After the Victory Motel by P'al Kwai
Rating: 17+
Author's Notes: Never thought I'd write in this fandom again, but out-of-the-blue an idea came to me. Perhaps it's because of the talk of a LA Confidential sequel (Not White Jazz). They have approached both Pearce and Crowe to reprise their roles of Exley and White, but not Basinger. I hold my breath, although I don't want to get my hopes up because Pearce has already turned down the opportunity to do Exley in White Jazz. 5/24/07
This is a total AU. Both Bud and Ed escape during the battle at the Victory Hotel. Bud was never injured, and Dudley was never killed.
Houlton, Maine, January 2, 1955
It’s the new year, and goddamn if it isn’t snowing again. I’ve never seen so much snow in my lifetime, and I wonder for the umpteenth time what I am doing in this godforsaken place. Why am I here, and why do I stay? Leaning my forehead against the glass window pane, I watch the blur of white as it falls from the sky, and lands on the ground, piling up in hills that are now over my head.
When I was a child, my parents would take me to the mountains, and I would spend a day playing in that wondrous thing called snow, but half a winter here in a small northeastern town in the great state of Maine, and I’ve had enough. Enough to last the rest of my days.
But that shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone, including myself, that a man, born and raised in Southern California would find the cold and snow of Maine trying. So how did Bud White, also a native Californian, adapt (in a very short time, I might add) to this climate like he had been born and raised here? To him the weather is invigorating, and the harsh elements, something to conquer. I truly believe the man is a descendant of the ancient Vikings, fierce and warrior-like.
I turn and stare at the small desk with the brand new Smith-Corona typewriter, a Christmas gift from Bud. Since we began our travels, I have taken comfort in keeping a daily log. It’s a familiar routine of a former police officer, one of the few links to my past.
I sigh, as I think back to my old life as police lieutenant in the homicide unit of the Los Angeles Police Department. A brilliant career had lie ahead of me, but I threw it away, threw it away to finally catch Rollo Tomasi, but I never did. He’s still out there, but his name has changed now, changed to Captain Dudley Smith.
**
Globe, Arizona, September 13, 1954
Climbing out of the deep pit of unconsciousness, the first thing Edmund J Exley is aware of is the sound of water running. It takes a moment to open his gum-stuck eyes, and when he finally succeeds his vision is blurry and out-of-focus. It takes another moment to realize that he’s only seeing out of one eye; the other is covered. He raises his right hand to feel his face, but that slight movement causes a stabbing pain in his left shoulder, and it’s the pain that jogs his memory. He remembers everything: the Victory Motel, the shoot-out with Dudley and his men, their miraculous escape, and the hospital.
The hospital. His last memory was being wheeled into emergency surgery with a bullet wound in the shoulder and shards of glass in his eye. Struggling to sit-up, he takes stock of his surroundings, a dingy motel room, barely a step up from the Victory Motel. Swinging his legs off the bed, Ed’s intention is to standup, but his legs have a different idea, as they buckle, and he finds himself falling to the floor with a thud.
“Goddamn.” He winces in pain, as throbbing starts from his shoulder and runs down his left arm; his bandaged eye begins to pound.
“Jesus Christ, Ex!” The bathroom door swings open, and a half-naked Bud White appears in the doorway. “Trying to kill yourself?” Bending down, he gently pulls Ed up, and pushes him back on the bed.
“Bud,” Ed puffs out between labored breaths. “Just what the hell is going on?”
“Besides you trying to finish the job Dudley and his men started?”
“No, I mean what the hell am I doing here? And just where is here?” Forgetting about his shoulder, Ed swings an arm to motion around the room and immediately wishes he hadn’t. Pausing, he grimaces in pain, while Bud watches, shaking his head in sympathy.
“Here is a dumpy motel in Globe, Arizona.” Hands on hips with only a towel to cover his modesty, Bud shrugs nonchalantly.
“Globe, Arizona?” Ed’s voice raises a notch. “What the hell are we doing in Globe, Arizona?”
“They were coming for you Ex,” Bud says with all seriousness. “Had to get you out of the hospital and out of LA. Started driving east out of LA, and decided to head for Phoenix. When I got to Phoenix, I just kept driving. The more miles I put between us and them, the better.”
“You mean Dudley and his cohorts?” Ed asks, trying to jump-start his sluggish brain.
“Uh huh,” Bud grunts out, as he walks over to the other bed to retrieve his pants, while casually losing the towel.
Despite P.E. classes in high school and college, Ed is uncomfortable with nakedness and finds himself looking away. “It was rash to run like you did,” he speaks quietly, as he lies back down on the bed. “I could have explained; I could have. . . .”
“You couldn’t have done anything,” Bud interrupts, as he zips up his pants. “You had just come out of surgery. The doc himself slipped me a note. Seems that the LAPD had already informed him that they were having you transferred out. He vehemently opposed that idea, and was then given the strong arm treatment. Seems that Dudley is still determined to finish the job he started at the Victory Motel. He wants us silenced, just like Vincennes, Matt Reynolds, Patchett, and Sid Hudgens.”
“Hudgens?“ Ed hadn’t been aware of the newspaperman’s death. “They killed him too? My God!” He closes his eyes, feeling overwhelmed. “And just how?“ he asks after a few seconds of contemplation. “Did you manage to get yourself and me, who was unconscious and just out of surgery, out of the hospital, eluding Dudley and all of his men? Two miraculous escapes in one day? You must be related to Harry Houdini.” He tries to joke and even smile, but his attempt is feeble.
“Had some help.” Bud walks over and pours himself a whiskey from a bottle he had picked-up from the local liquor store. “The doc, and a few pals from the force, pals, who I knew were not on Dudley’s payroll.”
“Jesus.” Ed swears, as his tired brain tries to assimilate everything he’s just learned. “I need to straighten this out. Maybe if I speak to Ellis Loew.”
Shrugging, Bud knocks back his whiskey in one gulp. “If you feel well enough tomorrow, we’ll make the call. See if your golden tongue can talk your way out of this one, but I warn you, Dudley has already covered himself, making us out to be the rogue cops.”
Ed shakes his head slightly, wishing his mind was clearer, and that the pain in both his shoulder and eye would just stop for a moment, so he could think. Because there was no way he would allow Dudley to outplay him.
**
January 4, 1955
Well, believe it or not, the snow has stopped for a moment, perhaps two, but I still can barely venture outdoors because of the cold, cold as in below zero cold. In Southern California it rarely goes below freezing, and that’s only on a few choice winter nights. Everyday that passes, I find myself hating it here more and more. When one walks from the house to the car and can’t feel his toes in the few minutes it takes to travel that short distance, it’s time to seriously consider moving elsewhere.
I longingly think about San Diego, or San Francisco, but I’ve been told that those cities are too close, too convenient for Dudley and his men to come looking. But what about somewhere south, like Miami, or Tampa Bay? Far enough from LA with a warm climate and surrounded by the ocean. The next time I’m able to leave the house and make it into town, I really must stop by the library and research Florida
The front door bangs open, and Buds appears in the doorway, looking not unlike a broad shoulder snowman. “Jesus,” he greets me, as he stomps the snow off his boots. “It’s colder than a fucking meat locker out there.”
“Really?” I respond, hope evident in my voice. If Bud would only say, let’s leave this one-horse deep freeze, my dilemma would be solved.
“Still thinking about leaving?” Pulling off his cap, Bud looks at me with narrowed eyes. I don’t know how I could have underestimated the man for so long. His perceptiveness is razor sharp.
I clear my throat and then answer honestly, “I don’t like it here.”
“You don’t like being here, or you don’t like being here with me?”
I make a conscious effort to keep my expression impassive, but inside I’m incredulous. Bud White isn’t sure of himself; I can hardly believe it.
“How can I not like being with you, my,” I pause a moment, carefully choosing my words, “friend, my partner, the man, who saved my life on more than one occasion.”
“My friend, my partner,” Bud repeats my words, as he divests himself of his heavy winter coat and boots. “I’m all of that, but I’m not your lover?”
I swallow hard. Leave it to Bud to get right to the heart of the matter. “Of course you’re my, my. . . .” The word sticks in my throat; I can’t say it.
“I had your dick in my mouth last night, and my dick was up your ass, but today you can’t say we’re lovers. Guess it’s something you’re still trying to accept.”
Bud has walked over to me and is standing close, and damn if he isn’t throwing off heat. How can a man, who just came in from subzero temperatures be this hot?
“Afraid, Ex?” he taunts. “Afraid of what you become?”
I feel my face flush. Even after four months of living in close quarters with White, I still am not used to his bluntness. “Perhaps, I am,” I finally answer. “And it scares me.”
“Scares you?” Bud is now pacing, not a good sign. “What scares you? Me? Frightened that I’ll. . . ?”
“I’m not afraid of you,” I interrupt with a lie. I tell myself it’s just a small one. “I’m afraid of us, this.” I point to him and then myself. “It isn’t right. It isn’t moral. It’s against the law.”
“Against the law!” Bud throws his head back and laughs. “After what you and I have done in Los Angeles, you’re worried about what we do in the privacy of our home, which by-the-way is not hurting anyone or anything.”
I hate his flippant attitude. Homosexuality, sodomy is immoral and illegal. “This is no life for me or for you. I still don’t understand why you don’t go to Brisbee, Arizona and. . . .”
“As far as Dudley is concerned, Lynn was just one of the hookers, who worked for Patchett, nothing more. But if they find either of us anywhere near her, that opinion might change in a hurry. She’s safe in Brisbee, as long as we keep our distance, but you know that already, so why are you bringing her up now?”
I shake my head. I’m not really sure, except the picture of Bud and Lynn together with the white picket fenced house, and the children running around the yard makes more sense because it represents a future, at least for him. “She could leave Brisbee, come out here. As you say, this is far enough away that it’s unlikely that Dudley and his men would coming looking. And if they did, they’d probably get stuck in a snow drift as soon as they left the New York City area,” I add softly to myself.
Bud stares at me a second and then a grin crosses his face. “Angling for a threesome, Ex?”
I feel my face burn, as my mouth drops open. I try to form a response, but nothing comes out but a few unintelligible sounds. My white, middle-class, Christian background is horrified, but a guilty part of me is not, as blood rushes to my groin.
I believe Bud senses my reaction, as he steps over to me, while putting on a show of pondering the issue. “Naw,” he says after a moment. “I don’t think it would work. I was never good at sharing, and. . . .” He leans closer. “I don’t care to share you.”
**
New York City, New York, October 4, 1954
Standing in the middle of the small, one bedroom apartment, Ed checks out his surroundings, noting the worn furniture and faded wallpaper. It’s not much, but it’s a step up from the motel room in Arizona.
“Everything okay?” Bud comes through the apartment door, lugging a suitcase and a bag of groceries. It’s all the worldly possessions the two men own.
“Yeah, fine.” He turns to take the grocery bag and busies himself by putting things away in the tiny kitchenette.
Three weeks have passed since he woke up in Globe, Arizona. Three weeks in which the LAPD had quickly decided that it was better to pay-off both the homicide Lieutenant and Sergeant, retiring both on disability, even though in truth, Exley was the only one disabled. In exchange, the two were to stay away from LA and keep their mouths closed about the Night Owl Murders, the shoot-out at the Victory Motel, and Captain Dudley Smith.
“I put our clothes away.” Bud comes out of the bedroom, swinging the now empty suitcase. “Winter’s coming; we’ll need to shop for some heavier clothing.”
“Winter?” Ed questions in a tired voice. The long train trip has worn him out. Despite being more-or-less healed, he’s still far from one hundred percent. “We’re going to be here through winter?”
“Of course.” Bud looks over at Exley with surprise. “Where else would we be? Except, I’m not so sure about this city. Something about it just doesn’t feel right. Perhaps, we should look elsewhere to live.”
“Like California?” The words are out before Ed can stop them. A California native, he has had only a few experiences of being outside his state of birth, and to-date he hadn’t liked any of them.
“Despite the deal we made with the LAPD, I’m sure, Dudley is not sleeping too well, knowing we’re still walking around with the knowledge of his many dirty secrets. If we were to get too close. . . .” Bud trails off, as he makes a slashing motion across his throat.
“Yes, but all the way out here?” Putting away the last of the groceries, Ed folds the bag neatly and places it under the sink. “I would have thought Arizona was far enough away. I could have stayed in Phoenix, and you, you could have,” he pauses to take a breath. “Gone to Bisbee and. . . .”
“Put Lynn’s life in danger,” Bud interrupts, shaking his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Well.” Ed shrugs, too tired to think, let alone discuss their future. He’s not sure why Bud feels the need for the two of them to stay together, but so far he’s gone along with it because it’s been the easy thing to do. “I’m going to take a shower, and. . . .“ He’s not sure how to bring up the awkward subject of who is going to sleep where.
“Turn in?” Bud has taken off his shirt and is lounging comfortably on the couch. “Good idea. Tomorrow we’ll need to go shopping and also look for a doc for you.”
Bud’s words stops Ed at the bathroom door, as he turns around to face the other man. “Find a doctor?” he repeats. He understands that White had to take the role of caretaker, when he had been recovering from his injuries in Arizona, but he is almost himself again and doesn’t need the other man hovering over him.
“I’m quite capable of. . . .” Ed starts to say, but then realizes how ungrateful he sounds. “Alright,” he agrees and then continues. “So who gets the bed? Do we arm wrestle for it?” It’s an obvious joke, as they both know that he would be no match for Bud in any kind of wrestling contest, even at full strength.
“We can share,” Bud answers, as he stands up and walks to the refrigerator, where a six pack of beer sits, calling his name.
“Share?” Ed is not happy with that idea. Despite his gratitude toward White, he, still at times, feels nervous around the man. The hate, the animosity, and the brutal beating he had taken by White’s hands are not easily forgotten. “I don’t know if I’d be comfortable with that, so I’ll take the couch.”
“You’ll take the bed.” Bud’s tone is clear, ‘don’t argue.’
“Okay,” Ed acquiesces, vowing that after a week, he’ll let Bud have the bed. “I’ll clean up, and then the bathroom will be yours.”
A half hour and a hot shower later, he lays down on an old, rasping mattress, which seems to groan under his body weight. It’s far from the best, but it beats the bed in Arizona or a train seat. Closing his eyes, he begins to drift, and he’s almost asleep when the bed creaks and a large frame slips between the sheets next to him. A strong arm snakes around him, and a voice whispers in his ear, “don’t say a word, just go to sleep.”
Ed feels himself being pulled into the warm body of Bud White, and while one part of him screams how wrong it is, he finds himself unable to move. Bringing his knees up to his chest, he lays his head back on a hard chest and falls sound asleep.
**
Houlton, Maine, January 5, 1955
Carefully stepping around an icy patch, I greet a couple of locals, as I make my way to the post office.
“Mr. White,” they call out in concern. “Would you like a hand?”
“Exley,” I correct them, as I stop and consider how I should answer. When we came here to Houlton, Bud had told the town that we were brothers, half-brothers to be precise. “Bud and I had different fathers.”
“Of course,” the two nod their head simultaneously. “Our apologies.”
I shrug; the smile on my face indicating that they had nothing to apologize for. “And if you could just direct me to the post office?” I decide on the helpless routine; it maintains the other lie, which Bud spread of my blindness. Well, half lie, since I am considered legally blind by the federal government
Each person takes an arm and I’m led gently to the post office and then helped inside. I hate pretending to be this feeble, but the population of a small town in Maine thinks nothing odd of two brothers, one disabled, living together, whereas, two unrelated, healthy men would raise a lot of eyebrows and attention that we don’t need.
“Thank-you.” I remember not to look directly at them, and with the dark glasses I’m wearing they can’t see my eyes, so I’m able to fake semi-blindness easily.
“The counter is over there,” one of my assistants turns me slightly.
I thank them again, and shuffle over to the counter, pondering Bud’s love for this town and its people. He claims that the majority here are hard-working and honest, quite the opposite of the many we had contact with as police officers in LA.
The postmaster greets me, and we engage in some idle conversation, as he retrieves a bundle of mail for me. The door swings open again, and I don’t need to turn around to know that it’s Bud.
“Mr. Greely,” he calls out to the postmaster.
“Sheriff White,” Greely welcomes Bud with a grin. “The election’s getting closer, and you know that you can count on my vote.”
We’ve lived here barely three months, and Bud has already been made temporary sheriff of Aroostock County, and most probably will be voted permanent sheriff in the up-coming special election. Arrostock County, Maine was ecstatic to find themselves with a former LAPD police detective in the sheriff’s department.
“Thank you.” Bud nods his gratitude, as he takes the mail from me. “Ready for lunch?’
The highlight of my day, lunch at the Brown Bear Café. I wave good-bye to Postmaster Greely, and exit the Post Office side-by-side with Sheriff Wendell Bud White.
**
New York City, October, 5, 1954
The warm breath that Ed had felt on the back of his neck throughout most of the night, has changed to warm lips. He lies stock still, not sure how to react. In his wildest imagination, he never would have dreamt of a romantic interlude with Wendell White.
“Bud,” he finally blurts out nervously.
‘Shh.” The arms around him draw tighter and a leg wraps itself around his lower body. “Don’t speak, just enjoy.” A hand sneaks around his waist and reaches inside his pajama bottoms. He’s grabbed, and much to his surprise, and perhaps dismay, he’s hard in moments. Firm stroking has Ed moving his hips in rhythm and breathing hard. It takes mere minutes and he’s spilling himself over Bud’s hand onto the bed sheets.
“Jesus!” He can’t help the expletive; it’s been too long since he’s had relief from anything other than his own hand. Head still spinning from an explosive climax, he registers that Bud is wrestling off his nightwear. He feels he should make an objection, but at the moment, his mouth just doesn’t work.
More fondling, but this time it’s his buttocks. When fingers begin to insert themselves, Ed jumps and pulls away, protests on his lips.
“It’ll be okay,” Bud whispers. “I won’t hurt you.”
It’s a promise that’s not entirely kept, as the penetration does hurt, but Ed grits his teeth and sees the act through. It’s not totally unpleasant though, as at the end, the pain changes to pleasure, and he finds himself experiencing a second orgasm.
“Fuck,” Ed gasps out, as the two men lie on their back, side-by-side, panting and recovering their senses. “This was so wrong!”
Bud says nothing, just turns to give him an unreadable look
**
Houlton, Maine, January 6, 1955
Sitting in the spare bedroom, I stare at my typewriter but have no desire to write anything. I’m too busy pondering my future, and the latest argument I just had with Bud. I don’t like it here in Houlton, and have had thoughts of leaving, but when I expressed this to Bud, a fight erupted.
Bud would never hold me to a place, where I was not happy, but he refuses to allow me to leave on my own. “We’re partners,” he tells me, “partners in more ways than one. If you want, we‘ll leave, go to Miami or some other big city in the south.”
It’s exactly what I want, but I’m still torn. Bud has found his niche here in Maine, and instead of being a local celebrity, he would once again be relegated to being the muscle in some big city police force. Despite his intelligence (which I discovered when we worked together resolving the Night Owl murders), he doesn’t do well on tests, so it’s unlikely that he’d ever achieve a rank higher that sergeant.
So I sit here and contemplate the future, and the decisions that need to be made.
****
Finis