."

McCoy laughed.  "You're one to talk!  OK, then.  A challenge, it 
is.  Loser buys the round."

"As long as they're virgin margueritas, you're on.  See you 
there--and you might want to stop by the ATM, Counselor."

"We'll see, Detective.   We'll see."

*  *  *

The lawyers beat the cops to the pool hall, and by the time 
Lennie and Mike entered the smoky basement, they had 
already staked out one of the better tables.  Lennie braced 
himself as Mike stiffened at his side in surprise when he saw 
who stood next to Claire.  Fortunately, though, his partner only 
shot him a sour look.

"So, that's what you were smiling about all the way here. Cute. 
Is this where I start singing `Matchmaker, matchmaker, make 
me a match?"  Lennie shrugged innocently.  "Hey, only if you're 
feeling musical.  `Sides, I didn't do it for you.  I'm tired of playing 
with you amateurs.   I wanna play against someone who can 
sink a ball at least every third shot."

"Mike!  Lennie!  Over here!" Claire waved enthusiastically.  "I 
got the table you like, Lennie--although Jack had to threaten 
these fratboys with a lawsuit to get them to give it up."

Lennie laughed, but Mike only smiled wryly, realizing that Claire 
probably wasn't joking.  It would be just like Jack to threaten 
innocent strangers with an indictment to get the pool table he 
wanted.  Jack caught his smile, and grinned in return, well 
aware of what he was thinking.  The EADA chalked up his cue 
expertly as they approached.

"Ready to buy that first round, Briscoe?"

Lennie grinned, handing his coat to his partner and reaching for 
one of the cues on the wall.  "I'm ready to kick your ass, McCoy. 
Stripes or solids?"

"It's customary to let the doomed man decide."

Mike and Claire rolled their eyes in tandem at the posturing. 
"Oh, great," Mike muttered.  "High noon at the Shot."

"So, what are we supposed to do while you guys butt horns?" 
Claire passed a perspiring glass of Guiness to Mike as she 
sipped her gin and tonic.  "Take bets?  Cheer?  Start a wave?"

The two men smiled a challenge at each other across the table, 
already focusing on each other and forgetting their companions. 
"Watch and learn, kiddies."  Lennie gathered the balls in 
formation, then lined up his cue.  "This is how you make a 
grown man cry."  His break sent two colored spheres skittering 
into the side pockets...and it was all downhill from there.

The first game went easily to Lennie.  So did the second, but he 
had to fight for it.  By the third, Jack had warmed up, and the 
battle was on.  The man was good...it had been years since 
Lennie faced off with an adversary of his calibre.  Usually, it was 
just a matter of how long the detective felt like toying with his 
opponent.  But, he was fighting every step of the way now.  The 
fourth game went to Jack, and Lennie found himself buying a 
round for the first time in nearly a decade.

The fifth game was as tight as the fourth, with the advantage 
swinging back and forth between the two men dizzyingly.  Mike 
and Claire watched, captivated, as each man attempted--and 
made--progressively more difficult shots.  By the sixth game, 
strangers were stopping to watch the tense, high-calibre 
competition.  By the seventh, each man had his small group of 
cheerleaders and money was passing hands. By the eighth, 
their table had become the focal point of the entire hall.  Lennie 
grinned widely as he mopped his forehead with his hankerchief. 
He hadn't played this hard in years.  He watched as McCoy 
pulled off another unlikely shot, noting the man's equally broad 
smile, and knew he wasn't the only one who was pleasantly 
surprised tonight.  They had both planned on tolerating each 
other's presence for another's sake, and ended up enjoying 
each other's company beyond all expectations.  Lennie's grin 
evaporated moments later when Jack sunk the last two of his 
balls with one geometrically impossible shot.

"Shit!  That was a lucky break, McCoy!"

"Hey Lennie," his partner's voice, thick with mirth, echoed over 
the cries of the onlookers.  "I thought you said there was no 
such thing as luck in pool!"

Laughter rolled across the hall as McCoy grinned triumphantly 
from across the near-empty pool table.   At first, he thought that 
the man was gloating over his latest victory, but a subtle 
gesture of long fingers directed his gaze to the foot of the table. 
Rickety stools had been dragged over from the bar, and on two 
such contraptions sat Mike and Claire, arms entwined, pressed 
together by the swaying crowd.  Claire was laughing along with 
the rest of the onlookers at Lennie's predicament, near-empty 
glass held high, eyes bright and cheeks pink with heat, 
excitement, and gin.  Mike was grinning widely, his plaid tie 
completely unravelled, dishevelled and just a little tipsy-- with no 
sign of his earlier mood in sight.

Lennie took in his tousled, laughing partner, then met dark eyes 
across the pool table again in mutual congratulation.  Mission 
accomplished.

"So, Counselor.  Wanna see if your luck holds out?"

McCoy laughed.  "You should listen to your partner, Briscoe. 
But, sure, I could always use another free round of 
margueritas."

*  *  *

It was well after midnight when they finally stumbled out of the 
smoky pool hall. Cheers and laughter followed their departure, 
and the manager, a disturbingly large black man, personally 
invited McCoy to return as often as possible.

"Ain't never seen anyone hold out like that against Briscoe here. 
Nice to see him work for it, for once, the old shark."  He 
emphasized his point with a casual backslap that left Lennie 
winded.

"Christ, Jude!  No need to break my back.  And, I *won*.  Eight 
games to seven."

"Only because I let you, Briscoe...this time."

"Wow," Claire giggled, leaning heavily on Mike.  "Who'd have 
thought that pool could actually be a spectator sport?"

"Guess it depends what you mean by spectating," Mike 
snickered, and they both dissolved into inebriated giggles. 
Lennie watched in exasperation as his young friends weaved 
together and nearly fell over into oncoming traffic, long legs 
tangling together.  While he and McCoy had stuck to virgin 
cocktails through their fifteen rounds, their companions had 
tried to keep up with the real thing...at least for the first few 
hours. As a result, both were walking a little unsteadily and 
giggling a little too much. 

Briscoe and McCoy exchanged amused glances as the pair 
teetered on the curb, trying to hail a taxi while arguing loudly 
over whose turn it was to pay the fare...especially when they 
both realized that they'd spent the last of their cash on that last 
round of ale.

"Claire lives about a dozen blocks uptown from me," Lennie 
offered casually, careful to keep his voice out of earshot of Mike 
and Claire several feet away.

McCoy stared at him in surprise for a moment, then smiled 
slowly.  "That so?"

"Yeah.  I usually drop her off on my way home when we go out 
together.  Mike lives the other way, though."  Lennie grinned. 
"You going that way by any chance, McCoy?"

McCoy laughed.  "As a matter of fact, yes...and I have an extra 
helmet, too."

"What a coincidence!  I guess that's settled, then."

"Guess so."  McCoy grinned mischieviously.  "You do realize 
he's still sober enough to see through this, right?"

"Yup.  And, I think he's just drunk enough to let me get away 
with it."  The men shared another chuckle, then Lennie held out 
his hand.  "You're not a bad pool player, McCoy.  Maybe, next 
time, I'll play for real..."

McCoy's handshake was as challenging as his grin.  "I'm 
looking forward to it."

They stood for a moment, hands clasped in alliance, then 
stepped apart.  Then, they moved forward together to claim 
their respective passengers.

The End
March 1998