s r kowalski's blog

guess you could say i gave you my edge

Jesus Christ--

What the fuck, Ade? What the fuck?

I read through your old letters - I kept every one, I told you that, right? I keep them, because some day, that's all there's going to be of you, a book of letters like a fucking Bible, and fucking memories of the beach house and your aunt and Mercie and Marius and Nettie and the rest of your fucking family, and you and Naomi in me and Stella's kitchen like we were all fucking normal, and me and you smoking in the bathroom at school when we were kids, and me finding you fucking dead and you fucking promised, Aden. You fucking promised me that you

And I have these fucking dreams, Aden-- they're not even dreams, because they're fucking terrifying and I don't even want to fucking sleep anymore. And you told me, I know, you told me, this happens sometimes, you do this, cause this, influence-- you never ask, but fuck it, I don't care. You don't want to know, you can stop reading and fucking burn this, I don't care.

Christine isn't Naomi. Clara isn'tyour You told me, you told me it was you and it wasn't, what happened with Naomi, with-- And you told me, said she died so mine could

But she's mine, goddammit, and I shouldn't dream her fifteen years old already with your eyes - Mercie's eyes, Mercie's face, there, fuck it, I said it, and I shouldn't dream my wife to have Naomi's face when she turns around to watch me, they watch me together, all of them-- and I shouldn't wake up out of breath and clawing at my own throat because I'm dreaming I'm getting hanged, I can't fucking breathe, I'm dreaming my wife and daughter - or your wife and-- they're all fucking watching me, Me, fucking hanged man

And I've seen the card, and it's not the same, it's not the peaceful upside-down fucker in the card, it's fucking honest to fucking god hanging, no breathing hanging, and I can't see you there, but I can fucking tell, you're there, and you're not stopping it, not helping me, not

I've been dreaming this for weeks, fucking weeks, and I only just went through your letters again, and I only just remembered you writing me that. She died so mine could have a chance. I never asked-- You didn't mean that, I don't want--

What does that mean, hanged man, I don't fucking want it, I don't

Where the fuck are you? If you're fucking dead, I swear to God, Aden, I swear to

You promised me. Promised.

And where the fuck have my eyes gone, Aden, you better not be fucking dead because I sure as shit don't know and I need you to explain to me. What the fuck does it mean - any of it? WhereWhyWhat

--Hanged Man

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i wish i could live free
i hope it's not beyond me
settling down takes time
one day we'll live together
and life will be better
i have it here in my mind

baby, you know someday you'll sorrow
and baby, my heart's been breaking

i gave a lot to you
i take a lot from you too
guess you could say i gave you my edge

i can't pretend i need to defend some part of me from you
i can't pretend i don't need to defend some part of me from you
i know i've spent some time all lying

all i found was dust that moved and shadows of the afternoon

There came a time in Ray's life - in his marriage, anyway, which most of his life revolved around, so in other words, his life - when he rarely slept at home. Late twenties, especially early thirties, in the three or four years leading up to his divorce.

He never called it a 'separation,' because he and Stella never discussed it, and Ray never admitted (at least out loud, and usually, not even to himself) that it was because he and his wife were having problems. A lot of the time, he'd just stay so late at the precinct that it made sense to catch a couple hours sleep in one of the holding cells if he was lucky and there was some room, or, if there'd been a lot of drunks that night, at his desk, head pillowed on unfinished reports and photo arrays and file folders full of notes and takeout menus. Sometimes, he'd stay at a buddy's house - because they'd been out getting drunk together anyway, because the other guy's place was closer. Because Stella'd kill him if he came home this trashed again.

Once in a while, he'd be out all night: speeding up and down Lake Shore Drive, honking his car's horn at the patrol cars stationed there because they knew him and they knew that once in a while, Detective Kowalski with the need-for-speed just really needed to get out there and go.

All those times out, Ray always felt like he was looking for something, and even after years of restless nights prowling the city, he never felt like he found whatever-it-was. He'd go home in a couple of days, no less sullen than he was when he left, nothing solved. If Stella ever asked him where he was (which happened three or four times in three or four years), a noncommittal shrug and an answer of "work" always seemed to satisfy her.

At times, it occured to him that maybe spending all this time away from Stella wasn't helping the problem - and maybe was even hurting it a little, because how could he fix it by avoiding it? - but thinking that way never made him feel less restless, or less lonely and less like a stranger in his own home. Because that was it, really - he felt alone, even at home with his own wife.

Years later, after searching every-fucking-where, he found what he was looking for. The only problem was, once he found it, he didn't know quite how to keep it, so once again, he ended up much the same - wandering nights, dragging his ass home at two or three in the morning if he even came home at all.

The problem, he found, was figuring out how to keep what he found what he was looking for, even after it didn't need to be found anymore.

Ray'd spent half his life chasing Stella, and after that - and even during it, some of the time - he spent years chasing something unknown. He always thought that once he found it, he'd be happy - could settle down, could stop chasing.

Could be, just maybe, that some people were destined to chase.

-------------------------

the mirrors and the unacknowledged nods.
dial tones and license plates.
the words you didn't choose.
everything the day's too small to hold spills on to the dusk,
and shorts the evening's fuse.
so you fumble for a voice and sing "Happy Birthday."
read it to yourself again.
the stories always end the same.
she can't stay and he won't run,
and fear is where they're calling from.
staunch the blood from countless tiny cuts.
we're all out of bandages.
the heaters rattle taunt.
sifting through translucent shards of glass,
looking for a filament that lit the life you want.
so you fumble for the phone, grasp the cord and pull.
will your readership complain the stories always end the same?
he can't stay and she won't run, and fear is where they're calling from.
afraid is where you're calling from.

['uncorrected proofs,' the weakerthans]

the air goes into your lungs and around in your heart and on through your blood

This is the kind of night Kowalski lives for.

Three o'clock, Sunday morning, late September. Fog, and lots of it. Projects. Routine, sitting surveillance with his boots on the dash and the windows cracked so he can smoke.

And then - something. You hump the Job long enough, you can feel it a split second before you even get the call: the heat in your spine; the way your heart catches in your throat for a few beats, quick. Crackling static on the radio, and a confirmation of what you already knew.

Blown cover. Duty calls.

Kick the door in (this is not the time for a knock and announce). Go first, you might be the dead man - and it's Kowalski who goes first. Volunteers for it.

The few that are still in the apartment scatter. A couple are in the bathroom; he can hear the toilet going. A few are going out the window, onto the fire escape, to try to get home or somewhere else safe - and that's where Kowalski goes. The others can secure the place - he wants the cowards, wants the disloyals. The ones that leave their dope and don't think they'll take the fall. The ones that will track their own shit into their own homes.

So this is the kind of night he lives for: The near-silence of a footchase where visibility is almost zero because of the fog, where there's nothing but you and him and your own breath in-out and your own blood pumping through your veins and pounding in your ears and your sidearm solid in your hand and the sound of your boots and his expensive Nikes hitting the pavement.

And once in a while, you yell something on autopilot, something about Chicago PD, stop running, under arrest. Once in a while, you think about radioing for backup - and every time, you shoot that down, because you know they have their hands full back at the nest. Never does anything substantial cross your mind, nothing about if this guy still has dope on him or what kind of player he is in this situation and whether or not he's armed or if you're going to make it home to your wife tonight - nothing crosses your mind except go, go, go, get this fucker.

Footchases are always hard to time. Fifteen seconds feels like an eternity, a minute can feel like nothing. All Kowalski knows is that after some amount of time, after running some amount of blocks, the guy turns down a gangway that leads into a courtyard for a couple of mid-rises, he turns to follow, and the guy takes shots.

Three. Those, too - eternity and instant.

Even then, you don't think; you backpedal out of the walkway, up your piece, return shots fired. And then you realize you've been hit, probably, and then you have just a little bit of rational thought: check out the damage, continue pursuit.

The time it takes to consider this question never ever feels like an eternity to Ray. It feels like he makes the decision instantly, and it's usually because he does.

Through the gangway, up the fire escape, make the mental note to search the dumpster by the fire escape later - gun's probably there by now. Kid wasn't dumb enough to hang onto his weapon, even if he was dumb enough to attempt murder on a police officer.

And the kid has to know he's fucked, has to know Kowalski saw him duck into the fourth story window from the fire escape. Has to know he's fucked even before Kowalski follows him, clambering in through the busted out window.

Family's waking up. There's a baby crying. That's all you remember (even though your report won't read like that). You come back to yourself post-takedown, with your knee in this kid's back and his hands cuffed behind him, and you radio your team, "Got one. Fourth floor, don't know the address. Took shots at me, gonna need someone else here." And then, and only then, do you think to check yourself, to see if there's damage.

There's a rend in the fabric of his hoodie and his tee shirt, lower left side. A couple inches lower, and it would have winged him and not his vest. If he was stupid and didn't wear it and the kid had been a little bit better of a shot, kid would be safe and sound tonight. Ray wouldn't even be here. He'd be bleeding out in that gangway.

Instead: His brain still functions, even though it won't slow down for at least a couple of hours now. His heart still pumps. His lungs still work. Breathe in. Breathe out. In, out.

Kowalski really lives, these kinds of nights.

the beginning of the end is the--

Ray'd been up for hours. He hadn't called anyone. Calling someone would be admitting that he'd fucked up - and Ray was not free of faults. Admission of guilt always was something he had a hard time with.

He'd been scouring the streets since one in the morning, more of his attention down on the compass-inspired pendant he held in his palm than his actual surroundings. At times, the pendant warmed, at others, cooled. Sometimes the needle pointed in one direction for minutes at a time - once, for an entire half an hour - and sometimes it moved unpredictably, too fast. But Ray didn't waste time trying to figure out how it was possible - if he stopped to think, he'd end up thinking, and thinking right now was not going to lead him anywhere good. Right now, he just had to act.

Eventually, the sun rose. It was a gradual thing, of course, but Ray didn't notice until it was up and shining and day. From pitch black in the badly lit backalleys, squinting down at the compass cradled in his palm, and the next thing he knew, birds were chirping and he was squinting against the sun instead.

And still no sign of her.

He should have gone with. He shouldn't have been so cocky, to think nothing would happen tonight. He should have kept a closer eye on her. He should have been less trusting. He should have listened a little better to that feeling in his gut, the one that made him pull her close right before she left, the one that had him deepening the goodbye kiss she gave him into something that bordered on not quite appropriate for public.

But 'should have's didn't help anyone right now. Ray knew that. Right now, he had to act.

And sometimes, someone else does the acting for you.

It was close to nine in the morning - a little bit after; his lieutenant had just called him, probably to see where he was, but Ray didn't know for sure because he didn't pick up - when Himmel called. Ray answered, his heart pounded in his ears, he felt faint. "Where is she?" Somehow, his voice didn't waver; it came out low, threatening. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was surprised to hear it like that.

"She's feisty," Himmel laughed. It was not a nice laugh. "You've got two hours. Half a mil, and she'll stay alive until tomorrow. You fuck around, Kowalski, and, well - she's not gonna be so feisty anymore. Warehouse on Eighteenth and Sheldon." Click.

--------------------------------------

So I was a little early. What's wrong with being early? Better than being late.

And okay, so I didn't bring any money. So I didn't intend on bringing any money. Dax wanted me to bring money. Didn't want to risk it, he said. Me, I guess I just don't mind the risk.

So I didn't exactly knock and announce. So I kind of crept around the side of this place, thinking maybe I could do something to distract him while Christine got away.

And it was tricky, you know? He was tricky. I don't know how he knew that the compass would be a lure, but he did. I knew she had to be there - well, turns out you can 'know' something and not know something at all.

I swore she was in there. She was right on the other side of that door in the back - had to be. The compass was pointing right there, and it was so fucking warm. So fucking warm.

I'll spare the details. Main point is, it wasn't her. Main point is, I got hit in the face so hard I saw stars in the next universe over. Main point is, I am a scrappy fighter and I can hold my own okay - better than okay, come on, let's not be modest here - but Himmel's got fifty pounds on me and a few inches. Himmel had the element of surprise. Himmel also had a gun pointed right at my forehead after he had me down on the ground. I can't focus on what he's saying because my head hurts too bad and maybe my nose is broken - but he's ranting, he's gonna kill me, he's gonna fuckin' kill me. I can't fuck with him, nobody fucks with him. The usual stuff.

And second surprise of the night - Chace comes out of nowhere and bowls this guy over. Shot goes off, but I'm okay this time. And then I've got my gun and it's my turn for some fucking 'I'm gonna kill you, I'm gonna kill you' talk.

Because I am. I really fucking am.

----------------------------------------

Ray has the gun pointed at Himmel, and he means it when he says he's going to kill him. He means it with every fiber of his being, every cell, every breath, every heartbeat. He has the gun pointed at Himmel, who's down on the ground, groaning from the blow Chace delivered to his head - he has the gun pointed at Himmel, and he means what he says, but his hand is shaking.

"So nobody fucks with you, huh? I can't fuck with you?" Ray's whole body is shaking - adrenaline, rage. His eyes are narrowed, his jaw is set, and other than the fact that he can't keep his aim steady, a more intimidating man he's never been. "Is blowing your goddamn brains out fucking with you?"

"Ray, you don't want to do this." Chace hadn't left, and Ray hadn't hallucinated him - he's standing a few paces off from the other two men, hands up at shoulder level, making what was supposed to be a calming gesture. "You don't mean that."

"What the fuck do you know, Chace?" Ray's snapping over his shoulder at the lawyer, only taking his eyes off of Himmel for a fraction of a second. "You don't know what he put us through. You don't know what he was gonna do to her. Fuckin' shithead deserves to die." Ray's finger tightens on the trigger - but he knows his weapon well; it doesn't fire, and he hadn't meant it to. Not yet. "Right?" Addressing Himmel now, though the man is still trying to catch his breath, laying on the dirty floor of the warehouse. "Fuckin' disgrace to the uniform. Sick excuse for a human being. Ain't that right, Himmel? Nicky?" The cocky, sneering look on Ray's face wasn't affected badly by the fact that blood was smeared from his nose to his chin. If anything, it just made him look like he'd lost it even more - and maybe he had.

"Fuck you," Himmel forces out - in pain, still with the wind knocked out of him. Defenseless, his own gun knocked out of his hand when Chace hit him, but defiant. To the end, defiant. Ray knows that feeling - they are too much alike. Too much alike. "You don't have the balls."

"Oh-ho, I don't have the fucking balls, no?" Without warning, Ray kicks the man curled up fetal on the ground in the gut. Kept him from catching his breath. Himmel curls up tighter; Ray crouches down and sets the mouth of his Beretta's barrel carefully, tenderly, almost, against Himmel's forehead. "Don't have the balls? You wish I didn't. You wish. But you've had this comin' for a long time, Nicky. You picked the wrong guy's wife to fuck with. Shoulda checked me out a little better." Ray presses his gun harder against Himmel's forehead suddenly, not letting up when the back of the man's head slams against the concrete. "Little bit of a loose cannon. Little bit crazy. Maybe, you know, maybe sometimes I take things a little far when people I love get hurt."

"Ray, think about this. You want to be that guy?" Chace takes one more step toward the pair, though if Ray pulls the trigger, there's nothing Chace could do. "You really think Christine wants to be married to a guy like him? She married you."

Ray'd been practically panting for breath, everything written across his face pure anger, revenge - because this wasn't just Himmel he was facing, this was Brad, this was Chace, this was that nameless stalker from last summer, every motherfucker that'd ever hurt her, ever hurt her, his precious, perfect wife - but when Chace brings Christine into the conversation, he holds his breath, his expression goes blank. He's still looking at Himmel, but maybe he's looking at himself, too. And maybe he doesn't like seeing himself there. Maybe he doesn't like that a couple of weeks ago, Christine saw a little of Brad in him, he thinks.

Maybe there's a better way to kill that part of himself off without actually doing any killing.

A shudder goes through Ray's body; it's barely perceptible by the other two. Himmel just sneers up at Ray, defiant. Chace stands a couple feet off, hands still up, ready, even though there's nothing else he can do beyond what he's already done.

Several heartbeats go by. Ray feels each of them thud in his ears. Feels the way his breaths are a little ragged and catch in his throat. And after a long, long moment, he pulls the gun away from Himmel's brow and straightens up while flicking the safety back on. For another long moment, Ray and Himmel look at each other. Himmel looks triumphant. Ray looks a little sad, a little bit like he pities the guy - but mostly, he looks thankful. Relieved.

"Chace, is Christine outside?" When the lawyer nodded, Ray turned his back on Himmel and headed to the door of the warehouse that'd lead back outside. "Watch him, okay?" He handed Chace his Beretta on his way past, rocked his head roughly to one side to crack his neck, and did not look back.

hey alright i might be goddamned

"I don't like getting dicked around, Kowalski."

Himmel had Ray pressed back against the rough brick of the alleyway - lots of memories here. Some of them flitted through his mind, inappropriately, even though Himmel had the barrel of his gun pressed up into the soft part under Ray's jaw. Getting shot here. Fucking Christine here. Maybe getting his brains splattered against the wall here, too. Funny, how that works out.

And in spite of the situation, Kowalski's expression remained defiant, cocky, the look in his eyes sparked dangerous and feigned a little bit of disinterest. "I ain't dickin' you around, Himmel. Drop it, or I'm going to IAB. --maybe your mob pals, too. How's that? Think they'd like to know--"

One of these days, Ray'd learn to keep his mouth shut.

He couldn't have been out for more than half a minute; when he came to, Himmel was still standing over him, breathing hard, blood spatter on the white cuff of his shirt visible even in the dim light. Oh, hit a nerve? Even with his head pounding the way it was, Ray made a mental note of that.

"Fifty. Tomorrow. Or else we stop playing games and start having real fun." Ray knew that grin - the sharp one, the unhinged one, the one that made perps back off a little most of the time. Ray knew it because he looked the same way from time to time. "And maybe I'll invite your little wife along. I hear she likes to have fun." Himmel's grin sharpened further; Ray tried to say something, do something, but his body refused to cooperate. It took him another solid five minutes on the ground in the dim-lit alley, long after Himmel strode off, before he regained enough control of himself to get up so he could figure out what the hell to do.

just like i told you - it's all over

Ray did not like mornings like this.

He didn't like mornings spent in the unkempt grass beneath an overpass for commuter trains. (It screamed 'setup' to him.) He didn't like mornings that were too rushed for him to stop somewhere for coffee. He didn't like mornings that came after a night that felt unresolved and that had to stay unresolved for a little while.

He also really didn't like mornings that involved him handing over fifteen thousand dollars to the guy blackmailing him and his wife.

Kowalski sat in his car, engine quiet but radio still on, and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. Some old Scorpions song. He punched the radio knob to turn it off when Pink Floyd's "Money" came on. Not funny.

The starlight black GTO attracted the late morning August heat, so eventually, Ray got tired of waiting in a vehicle that was cooking him alive and got out of the car, starting an idle circuit of the overgrown land beneath the tracks. Himmel's message to Christine was to meet at eleven o'clock - it was nearly eleven-fifteen now. It was eleven-seventeen - Ray'd just checked his watch - when he felt the cold dig of a gun's barrel against the side of his neck, one arm wrenched behind his back. "This a setup?" Hissed into his ear.

"This a setup?" Kowalski'd stopped in his tracks, but just to comply. He didn't believe Himmel would really shoot him - because there go his chances of making more bank if he did, and he wasn't crazy, right? - so he didn't feel the need to watch his mouth. "In the trunk. Get the fuck off, and I'll get it."

Himmel eased off of Ray, but watched the cop as he went back to the rear of the car. He'd read Ray's file, and he knew the guy wasn't stupid, but he knew, too, that he was a little nuts. Or maybe he just got desperate, or maybe he just didn't care. Whatever it was, Kowalski had made plenty of risky decisions in his fifteen years as a cop, and Himmel didn't want to be on the receiving end of another one. Didn't point the pistol at Kowalski, but kept it ready at his side.

Ray didn't do anything tricky. He went back over to the car, popped the trunk, and hefted the black gym bag from it before shutting it again. He moved most of the way back to Himmel, stopping a few paces off. He tossed the bag onto the ground, in front of Himmel, and ticked his chin up, defiant. "I don't think you have anything on her."

Himmel arched a brow, disbelief on his angular features, then shook his head, laughing. "Kowalski, you wanna take that chance, be my guest. Otherwise, same time, same station next week." He didn't holster his weapon even when picking up the gym bag. "Besides, you know what I have on you." Himmel cocked his head to one side and narrowed coal black eyes at Ray, assessing. After a few long seconds, he shrugged, turned away, started for his own car, a rental. "Make it twenty next time, if you don't want her to find out."

Ray didn't say anything else. He stood and watched Himmel speed off, heart somewhere in his throat, feeling like he might be sick. A moment went by, and after managing to not throw up for that long, figured that that feeling was probably there to stay for a while and just went home.

it's thunder - it's lightning - it struck twice - there's nothing new

Ray woke up, and his everything hurt.

They'd fallen asleep in the passenger seat of the GTO, Christine curled up in his lap, Ray cradling her head to his chest, to his heart, his other hand pressed to the middle of her back - because whether she was sobbing or she was quiet, breathing slow and even during the fitful sleep she'd slipped into, he wanted to feel as much of her as he could. Her heart, her ribs expanding, falling with each breath. She was real and she was here, and god only knew how long that would last.

They were the only car parked in the lot of the pharmacy Christine'd pulled into hours earlier when Ray told her to pull over. She'd left the keys in the ignition, though she'd killed the motor and the battery; he carefully disentangled his hand from her hair and leaned over the center console so he could turn the battery back on and check the clock. Three-fifty-four. Ray turned the battery back off and turned to look out the window; red was beginning to creep, just barely, into the clouds in the night sky. How'd that old thing go again? 'Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning?'

Ray considered easing Christine out of his lap so he could move over into the driver's seat and take them home. Ray also considered doing the same, except instead of their destination being Chicago, they'd just drive. Drive and drive, and end up god knows where and just start over. Fresh. Without all the baggage.

He considered waking her up outright, because even though she was right there, it was one of those nights where it was terrifying to be awake and thinking, and at least if she was awake too, it'd be a little less bad.

He considered a few other things, none of them sane, all of them destructive, most of them very violent and rather final.

He'd lied to her earlier, explaining what the money was for, what the blackmail was. It wasn't all her fault; some of it was him. Maybe he'd lied to try to protect her. Maybe he'd lied because he was a coward. Or maybe it didn't even matter, because he'd pay ten grand even if it really was all to keep her out of jail. He'd clear out his own bank account, and clear out hers, too. He'd get over his pride and treat it like his own money. He'd borrow from friends. Steal. Cut off his right arm. There was nothing, nothing he wouldn't do.

It was stupid, really. Before she'd started crying tonight - right as he was pulling himself together, or at least building the wall back up enough so he could fake like he was pulling himself together - he'd made that stupid, stupid promise that no one can keep. I'll take care of you. How many times had he promised that in different ways?

No one's gonna hurt you.

I'm not going anywhere.

It'll be okay.

Pretty words, and he meant them when he said them - every time, he always meant them - but he should know by now that those are promises that you just can't keep. He was forty years old - this year had flown by; he was almost forty-one. The romantic in him should have died a little by now, hardened some. Gotten to be a little more realistic. You can't protect someone from everything. It doesn't work like that. Life isn't that fair.

Instead of doing any of the things he was considering, Ray just shifted a little beneath Christine to try to get some feeling back into the leg that had fallen asleep while she'd been on top of him, sucked in a sharp breath when the needles-and-pins sensation started, just above the knee in his bad leg, and then reveled in it, because it meant he was here too.

Ray shuddered a little when the pain started to subside; Christine murmured something unintelligible in her sleep, and Ray pressed his lips to her hairline, letting the kiss linger, slipping into a doze himself like that.

He couldn't keep her safe forever, but for the night, they'd be okay.

and it all comes down to this

Kowalski had been waiting for the call all weekend. Still, when his desk phone rang in the afternoon, right after he'd gotten back from a quick lunch (ninety seconds wolfing down a sandwich and a bag of chips from the vending machines, another fifteen getting a cup of coffee, and five minutes sucking on an ice cube and feeling sorry for himself after scalding his tongue on the sludge), he was startled, engrossed in the file he was reading. He thought about letting it go to voicemail - whatever it was could wait - but on the third ring, he picked up the phone and sandwiched the receiver between his ear and his shoulder, head cocked to one side.

"Detective Kowalski, Area Four." His tongue still hurt, but he found himself reaching for his offending coffee anyway, now that it was tepid.

"Hey, Ray, it's Ricky down in One Homicide. You got time to come down today?" Kowalski had gone to the Academy with Ricky Steele; the kid was a few years younger than him, but the two had always gotten along well. Spent a little time on the same beat when they were rookies.

"Hey, yeah. I got a little time. You guys finally get around to my transfer?" He was tapping the end of his pencil against his desk, suddenly energized after the sluggishness of his morning. Already looking around for something to toss across the aisle at his partner; he'd just chucked a binder clip at Perez when Ricky started to respond.

"Transfer? You're gonna transfer? Well, shit-- nah, that isn't what this is about. It's case related. Interview." Ricky hesitated for a second; something twisted in the pit of Kowalski's stomach. "Caught a case late on Friday, and I think you might know the guy." Some of the casual familiarity left Ricky's voice then, leaving it somewhat somber.

Kowalski swallowed a couple of times, thickly, and even that didn't help to work any moisture into his mouth. "Yeah, I... Just gimme half an hour. Gonna take me some time to drive. I need to bring anything?" He already knew the answer to that; he leaned back in his chair so he could reach the filing cabinet behind him pushed up against the wall to his left. Kowalski was already pulling the drawer marked "K-M" open when Ricky answered.

"Your stuff on Maroney. Personal notes, too."

"Uh-huh," said Kowalski, hefting the file folder out of the cabinet and dropping it onto his desk. Perez threw the binder clip back at him, with a piece of paper caught between its black jaws. What's up? You don't look so good. "I'll be there in thirty, Ricky. See you."

He hung up the phone, got up from his desk. "One of my snitches I haven't been able to get ahold of made an appearance in Area One Homicide on Friday," he explained, fiddling with the zipper on his hoodie. Perez noticed that his partner's hands were shaking, bad enough that he couldn't even get the zipper started. After a moment, Ray swore under his breath and let it go. "They gotta talk to me about it. I don't know anything."

"If they thought you did, you wouldn't be driving there yourself, kiddo," Perez pointed out. Kowalski was only a decade or so younger, but it often seemed like much more than that. "How 'bout I come with? I could use a break." He tossed the file he'd been perusing onto his own desk and put his hands on the armrests of his chair, preparing to get up.

"No. It-- I mean, if you want a break, take a break. But I'm good to go on my own." Kowalski touched his thumb to the side of his nose, one of his eyebrows, then pressed the side of his thumb to his mouth. Nervous gestures with his hands; he always made a lot of them, especially when he was overtired and more stressed than usual.

Perez settled back in his chair. Kowalski stood there, silent.

"Take it easy, Kowalski," Perez finally said, as quiet as he could be and still be heard over the quiet din in the squad room. "Call me if you need anything. And don't do anything stupid."

Kowalski cracked a humorless little half-grin, rolled his shoulders like he'd just won a fight or like he was gearing up for one. "See you in the morning." Picking the thick file folder up from his desk, Kowalski headed out of the squad, down the hall, and out to the GTO waiting in the parking lot.

you last just as long as it serves you

If Ray Kowalski could say one thing for sure about his life - well, at least it was never boring.

How it happened wasn't even that important. Sure, some lawyer was going to be in trouble for this - else this was true gang war - and attempt murder, especially of a police officer, wasn't a charge to sneeze at. But really, it all paled in comparison to - well, getting shot will change your perspective on things.

Issues with the warrant, with probable cause - with bias, with credibility - and a dumb, dumb judge were what brought Kowalski to the Criminal Courts of Cook County that day. The details, again, weren't important - well, other than the fact that the defendant that had been out on bond had just found out that Kowalski was the detective that had shot and killed his cousin last November. Heard it from his own mouth at the hearing, the defense lawyer trying to show there was some kind of conflict, some kind of lack of objectivity when it came to this particular family.

Never boring, at least.

Ray was crossing the median that divided the boulevard between the courthouse and the parking garage when he heard Martinez's voice from behind him. "'Ey, yo-- fuckin' Polack pig."

Ray took one step, two, stopped. The rest of the foot traffic on the wide median stopped, stared - some had to be other cops, some had to be lawyers, criminals, family. Ray waited before he said anything - one heartbeat, two, three -  though he didn't turn around when he finally did respond. "You know this'll get you the needle, right? Shit, you do it right here, it'll get you lead poisoning before you even take a shot."

"What, for what, for talkin'? Shit, fuckin' figures - you'd probably shoot me for talkin' the same way you did my cousin."

Ray counted backward from ten, made it all the way to four before he turned around and stalked the five paces back to Martinez. The wind opened his suit jacket, displayed the butt of his Beretta under his arm, along with the gold star; once Kowalski was toe to toe with Martinez, he put his hands on his hips, kept the quarters of his jacket pushed open to keep the symbols of authority on display.

"Your cousin shot first. Twice. You heard that today - ask your lawyer to show you the reports. He wasn't fuckin' innocent."

Other officers were already closing in, circing - they could smell blood - boiling, maybe, or maybe anticipation. It was this that saved him, probably.

Ray turned away. Took six steps. He thought he heard more than one person yell "gun" at the same time he heard the shot. He'd already been dropping, to make a smaller target, to whip around with his own weapon drawn, but - well, getting shot in the back, right behind your heart, even when you're wearing a vest, that's enough to get you to drop whether you're meaning to or not.

Coughing, gasping for air, Ray turned enough to see too many people for him to even count on Martinez, saw the glimmer of the Spring sun off the chromed weapon once someone wrestled it away, kicked it out of reach. And then too many people were crowding him, he couldn't see what else was going on - but, well, those details aren't that important either, not after someone's just tried to kill you.

It was going to be a long day at the hospital, a long night at the precinct, probably - but, well, at least things are never boring.

---------------------

ease your trouble
we'll pay them double
not to look at you for a while
and you rely on
what you get high on
and you last just as long as it serves you

explode or implode
explode or implode
we will take care of it
explode or implode
explode or implode
we will take care of it
yes we will carry you

'cos you're deserted
what's good, you hurt it
and it kills you - it keeps you alive
so give it up
in a world of puppets
it's a shame what they do to us all

explode or implode
explode or implode
we will take care of it
explode or implode
explode or implode
we will take care of it
yes we will carry you

can we do anything for you now?

["explode," the cardigans]

can we do anything for you now?

Maggie--

Thirty! You made fun of me when I turned forty, so I don't care if girls are more sensitive about their ages - I'm going to point it out to you, too.

Seriously, though - happy birthday. I hope you had a good one. I didn't forget, even though I'm writing this letter late and it isn't going to get to you until even later. Things have just been really, really busy, and I've been too goofy to sit down and write you. I've got a lot to tell you, so I hope you've got some time to sit down or read.

So where do I start?

I think the last time I wrote you, I'd just taken the transfer to Narcotics. I'm trying to transfer again - to VC again, Homicide, but in Area One this time. I'm alright in Narcotics - in fact I'm sitting in court at 26th right now, waiting for a status on a bust I led intel on a few months ago - but I don't like it. It's a lot of planning and a lot of waiting, and you know how I am with planning and waiting. I'd rather be on the street doing. Things are looking good for the transfer - a spot just opened up, and I put my name in. We'll see in a few weeks how it all shakes out.

I guess it makes sense to tell you about this now... I almostlefttold Chriwalked ou You know what happened with Christine and Brad. I mean, you know what happened with them. So there's that, which I've always mostly been okay with, you know? We've talked about it a few times - mostly because there was a little while, I think in my anger phase, when I was thinking about revenge, kind of - and she tried to tell me that we were different. That she could do that and be okay with it but that it was alright if I couldn't (because I couldn't, and I never did). I told her that our situations were just different.

So a few weeks ago, I realized that no, we really are just different. I think she did it to protect me, but she's told me that she doesn't regret it. I don't know if that's the same thing as "I wouldn't have done it any different if I had the chance" or "I don't feel bad about it." I think it might be. I mean, I'm sure there was some of that battered psych going on, but even now, so far after it, and she still feels that way? I don't know, maybe she just hasn't thought about it, or maybe she just tells herself that because if she did feel bad, it'd be too much. I don't know.

But anyway... for whatever reason, I realized that that's really, really at odds with my life. She did what she did, and I spend a lot of my time arresting kids for dealing - or hell, just for possession. And I go home to her after a day full of that, and I ignore it, and I pretend like it's no big deal. I justify it - or I let her justify it to me, and I go along with it.

So I was having trouble trying to reconcile both of those things, I guess. The Job, and her. Who she is, who I'm not.

It took a lot of soul-searching, but I'm okay with it now. For a little while, believe it or not, I was trying to think of what your brother would have wanted me to do - should I have turned her in? And then I realized that he and I probably would have done the same thing, maybe. Maybe not.

I know that I should probably turn her in. You're the only person I've told this to, Maggie. I told Christine I never would - and I mean that. I never will. But deep down, I know that I probably should. I know that she'd probably get arrested, but that they'd drop charges pretty quick or, if it actually went to trial, she'd be not guilty. And to be completely honest, I don't know if it's that that keeps me from doing it - knowing that she'd go through a ton of shit for nothing, because life would go on like 'normal' (if you can ever go on as normal after something like that) - or if it's just because I love her too much.

It was a rough week or so, Maggie. I trust you.

And on a completely different note - Christine's pregnant. We lost two (sort of - they probably didn't even implant, but it still feels like a loss to me), but the third time was a charm. Her due date is in the beginning of January. She went for her first sonogram last week. I'd send you a copy of the picture we have, but I don't know what Christine did with it. Computers, you know, maybe I should learn to use them.

I won't lie to you (have I ever been able to?) - she's around the same time you were when everything happened with us, and I'm nervous about it. I think about you a lot. Not just about what happened with our baby, or the 'could have been' - just about you. I miss you. I'm happy, but I really do miss you.

Stella was in town for a little bit, and that was kind of weird... I guess things aren't going the way she wants them to with her husband, and you can probably see where this is going, so I'm just going to leave it right there. It was hard - it needed to be done, I know that, but it was still hard.

Other than all of that, I don't think there is anything else new. We're living in Chicago - the condo's in 'Lakeshore East' - real estate agents just made up the name recently, because I'd never heard that until I was moving there. Michigan and Randolph, right across the street from Millennium Park - right by the Prudential Building and the Consulate, actually. We've got a beautiful view. We're on the fifty-ninth floor, and the terrace attached to our bedroom looks out over the lake and the park. I wake up some morings and I still can't believe I'm living there. The same thing happened to me when I was in Canada with your brother. Only two times in my life where I've ever really felt that way.

Wow, this got long. So for a summary, things are good. I'm a lot better than I was the last time I wrote you, or the last time you saw me. I'm just a lot better.

How's everything with you? I hope good. You deserve things to go good, Mags. I know you think I was silly to have that horseshoe over my door in the apartment, and I haven't put it up yet in the condo. In a place like this, putting it up seems ungrateful. Maybe things should start going a little wrong for me, because I've been so fucking lucky lately. But so I remembered how after I got out of the hospital and I was staying in Hawaii and you were in my apartment for a little while - I remember how you took it down. Maybe I don't know why you did. I think I do. And I'm sending it to you either way.

They're just about to call my case, so--

I hope you had a happy birthday. Give me a call whenever you want, whenever you can - it'd be good to hear from you, Maggie.

Love,

Stan