TIME FRAME:  “Thanks A Lot” takes place in real time, two years after Mike Kellerman resigned as a Baltimore City police officer and homicide detective, and six months after the shooting death of retired Lieutenant Al Giardello.

***
Mike Kellerman sat bolt upright in bed gasping for breath. Perspiration poured off his body. “Not the damn dream again,” he muttered. He knuckled his eyes, surprised to find them wet too. He looked at his sheets and the sweats and t-shirt he was wearing. Drenched. Damn. He must have been writhing and twisting in the depths of his nightmare for minutes, maybe hours.
He swung his legs over the side of his queen-sized bed. Sitting there, he bent over with his elbows on his knees, his head supported by his hands. He took deep breaths, willing his racing heart to return to normal. After a few minutes, he felt steady enough to walk to the bathroom. As he maneuvered the few feet into the small cubicle, he thanked the powers that be that he was on solid ground. He didn’t think he could contend with the swaying motion of the boat that for years was his home.

He stood in front of the mirror and studied himself As he looked into the blue, tired-looking eyes that stared back at him, he marveled at how far he’d come in two years. He’d survived. Not only survived, but thrived. He’d reached the depths of despair and loss when he’d lost his job on the police department. He’d thought it signalled the end of his world, but now he looked at it as kismet, perhaps the best thing that could have happened to him. Losing his badge had tested him, used him and abused him, but Mike learned something about himself he hadn’t known at the time. His psyche was made up of more mettle than he had thought possible. Once he realized it, he acted on it. He stopped drinking, stopped feeling sorry for himself, stopped acting like a “Mikey” and started acting like a “Mike.” He grew up. He survived. He won.

Stripping out of his sodden clothes, Kellerman stepped into the shower. He let the hot water pulse over his body for several minutes, then he soaped and washed himself from head to toes, hoping against hope that not only the sweat but the dregs of his nightmare would empty down the drain.

He toweled off his body and his hair, then took a clean towel and wrapped it around his waist. Padding back into the bedroom, he winced as he glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Five after four. Sheesh, he’d only been asleep about two hours before the damn dream woke him up.

Looking at his bed, Mike groaned. He knew he should change the sheets but he didn’t have the energy now. He felt exhaustion creep up on him. Maybe if he sat in his recliner, he could doze off and get some sleep without the nightmare recurring.

The phone rang, its shrillness causing him to start. He stood for a moment waffling between answering it in the bedroom or the living room. After the third ring, he leaned over the nightstand and picked it up.

“Yes,” he said.

“Mike? Are you all right? You sound funny.” The female voice on the other end sounded worried.

“Umm. . .yes. . .I’m fine. Had a bad dream. I was in the shower. How’s the night going?” he replied, a smile twitching at his lips.

“Typical. A couple of shootings, a cutting. A kid with thumb burns from playing with firecrackers. Nothing serious.” Her voice became softer. “Was it the dream with Meidrick Lewis again? Something told me to call you now. You want to talk about it?”

“Yes, it was the dream again, and no, I don’t want to talk about it right now. Maybe later. I know it means something. When I stop being dense, I’ll put it in place.”

“You sure you’re all right, honey?”

“Yeah, Ems, everything’s fine. You want to meet for breakfast when you get off?”

“Sure,” she said. “The Grind as usual?”

“You bet,” Mike said. See you at seven thirty.”

“Okay. Try to get some sleep. I love you,” she said.

“Love you too. Night.” Mike hung up the phone.

Emily Bryan. The other best thing that ever happened to him. He’d met her at the emergency room at Johns Hopkins where he went to be treated after Drak Fortunado cut his face up the first year he’d been in the homicide unit. The two most important people who’d factored into his life at this point came out of that case--Emily and Luther Mahoney. One was the essence of true goodness, the other pure evil.

Actually, Mike vaguely knew Emily from high school. She was the younger sister of his brother Drew’s best friend. They didn’t run in the same circles though, more’s the pity. Who knew what his life would have been like if he’d really met Emily before he got entangled with his ex-wife Annie?

Sparks flew when they met in the emergency room. They’d dated awhile, but the budding romance ended when Emily refused to put up with his juvenile behavior. The next two years found him spiraling into an abyss--the arson investigation, his attempted suicide, Luther Mahoney, Juliana Cox, and the heavy drinking. Then came Georgia Rae Mahoney’s threats, culminating in Junior Bunk’s shooting spree, Bayliss’ injury, and finally the loss of his badge and job.

A little over two years ago he’d had nothing except a heavily mortgaged boat with living quarters. Soon after, with no income, he’d even lost that. Now he had a life, a decent job and a purpose. The secret of his success--a petite dynamo named Emily Bryan.

Kellerman reset the alarm clock to go off at seven o’clock. Leaning back into the comfort of his well-padded recliner, he willed himself to relax, to stop thinking about the dream. He felt himself ready to drift off At first he fought sleep, then welcomed it. He dozed.

One of the perks of living and working in Fells Point has to be the dramatic sunrises and sunsets over the harbor. Magnificent in color and sheer beauty, artists, poets and writers for centuries have tried to depict them. Although many of the works may have become masterpieces, none were a substitute for the real thing. By seven o’clock, the sun rose slowly from the horizon, a brilliant red in color. Flanked by white fluffy clouds, the sun appeared to be escorted to her new day.

Mornings started slowly in Fells Point. Few businesses and restaurants opened before ten o’clock. Jimmy’s began early for the breakfast crowd and the Daily Grind started serving at seven. The only noises came from the low whistles and grunts from the boats in the harbor.

Meldrick Lewis stood in front of the Daily Grind waiting somewhat impatiently for Mack Smithson, the manager, to unlock the door.

“Come on Mack, get a move on. I’ve got to have a real cup of coffee before I’m forced to drink that sorry excuse for caffeine they brew up there.” He angled his head toward the police station, home to the Homicide Unit, that occupied the old City Pier building.

Mack rejoined, “If you’re in such a hurry, why don’t you make your own at the Waterfront?”

Meldrick followed Mack into the newer digs of the Daily Grind, located next door to the older facility that once housed the business. The new place had a modern, sunny look. Too bad, because the old place had attitude, atmosphere, and cracks in the floor and walls. Dogs had once been allowed in to sit at their owners’ feet while the humans sipped their cappucinos and lattes. Now dogs were only allowed to look in the window. Progress.

“Prob’ly cause I see enough of that place at night, I don’t want to see it in the morning. It reminds me I don’t have a life. I need a new partner. Wanna invest?”

“No way, Meldrick, my man. Coffee’ll be ready in a minute,” Mack said as he started grinding coffee beans and pouring the grounds into filters. Soon the aroma of the freshly brewed drink filled the room. “Anyway, 1 thought you got a new partner. Falsone.”

“Yeah, but it’s still a lot of work. I ain’t got no free time. Billie Lou’s doing most of the day work, and Falsoney and me work it after we get off. Bayliss, well, who knows about Bayliss? He’s still waitin’ to hear about the Ryland case. He’s been no help. Munch is in New York...” Lewis broke off as people started filing in for their morning caffeine buzz.

“Look at this,” Meidrick exclaimed as he read the metropolitan section of the Baltimore Sun. “Two of Mahoney’s thugs got paroled. Less than two years. Ain’t no justice in this world. Wonder why the parole board didn’t see fit to notify us that these scrotes were being released. Some of us had a vested interest in this case.”

“Who knows?” Mack replied. “Working across the street from the police I’ve learned that usually the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing. Don’t you guys have telephones, faxes, you know, communications?”

“Nah, we’re still in the dark ages when it comes to that sort of stuff. We got the machines but ain’t nobody knows to use them,” Lewis said sourly as he paid for the coffee. “What a way to start the day.”

Lewis left the building and started across the brick street to the station. Traffic was still sparse in the area, consisting of either police cars or workers coming to get their morning jolt of caffeine at the Grind. The news of the release of two of Mahoney’s henchmen had dampened his normally ebullient feelings. He entered the station and began the long climb up the stairs to the second floor. As he entered the bullpen, he waved hello to Tern Stivers and Laura Ballard. His partner, Renee Shepherd, was on vacation. Falsone had a day off. He saw Bobby Hall at the coffee machine. He couldn’t stand that brown-nose little bastard. Hall had no talent to be a police officer, let alone a Homicide detective. What he had was an uncle who just happened to be chief of detectives. Hall was the poster boy for the downside of nepotism.

Lewis made his way to his desk and plopped himself into his chair. He waved a greeting to Stu Gharty, his lieutenant, the man who had replaced Al Giardello upon his retirement. Gharty had been a detective in the Homicide Unit for a couple of years when he got the promotion. Lewis didn’t even want to start figuring out how someone like Gharty could be promoted over someone as capable and knowledgeable as Sergeant Kay Howard. Of course, he’d never admit to Kay that he felt that way. It was none of her business anyway. He’d stayed as long as he had in Homicide by staying out of office politics. Everyone knew Gharty played puppet for Gaffney and company, but all-in-all he’d done a fairly decent job as commander.

The bullpen phone rang. Ballard answered it. She intently wrote down information, asking pertinent questions. After hanging up the phone, she turned to Gharty. “Domestic, boss. Up on Broadway. Wife apparently shot her old man after he peed on her pot roast. She’s in custody. Stivers and I can drop the Fenwick case for a while and work this if you want.”

“No,” Stu said. “It’s Hall’s turn in the barrel. Lewis, go with him. See he doesn’t screw up even this simple dunker.” Gharty sighed and shook his head.

“Right. Will do. I guess somebody has to baby-sit that brain-dead weasel. It’s a capper to a perfect morning,” Lewis said. “By the way, did you hear that Carter and Davis were paroled? Nice of the board to notify us.”

“What?” Gharty and Ballard both asked, astonished. Stivers didn’t look up from her paperwork.

“Yeah, read about it in the paper this morning. Think they’ve been recidivised? I don’t,” Meldrick morosely responded. “My money is they’ll be out for blood.”

He slowly got out of his chair and, coffee cup in hand, went to get Hall. He eyed the cocky young man and shook his head. Why me? “Let’s go,” he said. “You’ve finally got a case even you shouldn’t be able to fuck up.”

Kellerman sat at the front table at the Grind, sipping his coffee and eating a cheese danish. He noticed an article on the metropolitan page and scanned it, feeling a frisson of dread creeping over him. James “Junebug” Carter and Willis “Chill Will” Davis out of jail. Paroled. How could that have happened? Two of Mahoney’s top guns, each sentenced to ten years in the Maryland Department of Corrections. Ten years meant at least five years served before they could even seek parole. He’d been sure they’d get themselves in trouble in the pen and have their sentences extended. Now they were out with less than two years served. What the hell was going on?

A kiss on his cheek brought him back to reality. “Hi, Mike. You sure were lost in thought. Everything all right?”

“Yes...well, no not really. I’ll tell you about it in a minute.” He rose. “Sit down, I’ll get your coffee. What do you want this time? Bagel? Muffin?”

“Bagel’s fine, thanks. I’m beat,” Emily said, sighing as she took her seat.

Mike studied her. He knew she had to be tired from her twelve-hour stint in the emergency room, but she didn’t look it. The sun peering in the window caught her auburn hair, highlighting the red strands. Her green eyes glinted when she smiled up at him. At times like this, she nearly took his breath away.

Five minutes later, he returned with a toasted bagel, two pats of cream cheese and a double latte. “Here you go,” he said, placing the plate and drink in front of her.

She slathered the bagel with the cream cheese and took a large bite. “That’s delicious. I don’t know how hospitals can manage to kill the taste of something this simple, but they do.”

“Don’t the cafeteria workers have to take special classes on how to ruin food?” Mike innocently asked, a dimple beginning to form in his cheek. “I think I read that somewhere.”

“They must have studied really hard. Graduated magna cum laude, majoring in Food Ruination,” she said, almost choking on her bagel as she laughed.

“Need the Heimlich maneuver?” Mike said. “I give good ‘lich.”

“Not this time, Dr. Kellerman. I’ll take a raincheck.”

Mike let Emily finish her bagel and he polished off his danish. When they were finished, he told her about the parole of Carter and Davis.

She mused, “I wonder if that’s what’s brought on the dream. You think it might be a premonition or something?”

“God, Emily, I don’t know. I really don’t believe in that sort of thing but.. .oh, hell, who knows? This time the dream’s been different. I just can’t seem to get it.” He stood up. “You go on home to bed. I’m going to the office. If nothing’s going on, I’ll be home early.”

“Okay. I’m going to stop at the Market before I go home. Want anything?” she asked.

“Nothing special from the Market. I’ll stop at Attman’s later. I’ve been craving a corned-beef on rye. I’ll get the makings. You want their matzoh ball soup?”

“My mouth’s already watering. Can’t wait,” she said, kissing him goodbye.

Mike watched her, admiring her firm body as she headed down Thames Street to the Broadway Market. When she turned the corner, he began walking eastbound on Thames toward Fell Street.

His office, located on Fleet, comprised two rooms in the back of a popular antiques business. It had a side entrance. The lettering on the window, and on the door leading to the office, said simply, Michael Kellerman, Private Investigator. That was one of the few overt manifestations of his success. When he first started the business, he’d been lucky just to find someone who’d rent to him, let alone have his name on the building. He’d had no assets but his investigative talent.

Borrowing money from his hard-working parents enabled him to open the agency. In those dark days he felt he’d let everyone down, especially his father. His two older brothers were wastrels, petty criminals whom you couldn’t trust for a second. The elder Kellerman had disowned them years before. Mike had been his shining hope. Mike and his older sister who lived in St. Louis. Then came his own personal two-year hell. He’d lost everything. Everything but the love and support of his parents. They came through for him, dipping into his father’s retirement funds for the necessary licensing fees and rent deposit. Kellerman was proud he’d been able to pay them back with interest within a year.

His mind returned to the dream. The dream brought back memories he’d just as soon not recall. That final day when Giardello took his badge and gave him freedom from prosecution in exchange for his resignation still both enraged and humbled him. No jury in the world would have convicted him. He doubted the prosecutor would even have taken the case. Mike knew damn well Luther Mahoney deserved to be shot. He felt no guilt over the shooting. Hell, Luther’d still been waving the gun around refusing to obey lawful commands to drop the weapon. If Mike hadn’t got to the scene in time, Lewis would have been dead meat. Mahoney had the gun trained at Meldnck’s head. Stivers had been there too, but Mike never had been sure whether he could trust her around Mahoney. He sure didn’t have any faith in her as a backup.

Remembering that awful May day two years ago still caused Mike pain. He may not have been guilty of illegally shooting Mahoney, but his later behavior had been part of the reason three uniforms had been killed and Gharty and Ballard wounded by Junior Bunk. The son of Georgia Rae Mahoney and nephew of Luther, Junior had been arrested in the murder of Judge Gibbons, a sleazy judge in the pocket of the Mahoney organization. While in custody, he’d managed to get a detective’s weapon from an unsecured desk and sprayed bullets all around the bullpen, causing death and mayhem. Mike, Tim Bayliss and Lt. Giardello filled Junior Bunk with numerous rounds in an effort to bring him down. Later, while on a raid of Georgia Rae’s townhouse, Bayliss took a bullet after jumping in front of Frank Pembleton. Bayliss remained in critical condition for a time but recovered and returned to duty.

Mike held himself partially responsible. He’d been drinking heavily, and mad at the world. He lost it one day in court and cornered Gibbons outside the courtroom. Said things he never should have said to begin with, let alone in front of civilians. Some of his ravings were apparently overheard by members of the Mahoney organization. Things snowballed and culminated in the shootings. He knew rationally that his part was just a small cog in the overall picture. A lot of other factors played important roles leading to that day. Had he been in his right mind, though, it never would have happened. That’s what hurt him.

Wiping the memories out of his head, Kellerman unlocked his office door and picked up the mail that had been shoved through the slot. Nothing earthshaking. A few bills, a few checks, some junk mail. He noticed the red light on his answering machine flickering and immediately hit the rewind button, then play. He shuffled through the mail as he idly listened to the tape. One of his regular defense attorney clients wanted him for a short investigation; a woman referred to him by her divorce attorney requested he call back; and, as usual, a couple of hang-ups. The last message he had to replay. It was from Jenny Fortunado, Drak’s widow. He’d met her at the prayer vigil in front of the police station the night Drak had been killed. They’d run into each other at some community meetings after that. A nice lady, Mike recalled.

“Detective Kellerman, I need to talk to you. Can you call me back? I’m at 410-555-3310. I have some information. I’m worried about you. And that black detective you worked with on the department.” Her voice sounded nervous and strained.
He played the message again, copying down the phone number and noting that the call came in just after midnight.

Mike dialed the number and let it ring, four, five, six times. He started to hang up when he heard a tremulous “hello” on the other end.

“Mrs. Fortunado, this is Mike Kellerman. I’m returning your call,” he quickly said.

“Oh, detective. Thanks for calling. I got some information last night and I felt that I’d better try to let you know. I don’t know if there’s any truth to it, but I thought I’d pass it on.”

“Yes, Mrs. Fortunado. What is it you heard?”

“I heard there’s a contract out for you and Detective Lewis. Comes from some Mahoney people. I don’t know any specifics. Not yet, anyway. I can try to find out. I’m sick of the killing, just sick. I know you’re not with the police department anymore. I’m afraid to call the police. I figure you can warn the other detective...! can’t remember his name. I think he went to the same school that Drak did.. .at least I think that’s what Drak said.” She spoke fast as if she could shed this weight off her shoulders if she could get it all out.

“Detective Meldrick Lewis is who you’re thinking of Can you give me some details? Who’s behind it? Anything?” Mike questioned.

“I’ll try to find out. I just heard some of Drak’s friends mention it last night. We were at a party. They mentioned some Mahoney people. I thought the gang was history. Do you think it might have something to do with those two men released from prison?”

“It makes sense,” Mike said. “I’d appreciate whatever you can find out. Thanks for giving me a heads up on this. Let me give you my cell phone number. If you find out anything, any little thing, even if it’s not important, don’t hesitate to call me. I owe you one.”

“I’m just sick of the killing, Detective Kellerman.”

“Hey, I’m just Mike Kellerman now. We don’t need to stand on formalities. Call me Mike.”

“I think I’d better keep it at Detective Kellerman, please. I’ll let you know if! hear anything else,” she said. He could almost picture her back stiffening.

“Thank you,” he said. “I know it took a lot for you to call me.” He heard a click and didn’t know if she’d heard his last sentence.

His tired brain moved into action. He needed to contact Meldrick. Easier said than done. Although they’d been civil to each other, the camaraderie that they’d once enjoyed had gone by the wayside. It boggled his mind that three years ago he’d been Lewis’ best man at his quickly-planned, ill-fated marriage to Barbara Shivers. He recalled the punch he had taken in the jaw when he’d teased Meldrick by saying “Shiver me timbers.” He rubbed his jaw ruefully.

The first thing he’d better do would be call the station. Maybe he’d luck out and Lewis would be there. He dialed the once-familiar number.

“Homicide, Stivers.”

Mike grimaced. Shit Of all people. “Is Lewis there?”

“No, he’s on a call. Want to leave a message?”

“This is Kellerman. Tell him to call me at 410-555-5210.”

“Maybe I will and maybe I won’t.”

“Stivers, this is no time for games. It’s important. And,” he added, “I don’t want to talk to you either.”

“I didn’t say anything,” she responded.

“I got the drift. I wouldn’t call Lewis if it wasn’t important. Have him call me as soon as possible, “ he said curtly, repeating his phone number.

“Fine.” He barely heard her as he hung up. What a bitch.

Meldrick Lewis disgustedly paced the waiting area of the emergency room at Johns Hopkins. What a piece of work that Hall was. He couldn’t even handle a simple crime scene like the dunker he was given. Instead the klutz had managed to walk into a cabinet, cut his head and passed out when he saw the blood. When he fell he hit the corner of a table and opened up another cut on his head. Now he lay in one of the cubicles being stitched up. Lewis had already called Gharty relaying the information, and requested that Gharty sign the paperwork so their suspect could be booked for investigation. As soon as he could, he’d get back to the station, interrogate the suspect and finish the necessary reports so the case would be ready for court the next day.

One of the nurses came out of the small treatment room and motioned him to come in. Lewis entered. Hall looked sheepishly up at him. Meldrick shook his head. “You’ll do anything to keep from writing a report.” There was no humor in his voice.

“We’re going to keep him a few hours for observation. If nothing happens, you can pick him up tonight,” the doctor said. “I don’t think he has a concussion. We only took four stitches in each cut. He just fainted when he saw the blood. At least that’s what it appears to be.”

“Okay,” Meldrick said. “Hall, when you’re ready to leave, call the office or the dispatcher. See you.”

“I don’t believe you’re leaving me here,” Hall whined. “Don’t you care? I’m hurt.”

“Believe it. My concern can only be measured in micro give-a-shits. I’ve got a case to work. Your case. You don’t like it, you know what you can do about it. Call Uncle Roger. See if I give a damn. I’m outta here.” He turned to the medical staff. “Call headquarters or Homicide when he’s ready to be released. They’ll send someone after him.”

He knew there’d be hell to pay for this, but damned if he could put up with that incompetent. He headed back for the stationhouse.

Kellerman spent a couple of hours contacting snitches he felt might have some information on the alleged contracts. He learned nothing more than what he already knew--he and Lewis appeared to be targets, but targets of whom?

He knew now the dreams must have been harbingers of this news. He’d been having the dreams off and on since he’d shot Luther Mahoney, but these recent ones were somehow different. He just couldn’t place his finger on it. He made several more phone calls. He still hadn’t heard from Lewis. He called the Homicide Unit again.

“Homicide, Gharty.”

Shit. Another one who hates my guts. “Gharty, this is Kellerman. I need to speak to Lewis. It’s important.”

“Kellerman.” Mike could hear the sneer in Gharty’s voice. Stu still held him responsible for the bullet he took during the Junior Bunk shooting spree.

“Where’s Lewis?” Mike said urgently. “I’ve got to talk to him.”

Apparently Gharty sensed that Kellerman was serious because he tersely relayed the information. “He’s at the Johns Hopkins emergency room.”

“Is he all right?” Mike’s heart began to pound.

“He’s fine. He’s with an injured officer,” Gharty answered. “Why would you be worried anyway?”

Mike didn’t feel obliged to answer that remark. He hung up.

He dialed the hospital’s number quickly. Through Emily he knew most of the staff of the emergency room. The receptionist supplied the information that the good-looking black detective had just left the hospital in a huff Mike thanked her for the information and hung up the phone. Apparently finding Lewis today was going to be like playing “Where’s Waldo?” He could only trust Stivers to give Lewis the message to contact him, and that gave him the heebie-jeebies. He’d better try other means.

He called Lewis’ house and left a message on his answering machine. For good measure he left one at the Waterfront, too.
He looked at his watch. Nearly one o’clock. The lunch hour at Attmans should almost be over so there shouldn’t be much of a line. He headed back to the row apartment he shared with Emily to get his car. Lombard Street, west of Broadway, wasn’t that far but it was not in his best interest to be on foot, especially in that neighborhood.

Armed with the news Drak’s widow had given him, Mike kept glancing over his shoulders, keeping an eye out for anything suspicious. He figured a little paranoia never hurt anyone and this time it might help. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. He arrived at Attmans and ordered a pound of corned beef, a loaf of Chicago rye bread, horseradish mustard, two bowls of matzoh ball soup, a jar of Claussen’s pickles and a couple of latkes to munch on. He chitchatted a bit with the women behind the counter, then paid for the purchases and hurried back to his car.

Arriving home, he quickly and quietly put the purchases away, not wanting to wake Emily. He checked the answering machine but there were no messages. He sat down on the sofa and reached for the television remote. No. Too much noise. Suddenly, like a mack truck, the lack of sleep caught up with him and he began yawning profusely. He started to lie down on the sofa but then he reconsidered. He had a nice warm bed and a nice warm body he could curl up with. He might as well enjoy his afternoon nap. This might be the last good sleep he would get for awhile.

He opened the bedroom door. Emily lay on her side of the bed, back turned toward the door, sleeping soundly, her auburn hair fanning the white pillowcase. Mike quickly stripped down to his underwear and carefully crawled into bed next to her, not wanting to wake her. His movements did cause her to stir. She turned, murmured a few words and scooted next to him, falling back to sleep immediately. He wrapped his arm around her pulling her close, then relaxed and let sleep overtake him.

He runs into the room, out of breath. He sees a tall black man holding a gun to his partner’s head. Luther Mahoney. He yells,
“Police, drop the gun.” He hears a loud explosion, sees a small burst offire from the barrel and the back of his partner’s head blows away, blood, bone and brain matter flying. Shit. Not Meidrick. He can’t be shot. He freezes for a second and the figure turns toward him, gun flailing in his hand The face is Luther Mahoney. It morphs into Georgia Rae, then to Junior Bunk, then to a ski -masked face. He yells at the figure again and they both squeeze the trigger of their weapons at the same time. He screams. He cries for his partner. He cries for himself

“Mike! Mike! Wake up, baby. It’s just a dream. You’re okay. You’re home with me.” Emily took turns shaking, then holding Kellerman, trying to bring him out of the nightmare that had him sobbing uncontrollably in his sleep. It seemed to her it took minutes not seconds to rouse him but finally he opened his eyes, staring at her bewilderedly.

“Oh, God, not again,” he moaned. He pushed himself into a sitting position. He was soaked again with sweat and tears. He tried to lighten the moment. “If I don’t stop doing this, we’re either going to have to buy a washer and dryer or more sheets. I can’t afford the time to wash two sets of sheets every day.”

Emily brought a cold, wet towel from the bathroom and began to wipe off the perspiration from his forehead and neck.

“Tell me about the dream. I know it has nothing to do with the original shooting. You’re past that. You made your peace with that a long time ago.”

“Damn straight,” Mike said. “To my dying day, I know that I shot Luther Mahoney in self defense. He still had the gun in his hand and he wasn’t surrendering. Lord knows I had to protect my partner.” Once started, Mike couldn’t stop. “I’m not dumb. I know Meldrick thumped him, then somehow got his gun taken away. Hell, Lewis broke more rules that day than I think I did my whole career. I’d do it all over again, today, if it came to it, no question. Luther was a scumbag, lower than whaleshit. He deserved to die. But I didn’t execute him. I shot an armed felon who had been holding a gun to my partner’s head. I only wish if I’d been in Meldrick’s position, my partner would do the same for me.”

The words tumbled out of his mouth. He felt relieved just saying them. “Pembleton acted like I’d be prosecuted for murder. That part didn’t bother me. I’d rather be tried by twelve than carried by six anyhow. The only thing is if I went to court I might have had to break down on Lewis. I couldn’t do that. A partner is sacrosanct. I just couldn’t rat him out. I’d rather kill myself which was what I was contemplating until Gee gave me the choice to avoid prosecution by resigning. I don’t know if I told you this before, but right after Pembleton took my badge and gun, I asked Meldrick for his gun and asked him to leave me alone with it for a few minutes. He refused. Saved my bacon again.”

Mike stared into space, remembering that awful time.

“Saved you?” Emily asked incredulously. “Pardon me, but my ass. He should have backed you. He should have been honest from the beginning about what happened. Most of all he shouldn’t have shunned you like that.”

“I don’t know, Emily,” Mike said wearily. “He must have had his reasons.”

“That’s another thing,” she continued. “I think part of the reason.. .no, most of the reason you’re having these dreams is because you two have a lot of unresolved issues.”

“Thank you, Dr. Brothers, or is it Dr. Laura?” He smiled wanly at her.

“Don’t get flippant with me, boy,” she answered, flicking the wet towel at him. “Seriously, you two need to talk.”

“Do you know how many times I’ve tried to talk to that man?” Mike asked almost rhetorically. “He shuts me out.”

Lewis returned to Thames Street and parked the beat-up white Chevy Cavalier in the police garage. He decided to take the ramp up to the second floor.

“Where is everyone?” Meldrick called out, noting the emptiness of the squadroom. It was too early for shift change. Another call must have come in.

Gharty came out of his office. “Ballard and Stivers are out on a call. Probable suicide down on Pratt. So, what’s with Hall? How bad?”

“Eight stitches altogether. Been better if they’d stitched his mouth shut. I told them to call here when they’re ready to release him. Better than me babysitting that worthless piece of shit.”

“I understand, but watch your mouth, Lewis,” Gharty said. “I don’t like him any better than you do but we’re stuck with him. I don’t feel like running interference for you. He’s going to run straight to Gaffney.” Gharty was remembering when he’d removed Hall from the interrogation room after Hall incompetently questioned a suspect in the shooting of Al Giardello six months ago. Hall ran and cried to Gaffney and the next thing Stu knew Gaffney was trying to make mincemeat out of him. He didn’t find out till a couple of weeks later that Hall was Gaffney’s nephew. He knew damned well Hall was assigned to the squad to snitch everyone out to Gaffney but he couldn’t do anything about it. Not that he wanted to make waves anyway. He just wanted to ride out this assignment till retirement.

“Go take care of the paperwork on your arrest. Oh, by the way, “ Gharty said as an afterthought. “Kellerman called. Said he needed to talk to you right away.”

“Okay, chief,” Lewis answered. He scowled as he grabbed his notebook and headed for detention. He didn’t need Kellerman on his case making him feel guilty again. He was tired of feeling guilty. He had a case to close.

Mike Kellerman hung up the phone in the living room. He had just finished checking the messages on his office phone. No new information. His cell phone hadn’t rung either. He’d changed batteries earlier. No excuse there. Why the hell hadn’t Meldrick called? Damned Stivers. He knew she wouldn’t pass on the information.

He called the Waterfront. Billie Lou answered and after exchanging pleasantries, she told him Meldrick should be in later that evening to relieve her. Mike thanked her and hung up.

He knew he should tell Emily about the threats but he didn’t want her to worry any more than necessary. She’d be working tonight anyway, another twelve hour stint. He hoped the lowlifes would make their move soon in the next few hours anyway. He hated suspense. He wanted to get this over with.

If the information that Drak’s wife had given him panned out, Mike had no doubt who the suspects would be. Davis and Carter, of course. He didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure that out. They’d be the only ones who’d have a reason to kill both him and Meldrick. Well, maybe not the only ones. No, definitely not the only ones; but anyone else would have had two years to ice them and no attempts had been made on their lives, at least not for reasons involving Luther Mahoney. No, it was definitely Davis or Carter, or both.

He’d contacted his snitches in the hope that someone might have information on the whereabouts of the two men. Mike had tried contacting their parole officer but he was on a vacation day. Of course, he might get in touch with the man tomorrow, but Mike had a gut feeling that something was going to happen soon. Emily might think that his dreams meant he had unresolved issues with Meidrick, but he thought it might have something to do with the threats. An omen, maybe?

Mike looked at his watch. Nearly five o’clock. Emily called out, “Do you want me to fix you a sandwich?”

“No. I’m not as hungry as I thought I’d be,” he answered. His stomach felt knotted.

“You’ve got to eat,” she said. “How about the soup?”

“Okay, fine. Make the soup.”

They sat cozily together at the kitchen table, each eating a bowl of chicken noodle soup with a large fluffy matzoh ball in the middle. Mike finished his bowl, realizing he’d relaxed, his stomach unclenched. He owed it to Emily. Her mere presence always comforted him.

He helped her clear the table and wash the bowls and silverware. Emily, already dressed in her uniform, picked up her purse and headed for the door, giving Mike a peck on the cheek. “I’ve got some errands to run before I go in,” she said. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Working on a case, an old one,” he answered.

“If you’re up and around later, stop by. I’ll take my lunch break then. I’ll wait until two. If you don’t show by then, I’ll know you’re not coming. Bye,” she said. “Be careful.”

“You, too, honey,” Mike answered, feeling a bit guilty he hadn’t confided in her.

As soon as she left, Mike checked his weapon out of habit and made sure he had an extra magazine ready to go. He holstered the gun and dropped the spare clip in his jacket pocket. Time to go to the Waterfront. One way or the other, he’d talk to Meldrick tonight. These dreams had to end.

***
Billie Lou Munch stood behind the mahogany bar wiping it down when Mike walked in the door.

“Hi, honey,” she said. “Haven’t seen you for awhile. I think since the night Al died.”

“Hi, Billie Lou. You look great. You always do,” Mike replied.

“You know, hon, you always were a flatterer, that is when you were sober.” She smiled as she said that.

“Stand by, then, cause I’ve been sober for over 18 months. Actually, believe it or not, I found out I wasn’t an alcoholic. I quit on my own. My shrink said I didn’t have an addictive personality. Whatever. Anyway, a beer or two once in a while. No hard liquor. I can’t remember the last time I had whiskey. Oh, yeah, last St. Patrick’s day, I had a few shots. No Jim Peam, though. I don’t care if! ever see that stuff again.”

“Good for you, hon. I’m happy for you.” Billie Lou’s smile was sincere.

“I’ve got a girl, too. The best. Emily Bryan. She’s a nurse at Johns. I want you to meet her some time.”

“I’d love to, hon. So, what brings you to the Waterfront after all these months?” she asked.

“Need to see Meidrick. I’ve tried calling him at the station today but no luck. You said he’d be in tonight?”

“Last I talked to him, he said seven, seven-thirty. Can I get you anything?”

“Just a beer. You can watch me nurse it,” Mike said with a laugh.

“How about food? Business has been a little slow lately. The cook’s dying from boredom in there,” she said, pointing towards the kitchen at the back of the bar.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I just ate. Where is everybody?” He looked around, spying one other occupant sitting in the back room.

“This is everybody, Mike. I don’t know how we manage to keep open. If you ask me, it’s time to sell. That, or change our marketing strategy.” This time her laugh sounded harsh. “I think you were our best customer, sweetie, but I’m glad we lost you.”

Mike sat at the bar, occasionally taking a small sip from his glass. Several construction workers came in and ordered a pitcher of beer. They, too, went in the back room. Mike kept a close eye on the door, and occasionally watched the television screen. The Orioles, playing an afternoon game in Anaheim, were behind in the middle of the sixth inning. Obviously a slow moving game, and one that was taking a lot of time because of the large number of pitchers that were being used. Although he loved baseball and his Orioles, this season sucked in his opinion. He just couldn’t get excited about his team.

Looking out the window, Mike could see part of the rosy glow of sunset over the western part of the harbor. He also had a good view of the doors of the stationhouse. Finally, he saw Meldrick coming down the stairs, stopping on the street to talk to a district officer. Then he headed across the street toward the Waterfront. Still looked like the same loosey-goosey Lewis. Mike didn’t know why he thought Meldrick would look differently.

Meldrick walked in, waved to Billie Lou, and did a small double-take when he saw Kellerman. “Mikey, how you be?” he said, almost too jovially.

“Fine. And you?”

“Just great. So much for the small talk. Whatcha want?” he asked.

“We need to talk,” Mike said earnestly.

“I figured that much, what with all the messages you’ve been leaving for me.”

“So, you got them. Why didn’t you call?” Mike asked.

“Didn’t have your number. Gharty said you called. I went up to question a suspect. When I got back, I found Stivers’ message under some papers. Had your number on it. Was gonna call you when I got here,” Lewis answered.

“Yeah, right.” Mike snorted. “Listen. I’ve got to talk to you. It’s really important. Let’s go in the back.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you? I haven’t seen you look like that sober. You are sober?” Meidrick looked almost astonished.

“Stop staring at me like that. You know damn well I’ve been off the sauce for almost two years. Give me a break. See if you can move those guys out of there.”

“Damn man, they’re paying customers.”

“Meidrick, this is important. I’m dead serious.”

Mike waited as Lewis ushered the men out of the bar. Billie Lou left, too, putting the closed sign in the window, and then there was just the two of them together.

“Now, what did you want that was so damned important that I have to chase business away,” Lewis growled.

“I had a call from Drak’s widow. Says she heard that there was a contract out for us. I’m not sure of any contract, but I can damn well believe that Carter and Davis are out for blood. You did hear they were paroled yesterday?”

“Oh, yeah, I heard. Courtesy of the Baltimore Sun. Certainly not from the police department,” Meldrick said sarcastically.

“That’s the main reason I needed to see you, to warn you. There’s something else though,” Mike said quietly. He hesitated, then went on. “Look, I’m sick and tired of what’s happened between us. We need to get it out in the open and get past it.”

Mike could see Meldrick turning away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Everything’s fine between us.”

“No, it’s not and you know it. It really hasn’t been the same since that night on the boat. But after the shooting, well, you turned away. God knows with Georgia Rae playing mind games with me and me being in the sauce three-fourths of the time, I wasn’t much of a man. But you sure didn’t help matters. I needed a friend. I needed a lifeline. My partner. Where were you?” Mike looked at him earnestly.

Meldrick couldn’t look him in the eye. “You told me once you’d heard I was a lousy partner. I guess you’re right. I’m not much of a partner. That’s what Shepherd says too. You know, I got her beat down once. I pulled another one of my stunts. I know it ain’t right and I don’t know why I keep doing those things. I didn’t call for backup. I took the back and she took the front. She got the shit beat out of her but she held on, man. She held on.” He hesitated. “I treated her like shit. She saw through me and called me on it.  Why didn’t you?”

“Why should I have had to call you on it, as you put it?” Mike asked, staring at him. “You were my friend, maybe my best friend on the job. My partner. Hell’s bells. I saved your bacon from Mahoney. I didn’t rat on you. I lost my job. That’s water under the bridge now. I’m happy. I needed out. The department ate me alive and spit out the seeds. I needed to grow up. The department, my father, you.. .everybody treated me like a kid. I was Mikey. I lived for fun. What did I use to say? Fun is my life? Well, it sure is now. I have a lot of fun. Real fun. And a purpose. I can actually say I’m looking forward to being a husband again. And a father, someday. Can you believe it? What was I doing, a grown man living on a boat? Drinking and carousing every night? Sounds great, but it’s not. So, thank you, Meldrick. You really saved my bacon three times. The first on the boat, the second in the box, and the third by being the reason I had to resign. If it weren’t for you, I’d be dead three times. It’s probably the longest speech you’ll get out of me, but I had to get it off my chest.” Mike stopped and took a deep breath.
Meldrick looked down at the floor. “You know, every time I saw you I felt guilty. You might have pulled the trigger, but I killed Mahoney. And I killed our friendship. I’ve never been able to be close to people. I even pushed Barbara away. I know that I have a commitment problem, to both men and women.”

He looked up. “Can we call it even?”

Mike smiled. “I still owe you, man.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Kellerman saw movement at the front door. Something didn’t sit right with him. People usually just walked in a bar. There were people outside but they hesitated at the door. As the door opened he saw the glint of a firearm and the motion of a mask being pulled down a face. He shoved Meldrick and yelled, “Get down” as he pulled his gun from his holster.

Before he got a shot off, he felt a tear at his shoulder. He fired and had the satisfaction of seeing one of the gunmen go down. The second one stood in the doorway firing. He heard Meidrick curse, as he fired another shot, dropping the second suspect.
Mike held his hand on his shoulder wound trying to staunch the blood. He was starting to feel light-headed. “Are you okay?” he asked Meldrick.

“I think so. Maybe a burn on my leg. The bullet went through the pants leg. I don’t see any blood,” Meldrick answered. “How ‘bout you?”

“Better call the police,” Mike said.

“I’m the police,” Meldrick replied, “but you’re right. I think I’d better get you an ambulance, too.” He made a move to the bar to get to the telephone. “I can’t believe it. They’d do this in Fells Point on a weekday night in the middle of summer. In-fuickincredible.” He called the dispatcher and then made sure the suspects were handcuffed. To hell with their injuries. He thought they were still alive but he could care less.

Meldrick got some towels and took them back to Mike who propped himself up against the pool table. He made two pads and held them on the entrance and exit wounds, exerting pressure to stop the bleeding. Mike winced, white as a ghost.

“You hanging in there, partner? You don’t look so hot,” Lewis said.

“You’re no day at the beach yourself,” Mike answered, his mouth twitching up into a grin. “Emily wanted me to come to the hospital, but I don’t think this is what she had in mind.” His eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped against Lewis.

“That’s okay, partner. I’ll explain everything.” Then, “thank you,” he whispered, as he held Mike Kellerman in his arms, noting that his ex-partner’s pulse and breathing remained strong. “I owe you.”

Mike roused himself “No, we’re even now. We can start from scratch.”