“Welsh
inviting us all to his house? He hasn’t done that since I came to the 27th.”
Ray Kowalski paused and mentally tallied just how long this has been: two year
in the guise of Ray Vecchio, two years as Fraser’s partner while Vecchio was in
Florida, and now Vecchio was back for nearly a year, another Ray to have been
chewed up and spit out by The Stella.
“Five years. Doesn’t seem like it.”
“He
hasn’t ever. Even before you came. Guess he wants to show off his new swimming
pool,” Vecchio said.
Welsh
picked up this last comment as he was crossing the squad room. “You could call
it showing off. Or, Detective, you could call it wanting to be nice to my
people now that I’ve finally decided to get a pool.”
“You
mean now that your grandchildren talked you into getting a pool,” put in
Francesca from across the room. “If I ever have kids and grandkids I’m sure not
going to let them push me around.”
Both
Rays and Welsh individually found themselves tempted by this straight line and
each separately considered a snide comment, then refrained from delivering one in order to be nice.
“Anyway,
tomorrow night at my house at six.
Burgers, potato salad, beer and soda will be provided. You bring your
own bathing suits and towels,” Welsh said, “My wife’s been cooking for a week
and the house reeks of boiled potatoes and chopped onion. There’s a whole lot of potato salad to get
got rid of, so everybody who isn’t on a stake out better show up.”
“My
mother puts in all different colours of peppers in potato salad. It’s really pretty,” Kowalski said.
“Ma
likes German style potato salad. She slices the potatoes thin and mixes them
with oil and vinegar and serves it hot,” said Vecchio.
“That’s
sick-making,” observed Huey from his desk. “Mayonnaise and hard- boiled eggs.
That’s what you put in a really classic potato salad. And paprika sprinkled over the top.”
From
all over the bull pen, opinion flew forth as to what made a really good potato
salad. Finally Welsh called a halt to the discussion by enjoining them all to
shut their traps and go solve some crimes.
The
party went well, as a party would be expected to do when the dominant
ingredients of it are a bunch of people who know one another well, lots of
food, lots of beer and weather warm enough for swimming but not too hot for
those who chose to stay dry.
Mrs.
Welsh kept her husband stationed at the barbeque flipping burgers and delegated
some of the more responsible, designated driver guests to help her by keeping
an eye on the fare laid out on the backyard picnic table. Large plastic bowls were kept full of potato
salad, styrofoam coolers were kept full of beer and fresh ice to keep the beer cool. She also enlisted sentries armed with extra
beach towels to prevent swimmers from coming into the house dripping wet. Those wishing to come in to change or use
the facilities were forced to wipe down before being allowed inside so as to
minimize the damage to the furniture and flooring. While the soberer guests were the most trustworthy to replenish
the comestibles, Mrs. Welsh found that men with a few drinks in them made the
most diligent and insistent of guards.
A
high point of the party was Fraser’s brief dip in the swimming pool. Like the other bathers, he changed in one of
the bedrooms and came out of the backyard patio door wearing a towel about his
shoulders and a pair of trunks about his loins. He appeared not to notice as
all conversation stopped the moment he set his small, bare, pink feet onto the
backyard deck. Few of the gang at the
27th had ever seen the Mountie wearing anything more
revealing than his uniform. Fraser
appeared to be casual even though all eyes were on him as he walked across the
deck to the pool and cut a shallow dive, after first waiting to be sure that he
had enough room to do so without splashing anybody.
His
swim trunks were unremarkable – the simple black ones he had worn in the
hospital swimming pool, taking physio years ago. But once the Mountie was wet, they clung to his nether regions
and all eyes strained to make out the shape and size of that which lay beneath
them when he walked back to the house from the swimming pool.
Once
the sun went down, only the occasional die-hards went into the pool. Eating eased off and some of the guests
produced bottles of liquor that they had been keeping in their cars just in
case it happened that beer was indeed the only alcohol their host was
providing. After the first tossing of
an unsuspecting victim into the pool, Welsh bellowed his disapproval and any
further rowdiness was forestalled. All in all, it was a successful party from
anyone’s point of view.
The
party wound down. Designated drivers
rounded up their charges and herded them towards cars. Welsh and his wife
supervised the loading of each vehicle to ensure that the drivers were sober.
Vecchio proved to be an unexpected problem. He, Fraser and Francesca came to
the party together in the Riv under the agreement that Francesca would be the
one to drive home. But when the party
ended Francesca wanted to drive home with a uniform she had been spending the
evening with and intended to spend more time with after the party.
“I’m
going for a little drive with Garvey.
Fraszh can drive you home and crash on our couch for the night. Ma’ll be
thrilled to have another mouth to feed in the morning,” she proclaimed.
Ray
seldom got drunk, but the night’s party atmosphere had depressed him, still
stinging from his painful experiences with Stella. Safe in the knowledge that
his sister would drive the Riv later, he’d downed far more beers than he was
normally able to handle. He allowed
himself to be placed in the front seat of the Riv by Fraser and Kowalski, under
the watchful eyes of his host and hostess.
“Maybe
Kowalski could take you instead?” offered Welsh, mindful of the fact that the
Mountie seldom drove any vehicle that didn’t have dogs as its motive force.
“I’ve
already got a full load of drunken detectives,” the blond detective apologized.
“I guess I could deliver all my bunch and then come back for him, but how would
he get the Riv home?”
“I’m
licensed to drive in this jurisdiction,” Fraser pointed out. Apparently this
was the important issue for him in the discussion.
“I
dunno.” Kowalski scratched his head, tangling his fingers in blond spikes. “The Mountie and vintage cars. Not a good
mix.”
“It’s
late. There’s not much traffic,” Mrs. Welsh said.
“Still,
Kowalski’s right. He’s done in two of Vecchio’s cars already,” her husband
said.
Fraser
was offended. “On each of those occasions, circumstances required me to
sacrifice the vehicles. I’m a careful
driver. I drive Inspector Thatcher
around in the consular limos all the time.”
The
only counter to that argument that either Welsh or Kowalski could think of was
that the Inspector must enjoy having her deputy chauffeur her around for
reasons other than his skill in driving, but they each kept that thought to
themselves.
Meanwhile
Vecchio remained slumped in his car, babbling the occasional comment to which
nobody paid any attention.
At
last Fraser decided the issue by reaching into his friend’s pants pocket,
taking the car keys and easing himself into the driver’s seat.
“Good
night, and thank you for your hospitality,” he called through the car window as
he drove off.
Vecchio
roused briefly and forced himself to focus on the streets that they were
passing.
“You
missed the on-ramp,” he accused, drunkenly.
“I
missed it deliberately, Ray. I’m not
taking the freeway back to your house, I’m taking the surface roads,” Fraser
told him.
“Freeway’s
faster,” muttered Vecchio.
“I’m
aware of that. But Ray and the Lieutenant are worried about my driving, so I’m
taking a safer route.”
“Turn
back to the freeway,” Ray insisted, his speech slurred.
“That’s
unnecessary. It won’t be too much longer a drive. There’s no traffic at this
hour,” the Mountie said, patiently.
“Turn
back, I said! This is my car. It goes where I want it to go. Christ, don’t I
get to control anything anymore?”
Fraser
drove in silence, considering what to say next and whether or not to change his
route to satisfy his friend’s irrational but vehement demand.
He
didn’t react quickly enough to satisfy his drunken friend. Vecchio grabbed hold
of the steering wheel and gave it a solid shove to the left and kept hold of
it, thinking to force Fraser into making a U-turn.
The
car swerved before the Mountie could wrest control of the wheel from
Vecchio. There was a horrible squeal of
tires, followed by an even more horrible crunch of metal against metal. The Riv
slammed into the minivan that was driving on its left.
The
driver of the mini-van was released from hospital after a perfunctory
examination. The middle-aged man
driving home from a late night at the office had been alone in his car. Vecchio was kept over-night for
observation. The intern that examined
him was appalled that he couldn’t have Vecchio arrested for something, but the
cops that came to this patient’s bedside pointed out that the detective, while
responsible for the accident, hadn’t been the driver. “Damn cops,” he said to
his girlfriend when his shift was over and he had a few hours to go home and
sleep. “They all protect one another. That asshole ought to thrown in jail for
twenty years. Probably killed that other guy.”
That
other guy, to whom the intern referred, was Fraser. He had taken the brunt of the impact when the driver’s side of
the car had torn through the passenger side of the mini-van. He remained in
surgery for a good five hours. Quite a crowd gathered during this time – Ma
Vecchio, Francesca (summoned to her brother’s side by a frantic cell phone
summons) and Maria sat with Vecchio, saying little. Welsh, Kowalski and Thatcher spent most of that time fretting in
the waiting room but occasionally went to say something non-committal to the
now fully sober Vecchio.
At
last one of the surgeons came out to consult with the waiting assemblage.
“He’ll
live.” The doctor’s somber tone warned them that bad news was going to follow
that simple assurance. “But there’s been damage to his spine. We won’t know how bad it is for a while, but
it is possible that there will be paralysis. It’s just too soon to know, I’m
afraid. Well, he’ll be in recovery for
another couple of hours then we’re going to move him to intensive care. You
folks might as well go home and get some rest.
We’re not expecting any change in his condition and it’ll be at least
another day before he can talk to you.”
With
this, the doctor left them. The three
cops all stood about, unsure what to do or say next.
“I’ll
go tell Vecchio,” Welsh said, finally, and headed over to the cubicle in
Emergency where Vecchio languished, surrounded by female relatives. There weren’t supposed to be four people in
that tiny room but Welsh and Thatcher’s combined influence prevented anyone from
gainsaying the wishes of the Vecchio family.
Welsh
rapped lightly on the cubicle door then opened it without waiting for any
answer. Vecchio, his sisters and his mother all looked hopefully at him,
wanting news. Welsh delivered it. The
women all gasped and took turns hugging each other. To Vecchio they said
nothing nor even looked at him.
“My
poor Benito,” murmured Ma.
“When
can we go see him?” asked Francesca.
“I
don’t know. You’ll have to ask somebody,” he tossed off and left abruptly,
closing the door behind him. He had no reason to be rude to women-folk but
right now he was too angry with his detective to even try to be civil.
Discussing
it amongst themselves, Welsh, Kowalski and Thatcher decided to heed the
doctor’s advice. There was nothing they could do for Fraser for the time being
and nothing they needed to do for Vecchio, since he was already surrounded by
family. Welsh took an extra few minutes
to find the doctor in charge of the recovery room and leave orders that
Inspector Thatcher be notified if Fraser’s condition took an unexpected turn.
Then
they all headed out of the hospital and into the glow of the early morning.
Thatcher stopped just outside the main entrance and waved at one of the waiting
taxis.
“You’re
not taking any cab,” Kowalski protested. “I’ll drive you. It’s been a long
night.”
“No,
I’ll take the Inspector in my car,” Welsh said.
“I’d
rather be alone,” Thatcher told them. “Really. You two go on home.”
“If
you hear anything at all, you call us,” Welsh said for the seventh time since
designating her official contact point.
“I
will,” she assured them, getting into the back seat of the cab. Welsh rushed
forward to close the door after her.
Show
off, Kowalski thought. “Well, good night, sir,” he said aloud.
“Good
morning, more like,” Welsh said, looking at the rosy sky.
“Yeah,
and not so good either. Oh well. By the
way, I’m going to be in late today.”
Welsh
smiled for the first time in many hours. “I won’t dock you for it, detective.
Get some rest.”
They
parted company, each man heading towards his own car.
This
is my fault, Thatcher thought as she rode in the back seat of the cab. I should have come to that party. Lieutenant Welsh invited me but did I come?
No. I didn’t want the embarrassment of being at a party with Fraser. If we’d gone together, me and Fraser, he
would have had to drive me home and he wouldn’t have been alone in that car
with Vecchio. Damn it. I messed
up. Everything that has to do with
Fraser I mess up. And now, he might be paralyzed and I could have prevented it.
Kowalski
was tired, very tired. He literally couldn’t keep his eyes open as he tried to
drive home. His eyelids kept drooping
and his vision blurring until finally he gave up and pulled into the parking
lot of a fast food outlet. Coffee. I
need coffee right now, he decided and, not trusting himself to drive any
further, even up to the drive-through window, he parked and made his sleepy way
into the restaurant. After purchasing a
coffee he realized he had no Smarties, so he settled for pouring sugar into his
cup instead.
This
is my fault, he thought as he sipped at coffee so sweet it made his teeth ache.
I should have made Fraser and Vecchio wait there for me and taken them home
myself. You’re a fuck up, Kowalski.
Vecchio could have left his car there overnight. You never should have let Fraser drive. And
now he might never drive again, or even walk. Nice going, you ruined your
partner’s life.
Welsh
parked his car in his driveway and opened his front door. His wife was waiting
in the living room, still fully dressed from the night before, waiting for news.
“You
didn’t call. What happened? Are they okay?”
Welsh
bussed her on the cheek perfunctorily. “Sorry, I should have called. I was just
. . . distracted.” He headed past her
up the stairs and she trailed after.
“Everybody’s
okay but the Mountie,” he said, and brought his wife up to date.
She
thought about it as they both changed into pajamas. Welsh had no intention of
going into the office and he’d already called the station from his car to let
them know not to expect to see himself, either Ray or the Mountie.
“Harding,
is this is our fault?” she said, as they slipped into bed together. “We were the hosts. Should we have noticed Ray Vecchio was
having too much to drink and cut him off?
“I
don’t know. He wasn’t much drunker than
some other guys. I didn’t think he was that far gone. Now the Mountie might end
up paralyzed. Yeah, I guess it’s our
fault.”
Shortly
after seven in that morning Vecchio was told to go home. Since the accident he hadn’t said much. During the hours that passed in Emergency
his mother and sisters chatted about inconsequential things, just to make
conversation, or sat quietly while he rested.
Ma
and Maria had come over in Maria’s car and Francesca had been dropped off by
Garvey at the hospital after her sister called her on her cell about the
accident. Once all the paperwork was taken care of, the women escorted Vecchio
to Maria’s car. He was about to climb
into the back seat, then stopped and took a few paces away from the car.
“No,
I’m staying here,” he said, speaking a full sentence for the first time since
he had caused the accident. “I’m staying with Fraser.”
“Caro,
there’s nothing you can do for him right now.
Come back later, that’s best,” his mother tried to soothe him.
“I
said I’m staying,” Vecchio insisted.
“You’re
being stubborn, Ray. Considering what being stubborn just got you, you may as
well give up and do what you're told.”
Vecchio
flinched visibly but didn’t get into the car.
“Maria,
you can come back and pick him up later,” Ma said, “Let’s go home and get some
sleep. Come, Francesca. Raymondo, call home when you’re ready to be picked up.”
The
women drove off and Maria, at the wheel, complained “What was all that about?
Why should we go out of our way to humour him?”
“He’ll
need to talk to Benito. Leave him be,”
said her mother.
Maria
muttered and groused in the front seat.
Beside
her, Francesca was looking out the window, ignoring the conversation, deep in
her own thoughts.
It’s
my fault, she told herself. I had to go
off with a guy instead of staying with my brother. I could see he was plastered
but I didn’t stay and make sure he was okay. Fraszh tried to take care of him
and now God knows how he’ll be. I
should have stayed and driven them.
How’ll I ever look Fraszh in the eye again. Damn. Damn. Damn.
There
was no way Ma was going to go to bed even though she had been up all night. She
went to the kitchen and started baking. She did it out of habit, barely aware
of what it was she making – just to keep busy.
This kept her hands busy but it wasn’t enough to stop her thoughts.
I
did this to poor Benito, she agonized. All these years I never pressured
Raymondo about drinking. I trusted him not to be like his father, not to be a
drunk. I didn’t want to nag him. I was afraid he’d get his back up and just
drink more. Wrong, I was so wrong. I didn’t teach him and now look what
happens. He gets drunk and nearly kills his friend. Maybe he’ll never walk, who knows. I failed my son. I wanted to raise him to be a better man than
his father but I failed.
Vecchio
waited by the nurse’s station at the Intensive Care Unit, while one of the
nurses made some calls and finally let him in to see Fraser. He walked slowly towards the bed where his
friend lay, motionless and pale.
I
can’t take back what happened, Benny, he thought. I did this to you and there’s
no excuse. You weren’t running away. I
didn’t imagine any gun. I was just drunk and stupid and now here you are. But I’m going to be here and whatever there
is you need, I’m going to make sure you get it. Anything.
“
A
nurse came up from behind him and startled him by speaking, even though she
spoke softly.
“Relative?”
she asked gently.
“Best
friend,” Vecchio answered, once he had recovered from being startled.
“His
chart says car accident.”
“Not
an accident really. I did this. I made him lose control of the car.”
“Oh,
that’s too bad,” said the nurse, wanting to draw him out if he needed to talk
but careful not to say anything too distressing.
“I’m
going to make it up to him, though.
This is all my fault.”
The
End