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***
Edmund Exley:
Chief of Detectives, Chief of Police, Congressman, Lieutenant Governor, current gubernatorial candidate
~James Ellroy -- White Jazz, Chapter 61 ~
***
January 30, 1959
Now that the last unpleasant business regarding Klein and other loose ends is ... taken care of, Ed Exley pulls out a sheet of cream colored paper from the drawer on his desk, unscrews the cap of his favorite pen, draws a line dividing the sheet in half, and makes two lists.
The first of the lists maps out his future career goals with notes in between on what it will take to accomplish each of these goals.
With his record as Chief of Detectives, Chief of Police is his for the taking, once Chief Parker vacates the position.
(Somewhere along the line he'll have to find a wife. Not too young, of course, but he'll have to get a move on that soon in order to find a suitable woman within five to seven years of his age if he wants to have children. Of course, if he marries later enough in life, he can bypass the issue of children altogether and there are certain advantages to that.)
The other list begins: Go to Bisbee.
Step One: Put in for three weeks vacation. (He has two years accrued at this point, and people have started to comment that he should take some time, so he'll have no problems actually getting it granted.)
Step Two: Arrange to have Kleckner or Fisk look after the house, pack the bags, get in the car and go.
Step Three: (See what's there.)
Ed sighs, rubs his hands up under his glasses, and pinches the bridge of his nose against an oncoming headache. A part of him, the analytical detective part of him that never seems to shut up as much as he wishes it would, comments on the contrast between the precise angularity of his handwriting versus the unsettled open-endedness of the plans in the Bisbee column.
In the end he chooses Bisbee.
Because ... if it's not there, he can simply come back to Los Angeles and get on with the rest of his life.
***
He makes a detour on his way out of town. A bunch of rust colored Chrysanthemums for Jack Vincennes.
Nobody else is there so he sits down in the brown, winter dead grass and tells Jack everything, finishing with, "I'm thinking of becoming my own Rollo Tomasi, Jack. Abandoning the life I'm supposed to want and ... getting away with it."
Jack, of course, has no answer.
Except that Ed can hear his voice saying that he's always been his own man. Even when he knew that Bud White would fuck him for it.
Even when it meant crossing his father.
Even when it meant crossing Dudley Smith.
"Except that to trump Dudley Smith, I had to become Dudley Smith. You have no idea."
A smirking chortle and Jack can see why he'd need to become his own Rollo Tomasi to get out from under being himself, the way he is now.
Ed hopes that Jack likes the Chrysanthemums. They've always struck him as being one of the more manly flowers.
***
Bisbee is ... not what Ed expected.
It's tiny. It's on the side of a mountain. It's a mining town of about five thousand people. One person for every foot in altitude, he thinks sourly. Coming from near sea level in the space of a very long day means that the thin and chilly air does not agree with him.
He checks in at the Copper Queen hotel but doesn't unpack. Yet. Just hangs his jacket and pants over the back of the chair.
The phone book for the entire county is less than a third the size of what he's used to, and there's also only one White, Wendell in it.
(But not White, Wendell and Lynn. Ed's not quite sure what to make of that.)
He doesn't call, doesn't try to puzzle it out more. Just falls into bed and sleeps like the dead.
When morning comes Ed takes a long hot bath, dresses and heads out the door. He thinks about having breakfast but his stomach lurches so violently at the notion that he changes his mind.
(And why is his stomach lurching? What happened to his Iceman Ed calm? Why the nerves now? This is ... friends he's going to see, not a meeting with Feds wanting in on a piece of his pie.)
Bisbee is a one horse town and if Lynn has that dress shop of hers, he'll probably find it in a block or two.
The people on the street look at him as he passes and it takes him a moment to figure out why. He's wearing a fedora, is dressed in a suit and overcoat from Brooks Brothers. Every other man on the street is dressed in a shearling lined jacket with jeans and work boots for the mines or jeans and cowboy boots for the ranges. Ed chuckles when he realizes that he doesn't own a single item of clothing made out of denim.
"What brings you to town, Ed?" The voice is unmistakable.
He turns, knees going to jelly, wearing a grin a thousand miles wide on his face and says, "You, Bud."
The hair's gone grayer, the scars on his face twist Bud's mouth in a mockery of a smile, he walks stiffly, with a limp, and fine, tight little lines of pain radiate from the edges of his lips, but the eyes are the same.
They have that calm, rock-solid self assurance and acceptance that his never will.
***
It turns out that Lynn's in the phone book, under Bracken, Lynn. "We share a life, not a name," she says sweetly as she squeezes Bud's hand.
Despite the downturn in mining, her little dress shop isn't so little. In fact it's flourished as other shops have closed and now sells both men and women's clothing.
Bud's her Guy Friday, and when he's not helping her set up a display or assemble a mannequin at the store, he putters around the house. He's also the Truant Officer for the local school district, but that doesn't take more than a day, maybe two, a month.
They're both so happy and right together that Ed has to excuse himself, go to the bathroom and splash some cold water on his face.
They have everything that he wants. They are everything that he wants.
He aches with the pain that he can't he can't just show up and say, "Hey guys, how about me too?" and have it be so.
(And burns with the shame of wanting it so much.)
Part of him considers driving back to LA the next morning.
Part of him says to say and have three weeks of almost what he wants, before going back to LA and getting on with the rest of his life the to do list on the other side of that sheet of paper.
When Ed mentions that he's staying at the Copper Queen, Lynn insists that he come and stay in their extra bedroom.
Ed sputters, but Bud cuts him off, saying, "Shut up, Ed, or I'll get your bags and take them over myself."
Despite the fact that he's younger, fitter, and packing his service revolver, Ed knows he doesn't stand a chance against Bud.
(He learned years ago that even though he knows it will burn him in the end, it can't be helped -- he's like a moth to a flame when it comes matters like this.)
***
In borrowed jeans and long-sleeved chambray shirt, Ed takes on a few "honey dos" that Bud's been meaning to get to but can't do quickly or easily by himself.
Once again, they make a good team, only in this case, Ed's the muscle, and Bud's the brains at the bottom of the ladder as Ed does touch-up spackle and paint near the eaves and then climbs on the roof to check the condition of the shingles.
Then there's that large Palo Verde in the back yard that needs a proper trimming, even though late February isn't the best time of year. Ed ends up climbing it and cutting down several large branches while Bud takes on the chore of cutting them into smaller pieces for kindling or compost.
After that, they scrape and re-paint the front porch, Ed doing all the parts that involve climbing on a ladder.
The evenings are spent talking politics, but ... the communist threat seems so remote and far away now that he's out of LA. Both Bud and Lynn laugh knowingly at his stories about the frustrations of having the Feds stick their nose into several ongoing investigations. (He doesn't tell them about some of the steps he took to throw them off so that his detectives could actually get work done.)
"I'm so glad you're here, " Lynn whispers to him on Saturday afternoon as Bud gets up to flip the steaks on the grill. "I haven't seen Bud this happy in ... ever."
"You two look content to me." Ed smiles in her direction and plays with the sprig of mint in his iced tea.
Lynn grins back at him. "We're content, but now, with you here, it's better." She shifts on the sofa, her skirt riding up another inch, and once upon a time, Ed would've chalked that up to putting on a display for his benefit, but here? Now? He's not quite sure what to make of it. Is she trying to tell him something, or is she simply so comfortable with him that she neither cares nor notices?
Bud's eyes gleam in appreciation of seeing a bit more of Lynn's legs when he returns, but he says nothing, and even shares a conspiratorial smile when he catches Ed sneaking another look.
***
Bud and Lynn either don't realize how loud they are or the walls of this house are made of tissue paper.
The little voice in the back of his head tells Ed that he should give them their privacy and get up and go sleep on the couch in the living room.
Instead he takes his aching self in hand and imagines himself in there with them.
He comes so hard that he can't even muster the energy to feel guilty.
***
Lynn's Tuesday nights are reserved for Bunko with the girls, so it's just him and Bud, and Ed decides he'll make dinner, even though it's a little late and they're both tired from a day spent playing tourist over in Tombstone.
At first Bud smirks at him, but Ed openly gloats as the smell of roasting chicken fills the house and Bud practically drools. He pulls the bird out to rest and tells Bud to mash the potatoes as he heads to the bathroom to wash his hands and freshen up.
"I have to say that's one good looking bird," Bud says when he comes back into the kitchen.
"I do eat my own cooking, Bud," he replies, hanging the apron (which says "kiss the cook") on a peg next to the pantry. He examines the spice rack and, not seeing what he wants, says, "Hey Bud, do you like a little parsley in the potatoes? I do and --"
Bud's right there and he's pinning Ed to the Frigidaire with a kiss.
"Lynn --" Ed gasps when Bud finally comes up for air.
"Whose idea do you think this is?"
Ed feels his mouth open and close a few times as he flounders for words.
Bud smiles crookedly and laughter dances in his eyes. "She gave me my marching orders and then let me know that after Bunko's over she might even go close down the lounge at the Copper Queen."
"Oh," Ed says, voice tiny and squeaky.
***
They leave a trail of clothes all the way to the bedroom.
***
Ed's not a virgin, not by any means. His good looks and money, and now the medals and commendations mean that he's never gone very long without.
(Hell, on one particularly memorable occasion, he even fucked Lynn.)
It's just that it's never been like this before.
And he's not talking about the mutual whisker burn, or the novelty of grappling with a body that's somewhat larger and stronger than his own.
He's never wanted it this badly before.
(Not even with Lynn.)
And that new found bit of knowledge is as thrilling as it is surprisingly not scary.
In fact, as Bud whispers something against his collarbone, Ed feels more sure about this than he's felt about anything since it first dawned on him to come here.
***
Round one was all about mutual need. Bud wrestled his way on top as they frantically ground away at each other. Raw. Like dogs in heat.
Round two is all about refinement, discovery, and savoring the moments.
So, after they catch their breath and wipe off with the sheet, Ed rolls them over, pressing Bud back into that narrow mattress -- he's amazed that a daybed can contain the both of them -- and straddles him, saying, "Let me."
And Bud does.
When Ed's hands and lips reach the worst of the mangled and twisted scars on Bud's hip and flank -- Bud's eternal badge of courage -- he asks, "It aches right now, doesn't it?"
Bud chortles, low and throaty. "Every minute of every damn day."
"How bad?" Ed asks, gently kneading at it, causing Bud to hiss softly as his eyes glaze with relief.
"God, just a little harder, Ed," he whispers before saying, "It's about a seven when I get up most mornings, but I start moving and it drops to about a two or a three, something I can live with.
"Winter's the worst though, especially on days when it's cold and wet. Never gets below a five, even with a hot water bottle and a stomach full of aspirin."
Ed digs his fingers in and Bud's answering groan comes from deep within his chest. "You should come back to LA, then. Lynn, too." He sucks a long wet line down the crest of Bud's other hip.
Bud shakes with silent laughter. "Not a fucking chance, Ed. I am done with the City of Angels. I keep mentioning Florida to Lynn, but she loves this place for some reason, so here I'll stay." He hooks a hand under Ed's arm and pulls him up for a long, slow kiss.
"I am going to make you forget all about your aches and pains," Ed whispers against his lips.
Bud smiles. "Really now. How's that?"
Ed smirks down at him and says, "Just you lie back and see." He scoots down the length of Bud's body, and takes Bud's cock into his mouth as deeply as he dares as he uses his other hand to knead at the mass of scar tissue, and Bud's "Jesus, Ed ...." comes from the depth of his soul, as do the rest of the positively unearthly noises he makes as Ed sucks him off.
Bud comes in three hot bitter-salt pulses, and Ed's scarcely done wiping at his mouth when he sees that Bud's out like a light.
Ed pulls the covers up and studies him for a long moment, waiting for that tiny voice to start nattering away again in his head, but it doesn't start up, and Ed feels ... content as he turns off the lamp and tip toes down the hall, gathering their scattered clothes up and setting them neatly on the dining table as he makes his way into the kitchen.
He's just tucked the untouched chicken and potatoes into the fridge when Lynn comes in.
The words stick in his throat as he stands there, buck naked, because ... this is exactly what it looks like, and it's one thing for Bud to say that Lynn gave this her blessing and quite another for her to come face to face with Ed's kiss (and cock) swollen lips and his whisker burned, behickeyed neck.
But Lynn's smile goes all the way to her eyes. "How is he?" she whispers, her gaze drinking Ed in.
"Sleeping," Ed replies a little sheepishly.
Her eyes glint. "He'll be out the rest of the night, then."
"Yeah, that's what I figured. I was going to get my shorts on and grab some blankets for the couch."
She fetches sheets and blankets from the closet, making up the couch as slips his boxers and undershirt on. Silently she presses him back into the cushions, shushing him with a finger as she frees him then straddles him, and they rock long and slow and sweet together.
It's good.
But Lynn was right all those years ago, Ed thinks. Fucking her is not the same as fucking Bud.
She kisses him feather-soft when it's done, smoothing back a sweat damp lock of his hair, and he means to ask her something, but can't quite remember what, and watches as she turns out the kitchen light, picks up her shoes and panties and pads silently down the hall.
***
The next evening, after dinner they both take him down the hall, and in the big bed all of the pieces finally come together.
***
Both the Chief of Police and the Mayor plead for him to stay, beg him not to throw his career away, but it's all so much white noise to Ed.
He gives two weeks notice, puts in the good word for Kleckner and Fisk (both of them now actively jockeying for rank) and finds a Realtor to put his house on the market, furnishings included.
Taking out his favorite pen, he pulls another sheet of cream colored paper out of the desk and jots down notes about a new plan of action. They're going to need a bigger house for starters. Preferably something with two master bedrooms, definitely something with two bathrooms. Finding a house like that, or building a house like that will be a fine project for him and Bud to team up on.
And after that? Well, Cochise County does have a Sheriff, and Deputy Exley and then Sheriff Exley has a nice ring to it.
Who knows, maybe he'll drag Bud back into working with him.
Cochise County and Bisbee are no Los Angeles, but Ed's sure that they'll find enough opportunities for them to mete out their brand of absolute justice.