Missed Connections (30 page)

Joe just raised his eyebrow, suddenly changing his opinion. It was a wretched day, no doubt about it. And it was getting more horrible as the seconds ticked by and Detective Holier-than-thou's smile got smugger, damn. Joe concentrated on keeping his face blank, but he could feel waves of pure disgust toward the man ripple through his body. The 'detective' never could understand the difference between what Joe was forced to do and what he really took pleasure in doing. Now, at least, he was quite certain that if he released his tightly controlled persona, he would beat Detective Riff until he agreed not to follow him around anymore. Which, Joe knew, would be useless, but damn it, he was tired and frustrated. It would make him happier by a small margin. But then again, it would make the kid sad. 

Detective Riff's hands went to his belt, lingering over his gun, petting it teasingly, then moved on to his handcuffs.

"You have the right to remain silent, everything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law," Detective Riff paused and smirked. "You have the right to an—"

But Joe wasn't listening anymore. The words were covered by the sound of his blood rushing to his head. He knew that his face wasn't showing any reaction whatsoever, but that was hardly any comfort to him now. Arrested. Why? He mentally shook his head. Why did it matter? When the police wanted to get you, they got you through whatever means necessary. Really, Joe should have known it would come to this. He always knew his clock would run out eventually. 

Nonetheless, he had never been really ready for it to end, had he? He had always managed to escape, to find some kind of loophole, a window of opportunity,
something
. Now, that possibility along with his future, was a door which was rapidly closing. A door that in his mind resembled far too much a prison door. Damn it all to hell, he had done the best he could, had fought for everything he had, had endured a whole lot, and for what? For it to end on the streets of New York, in the face of Detective Riff's triumphant grin, a man who had never had to make the choice between beating another kid or not eating that day.

Joe wanted to scream, to shout, to cry, and rebel against the world. The police would get his fingerprints and after that he was done. They would find out his real name, his past crimes and he would never see the light of day again. Feel the snow on his skin. Or hear the rain falling on his umbrella. Joe raised his chin a little, tilted his head back and let his eyes take in the sky. His eyes were always being compared to the sky on a lovely day, but this time it wasn't the clear blue of a sunny day, it was a stormy grey, and he loved it. The urge to fight this rose and almost choked him, but he knew that the world was rarely a fair place.

Angrily, Joe took a gulp of the still piping hot coffee. It burned his tongue, but the bitter taste was unmistakable. He was going to miss this.

"What for?" Joe finally broke his stony silence, lasting only few seconds after Detective Riff had finished reading him his Miranda rights, and twisting on his shoe a bit to throw the coffee cup in the bin. He looked expectantly at Detective Riff, a small amount of arrogance managing to communicate itself well enough.

Detective Riff was unconcerned by Joe’s lack of inflexion or his blank face and kept grinning like a loon. "Jaywalking." Riff even sounded proud.

Joe—he supposed he could go by his actual name now: Paul—watched with narrowed eyes for a bit before snorting and turning back while offering his hands. He was suddenly thankful that his dark hair was not long enough to fall onto his face and trickle his nose or something silly like that. It would push him into insanity.

"When was the last time somebody got arrested for that?" Paul asked as the handcuffs bit into his skin with a finality that couldn't be shaken. He refused to be disturbed by it.

Detective Riff seemed to think about it for long moments. "Since the 1990s?"

"Yes. Let's go with that. And let me guess?" Paul pretended to actually make an effort, "Nobody? Not one person in twenty-odd years?"

"Pretty much," Detective Riff grunted and pushed him towards the car.

Paul resisted the rough handling to lounge mockingly against the vehicle for a few seconds more. "Well, then. I am honored to have that privilege. Truly." He ducked inside and seated himself in the car. "And your career with it," he winked then moved away from the door when it closed a little more forcefully than necessary.

Paul laughed. A bitter, satisfied, disturbing laugh.

*~*~*

Paul tuned out during the lengthy booking process; he wasn’t interested, and all they had wanted was his fingerprints anyways. Or, well,
he
had wanted his fingerprints. Paul had been pretty sure it had all been Detective Riff's idea, without any support from the brass.

Feeling his lips twitched, Paul remembered with a sliver of amusement the desk officer's reaction when Detective Riff stated the reason for Paul's arrest. Paul didn't think he had heard any officer sound as baffled when he had said, "What the hell, man? In New York? Where?" And when Paul had helpfully pointed out the street with a polite smile, the officer came back with, "Shoot, man. Then I've got to arrest myself too."

There really wasn't any hope for Paul at this point, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. With a mental shrug, he had realized it just wasn't in him to simply cease fighting. As such, Paul had given a smile—
the
smile, with the
dimples­
—and had said something about it being just his luck to have found the most zealous police detective while taking his morning stroll. Paul had shaken his head on the background of hearty laughter. "Isn't that right, detective?"

"I'd cut the charming act, if I were you," Detective Riff had predictably growled.

Paul had flinched. An intentional and studied gesture, then had turned towards the officer, "Man, I swear I didn't do anything to him." Paul had been able to see the protective instincts rear up in the officer, pushing at the boundaries of the criminal vs. the detective, theirs vs. ours, but the officer hadn't been quite convinced.

Naturally, the nail in the coffin had come from Riff himself, who had lost his temper and had pushed Paul into a wall for managing to charm a fellow police officer or whatever had been his reason. Paul had been able to catch himself before he had hit the wall, but that rather defied the point; he'd then let himself fall in an ungraceful heap on the floor. Helplessness hadn’t come easily to him and Paul had to admit that at some points there had been some obvious acting, but he had thought that all in all, he had done a pretty good job.

Apparently, so had the desk officer: his rescuer by the name of Re… something, Paul hadn’t been able to see the officer’s name tag in its entirety. Paul had forced himself to put stars in his eyes—fake ones, brought by a combination of head tilting, his pupils and the light bulbs—aided mostly by coaxing some tears and opening his eyes wide enough to achieve the wet-eyed look that was mostly common in cows and deer. And apparently, criminals. Anyway, it had worked.  In almost no time at all, he had Officer R enraged and standing in front of Riff-raff, blocking Paul from view.

 "Alright, you've done enough," Officer R had pronounced. Paul had shimmied to the right in full view again, careful not to make any noise, then had smugly licked his lip where it was bleeding for coming into contact with the rough plaster.

Paul had felt Detective Riff's anger like a fire burning, higher and higher, but he hadn't feared it. Paul had used it to make himself feel warm. He had even thrown in a bit of accelerant to make it burn hotter: a smug smile. All in a day's work.

"You don't know him!" Detective Riff had exploded, watching Paul with narrowed eyes. Well, narrowed had been an understatement, for a person who had only his blond eyelashes to suggest that there had been eyes on his face.

Officer R had turned to Paul just in time to see him cowering into the wall. "I may not know him, but I don't have to. There are regulations, especially for 'police brutality,' does that ring a bell with you? You know the media is on our asses about it all the time and yet here you are, practically beating a suspect in front of me. And for what? He made a joke about you and you lost your temper." Officer R had had a very good 'listen to me, young man' air about him, even though he couldn't have been more then a couple of years older than Paul and looked younger than Riff-Raff. On the whole, Officer R was going to make an excellent parent someday, if he wasn't already.

Funnily enough, Officer R had been a roll. "I'm aware that you are trying to get something on him. Prints, DNA, maybe get him off the streets. I don't know and I don't care. Listen to me, he has an appointment with the judge tomorrow at noon, and he isn't missing it. So, do what you need to do, but I won't allow him to be kept here on trumped-up charges longer than that. Understand?" He had paused, expecting a nod from Detective Riff, and when it had finally come, Officer R had simply said, "Good." They both had watched Detective Riff hurry back into the office space, presumably to make sure he was ready in the time limit.

Officer Reynolds—Paul finally saw the damn tag—had given him a hand to help him up. "You're not staying in the drunk tank tonight. There's another cell we have for high-risk suspects. There's nobody there right now, except a kid who got involved in some shady business and brought the Feds on his head. I'm putting you in with him. Don't borrow trouble, okay?"

"Yes, of course," Paul had responded.

Officer Reynolds had just looked at him, observing him for a few seconds. Then seemingly satisfied with what he had found, had called an officer—Officer Spencer—over. Spencer had apparently been playing on his phone and hiding in the observation room for interviews. There was a small argument which Officer Reynolds won—Paul's heart had bled for Spencer—and Spencer's phone taken away for the duration of the shift. It had been put in a drawer at the arrest desk, but not before flashing cheerfully the hour, half past seven. It was going to be a long night and as they had continued to argue— what with Paul thinking he was going to be bored silly—it soon made for a very smart, internet capable, almost invisible bulge in Paul's front jeans pocket.

The argument had finally ended and Paul had been led to the cell by a grumbling Officer Spencer. Which was where Paul was now, woken up from his daydreaming by a familiar face set in a familiar sad look.

No.

Not the kid again. Paul almost didn't hear the cell being opened, almost didn't feel the push in the cell, because he suddenly heard rain.

Paul was reminded of that day once more. It was a memory that was preserved exactly as it had happened. There was no need to make it better because it was pretty fantastic as it was. After Paul had run away from the orphanage, he had been a street kid, say six years old, and willing to do anything for money. The end goal was to have something to eat. He'd gotten in with some older kids, and it was his turn to be the squeegee kid in this intersection. Anyway, it ordinarily paid rather well, but as had been his luck then, it chose to rain that day. 

As Paul had sat, shivering and miserable, waiting for the rain to stop, he had seen this kid in a car. He had looked sad, obviously, Paul thought, with the weather being so glum. But the face that the kid had had. Like a puppy that had been kicked, only a million times worse. The kid had been a heartbroken smurf down in the dumps. Paul had felt his heart practically melt in sympathy.

Paul remembered him, but to see him again was surreal. The eyes were now a darker hue—instead of a warm brown, some kind of black-brown—and the hair, just as much a mess now as it had been, was now short enough not to be able to tuck behind his ear. But the face. With the frown. There was no doubt about it, it was the same kid.

Also, Paul recalled the overpowering urge to get a smile out of the kid. Paul had promised himself he would return to the orphanage if he could get a laugh. He had started by trying to establish eye contact, to make sure the kid was watching him, then he'd started making faces, which felt pretty forced on his features, but he had managed to get the kid to focus on him in bewilderment. In the end, Paul had done it. The smile, the laugh, the whole nine yards.

And, man, the kid had been quite a sight when he had smiled. He had looked even better when he laughed. His whole face had lit up, which had been such a difference from the darkness of his misery that Paul had been struck speechless and motionless. He had barely managed a wave, which had been enthusiastically returned as the car cleared the lights, before staying there in the rain, motionless once again. The next day he'd gone back to the orphanage, but he had never forgotten the kid. 

The kid, who, Paul realized, had to be around his age. Funny, how he had never thought about the kid growing up. Even if Paul had, he knew he'd have trouble keeping the frown at the same intensity as before. Nobody looked that sad. He was certain puppies were crying when they saw the kid sad.

"Kid," Paul heard himself saying. "You're the kid."

The young man lifted his head, recognition flashed across his face, then he broke into the most amazing smile ever. Without Paul having to be any kind of comic relief. Not that he wouldn't have done it if it was required, but that was the thing, it wasn't necessary. Like his mere presence was enough incentive to let it loose.

The once-kid's eyes danced with mirth along with the delighted turn to his lips. That had changed, not because the smile wasn't as beautiful as Paul had remembered it, because it was, it so was, but there was something extra about his eyes. Something that put to shame the smile. Something pleased and at peace with the world. What had made him take in the ugly world around them and find it so hilarious? And was that mischief Paul saw in the way the man suddenly held his body? Paul didn't know, but just like years ago, he felt the overwhelming need to find out.

*~*~*

Anthony… well, White, though he never did like the name; it was more of a pun anyway, what with him being the opposite. It was kind of lame, but it worked and, thanks to people not willing to appear racist, no one dared to question him on it. There were a few advantages to being different after all, not nearly enough to make up for the disadvantages, but they were there if one was to put sufficient thought into it.