Simplicity
AUTHOR: Kristin.
DISCLAIMER: Most Characters belong to ABC and the talented writers of NYPD Blue.
FEEDBACK: To Kristin
Harry had his shirt off before he made it to his car. After leaving Sorenson in his wake hours before, every fiber of his work uniform had become unbearably irritating. He tossed the offending garment in the back seat along with his courier jacket and keys, and then sat glaring out the windshield for a few moments while his hands gripped the leather cover of the steering wheel with furious strength.
Just as he was preparing to tear out into traffic, he hesitated as a tough looking gang strolled by in nearly choreographed unison. "Ah, the Jets are on the hunt for the Sharks again, I see," he muttered to himself. The cue was what he needed to maintain control, and he slowed his breathing enough to begin singing along with the song in his head as he pulled out of the parking garage.
"Boy, boy, crazy boy, get cool boy..."
He unclenched one hand from the steering wheel and began tapping the syncopated rhythm along with the words, "Got a rocket in your pocket, stay cooly cool boy. Don't get hot, cause man you got some high times ahead."
Now he was singing to himself and trying not to picture Diane with that blond idiot. "Take it slow Daddy-O, you can live it up and die in bed. Breeze it , buzz it, easy does it, turn off the juice boy. Go man, go, but not like a yo-yo school boy. Just play it cool boy. Real cool."
Thus restrained by the distraction that Robbins and Bernstein offered him, Harry made his way home.
It had been over six months since the squad had brought him down. He knew he had forced Diane's hand...begged her, really, to stop him from falling off of the edge of the world, but he had underestimated how much the humiliation would get to him. He thought he didn't care anymore, but once his head cleared and bail was set, he could hardly lift his eyes to find his way out. He didn't like the way everyone was looking at him. They had no right. No right to judge him or his sorry life.
The problem was, being taller than most of them, he could still see their faces even with his head down. So he kept it high, and they all read it as contempt. Harry Denby had walked out of jail like a king.
He didn't feel much like royalty as he entered his apartment on this night, though. Diane had stood him up and it galled him to the core. No word after six damn months, after he practically handed Jill and Don to her on a silver platter. He'd even kept his mouth shut with IAB when he could have made a deal. Then she sends her message boy to retrieve Lauren's number. That Danny was too easy to play, and the little thrill he got from goading him was the only thing that kept him sane for the rest of his shift.
"Damn it," he growled as he tossed his things on the couch and kicked the door shut.
His mind was spinning, trying to divine the outcome of Diane's certain encounter with Lauren, as if sheer will could enable him to hear their conversation. He knew better than to call Lauren himself in hopes of getting a play by play. This was a last favor and she had made it clear that any further contact would result in a cancellation of any and all deals. Lauren was a good actress and would play her part, but he had no idea if Diane would fall for it.
The tension gnawed at his empty stomach. After turning on the tap to fill the tub with water that was a little too hot, he quickly reheated some leftovers in the microwave and carried them into the bathroom. Boiling himself alive was strange therapy, but he found that it was the only thing that kept his mind off his desperate thirst for alcohol. The red hot Szechwan leftovers served to crank up the heat internally, and he hoped the feverish double dose would drive Diane from his mind long enough for him to get some sleep.
Gasping as he lowered himself gingerly into the tub, he steeled himself against the pain. Sadism, he thought, did have it's benefits.
'Brrrrrrrrring!"
The phone jerked Harry out of a nearly meditative state brought on by his carefully made, self-torture. His eyes darted to the clock on the counter and he quickly calculated that he had been cooking for nearly an hour. Having refilled the tub twice with freshly heated water, he remained in a constant sweat. The dripping strands of his long black hair hung into his eyes and he felt slightly dizzy as he lay prone and still in the punishing water.
Even so, he didn't get many calls these days and the curiosity was enough to rouse him. He plodded, steaming and naked to the phone, just as the answering machine picked up.
"Harry, this is Rudy. I don't know if you've heard or not, but I thought you oughta know right away. That Kirkendall character is dead. He's dead, Harry, shanked like the rat he was. This is good news for you, pal, and you'd better make the most of it."
Harry wiped the sweat from his face and ran his hands through his hair, slicking it back away from his face. Knowing that Don was locked up with the Dominicans, this turn of events had occurred to him as a possibility many times, but he had never dared to count on it. He replayed the message again just to be sure, and then walked to the window and spoke to Diane who was out there somewhere, "Good news for you, too, honey." She, of course, couldn't hear the sarcasm and relief in his little endearment, but he felt good saying outloud just the same.
Leaning his head against the cold glass, he took a deep, cleansing breath. Steam continued to rise from his glowing skin and his palms left large, foggy prints on the window as if a ghost had tried to press through the glass on it's way out. Then in a compulsive flurry of motion, he dashed through the apartment, yanked on some pants and hauled a bundle of clothes down to the alley. Aided by a can of lighter fluid, Harry Denby ignited his loathed courier uniform and stood triumphantly over it as he watched it burn.
Continued in Part 2.
