Work Text:
December 31, 1998
"Ray."
Meteorologists are saying it could be the worst winter storm since the Blizzard of '67, which dropped nearly two feet of snow in just 29 hours and—
"Ray."
Forget '67, Bob—
"Ray!"
Easy for you to say, you weren't here. Let me tell you—
"No!" Ray smacked at the radio until he managed to switch it off. He was sick of people telling him about the storm, the storm, no one would shut up about the stupid storm. The snow had started up a few minutes ago and Ray wanted to get home before it really got going. He had a whole week off, seven glorious days, and he just knew he was going to end up stopping at every Jewel between the precinct and his place to find a loaf of bread and a couple six-packs to see him through.
"No?"
"Huh?" Ray blinked at Fraser, who had materialized on the other side of his desk with a gleam in his eye that did not bode well. That particular look meant Ray was going to end up with a black eye and a hard-on, and nothing but paperwork to show for it. "Oh no," he groaned, flipping his hood up and tugging on it with both hands so it covered his eyes. "What is it, Fraser?"
Ray knew knew knew what Fraser was not going to say. He was not going to say, Ray, let's talk about the other night. Which was fine, kind of, because it's not like Ray was dying to discuss it. He was dying to do it again, though, but Fraser was also not going to say, Ray, let's make out.
"I know you have a full week of vacation coming up, and I wouldn't want to intrude if you already have plans..." He trailed off in the way that said but if you're not otherwise occupied then I'd like to endanger your life in a wildly bizarre way and Ray would be back to black eyes and boners.
"Yeah, I got plans," he said, peering out from under his hoodie. "Me and Turtle, we're gonna get in some quality time."
A few seconds of silence. "I see."
"I mean, my plan is to do nothing. Relax." Seeing as how he didn't know if he could relax around Fraser ever again, he figured he'd try a Fraser-free week. Maybe a little Ray-time would do him some good, give him a chance to screw his head on the right way up. It had been on sideways for almost a week, since the Christmas party.
It had been a good night, a great one, spiked punch and presents and Fraser'd even let him wear the Stetson. In front of the consulate, Ray had thought Fraser was going to take his hat back but he hadn't, he'd settled it more firmly on Ray's head, and then he'd stood there staring at Ray with this little smile on his face, like he was happy, and like he thought Ray was great, so great, the fucking greatest. And Ray, who knew he was great but also knew he really sucked sometimes, hadn't been looked at like that in forever, and it was Fraser! Who obviously was the greatest.
"You're so great, Frase," he'd said, and Fraser's soft smile got bigger. His eyes crinkled at the corners.
"Thank you, Ray. You're—"
And Ray had laid one on him. Big and open-mouthed and maybe a little bit sloppy, and if he'd planned out how he might kiss Fraser the first time, it would have been the opposite of that. Fraser's lip wouldn't have been busted, for one thing, but also the kiss would have been slow, careful. It would have had like five miles of leadup, it would have given the guy every chance to see it coming and turn his head so they could act like it was a friendly cheek kiss, just another thing buddies do, standard procedure.
But none of that happened. Ray wasn't slow or careful, and Fraser didn't care. The hat had gone rolling down the sidewalk as Fraser had moved at the same time Ray had and kissed him back, his mouth just as open and hungry as Ray's. Ray pressed closer, his hands burrowing under Fraser's peacoat to clutch at his sides, and he managed to form about three-quarters of a thought involving duets and finally, after time and bullshit and mixed signals and false starts, finally being on the same page and how incredible that felt.
And then Fraser had pulled away and put Ray in a cab home and they had not discussed it since. It was like it had never happened, and it was stressing Ray out. He'd chewed through an entire box of toothpicks in a week. At the very least, they should have a "more kissing: yes or no" conversation.
First Ray had tried meaningful glances, like Frannie was always talking about, heavy ones weighted down with desire. But Fraser was barely even looking at Ray, and he definitely wasn't doing it in a meaningful or desireful fashion, and then Huey started asking Ray if he had food poisoning. So that was a bust.
He'd tried words a few times after that, but he'd gotten the politest and most Canadian brushoff he could imagine. One night he'd invited Fraser over to his place, like maybe Frase just didn't want to talk about it at work—fair—but again with the brushoff, and Ray could take a hint. Vacation it would be.
"You know what vacation is, Fraser?" He was convinced the answer was no. He shoved another toothpick in his mouth. "Let's see. You gotta week off, too, what're you gonna do?"
"That's what I'd hoped to discuss, Ray. Seeing as how a sustained blizzard is a near certainty over the next few days and I'm almost uniquely equipped for search-and-rescue operations—"
"Constable!" Welsh barked from his office door, saving Ray from the rest of that ominous sentence. It had sounded like it was going to end in a black eye and frostbite, two great tastes that Ray didn't really want to try tasting together, hard-on or no. "Vecchio, you too. In my office. We got a body. A Canadian one."
*
"You heard of this guy, Fraser?"
They were driving to the crime scene, something they were going to be doing for the rest of their natural lives, and probably well into their afterlives. The place was so far on the outskirts of the city it might as well be in the suburbs. It was the tail end of rush hour. It was New Year's Eve, so every jagoff from the collar counties was in town looking to party. It was snowing, and it wasn't going to stop. Every minute that went by, Ray's vacation got a few hours shorter.
"Of course, Ray. Morris Berman is— was most often referred to as 'Big Moe,' the Sausage King of Toronto. He was quite well-known in certain circles, and it was his ancestors who built the abattoir that—"
"Okay, whoa. So this Sausage King, he's— what?" Ray didn't really need to hear the whole sordid history of this Abattoir place. In the back, Dief perked up at the mention of sausage. "Some kind of big-time pimp?"
Fraser frowned. "Not so far as I'm aware."
"What's his deal, then?"
"As far as I know, Ray, he's just a businessman."
"But in the, uh, the sausage business." Dief's ears twitched.
"Yes."
"Porn?"
"Sausages."
Dief let out a little yip.
"Right." Ray didn't know what kind of dick business this guy could be in that wasn't hookers or porn. Maybe those giant rubber jobbers? "Is it like, you know, I heard some guys are having their, uh... if they got equipment that's bigger than normal, they think maybe they can shop it around." Jesus, he needed to stop talking. No way was he going to survive a conversation with Fraser about giant dildos.
But Fraser said, "I had no idea you were so knowledgeable about meatpacking equipment," and Ray almost plowed the Goat into a bus. He swerved at the last second and fishtailed his way into an alley, where the car stalled out and slid to a stop about half an inch from a dumpster.
"Is everything all right, Ray?"
It took Ray about a half-second to think through what would happen if he said, No, and you cannot be talking about meatpacking equipment while I'm driving or I'm going to kiss you again and kill us all, which was a real smooth sentence, so instead he said, "No, yeah, I just thought I saw a rabbit. On the bus."
Fraser looked over his shoulder and watched as the bus trundled across Austin. "Don't be ridiculous," he muttered under his breath. "What else would we be talking about?" He looked at Ray. "And why would a rabbit be riding the bus?"
"Cold, probably." Ray got the car started and looked at Dief in the mirror. "Cold night, long way from home, you'd get on a bus, right, Dief?"
Dief snuffled in agreement.
"See, Fraser? It's just sensible." Way more sensible than accidentally talking to Fraser talking about meatpacking, anyway.
*
Way more sensible than the house, too, which was a giant mansion absolutely lousy with sausages. There were neat pyramids of them on every horizontal surface. There were bay windows full of those sausage ropes, hanging there like meat curtains. The walls were covered with Vienna Beef posters showing Godzilla-sized hot dogs menacing the Loop from all directions. There were hot dog statues in half the corners, with hideous human faces and giant hands.
It was really not the kind of sausage fest Ray had been expecting.
"I thought you said this guy was into sausages," Ray said, trying hard to emphasize the more euphemistic qualities of the word without making air quotes or moving his hips.
"Yes, Ray. Encased meat. You see, sausage is made by comminuting a regulated percentage of skeletal meat from—"
"Stop right there, Fraser, there are things man was not meant to know, and how the sausage is made is one of those things."
"Oh, Ray, I have to disagree. Knowing how to make sausage saved my life on at least one occasion. There was one dark winter—"
"Fine, then there are things that this man in particular was not meant to know. And here's another one. Why is that hot dog wearing a wig?" He pointed to the statue in the corner, a four-foot dog with giant lips, its skinny arms flung out in a Stayin' Alive disco pose.
"An excellent question."
"I swear to god, Fraser, everything I look at in this place makes another hinge come loose." He dropped his voice to a whisper and leaned in close. "You can see that thing, though, right?"
"I can, yes."
"Good. If I start hallucinating dancing hot dogs, we got bigger problems than bodies."
The body was like the fourth most messed-up thing in the dining room, so Ray hadn't gotten around to looking at it yet. But there it was, Big Moe Berman, shot twice as he stood at the head of the table like it was a hot dog stand. All the fixings had been laid out; there was a stainless steel pan full of dogs, and tubs of onions, relish, the works. The bag of poppyseed buns was open and there was a little steam tray set up for them.
All of it was covered in blood, too, but that didn't stop Diefenbaker from being interested. He inched closer and closer to the hot dogs before getting distracted by his disapproval of all things green and baring his teeth at the relish. And Fraser—
"No!" Ray yelled, but it was too late. "Fraser, how many times have I told you not to lick the evidence? Ugh."
"Interesting," Fraser said.
"Interesting. Interesting?!" Maybe the meat fumes were getting to him. "Do not tell me you can tell his blood type or something just by— ugh, god, I cannot believe you did that. It's, it's gross! And it's—"
"It's just ketchup, Ray."
"Ketchup?" That brought him up short. "Is it all ketchup?" He gestured at the more ketchupy looking splotches, and Fraser nodded. "What kinda jagoff puts ketchup on a hot dog? No wonder somebody popped him."
Fraser managed to radiate disapproval without changing the expression on his face. "A man's choice of condiments should hardly condemn him to death, Ray."
"You'd think that, Fraser, but you are in Chicago and those are hot dogs. No ketchup." Fraser looked unconvinced. "Dief, tell him."
Dief barked affirmatively.
*
Fraser and Dief stayed in the dining room to sniff the evidence, and if they were going to taste it some more Ray did not want to know about it. He didn't want to spend a second longer than necessary with the body, so he went to talk to the witnesses in the drawing room.
Who the hell had a drawing room? Abe Froman, Sausage King of Chicago, that's who. It was his house, and he'd been having some sort of encased meats celebration for New Year's. Big Moe was down from Toronto as a special guest. He'd been working on a new hot dog formula, and he'd brought the meat down special to try out.
But then he'd reached for the ketchup, and everything went to shit. Everyone had started yelling, at least two people lunged for the ketchup bottle, and then the power went out. A few seconds later, Big Moe was dead, the backup generators had kicked on, and the gun was nowhere to be seen.
Froman, a dapper old guy in a suit way too normal to belong to the same person in charge of decor, was on one side of the giant room. He was glaring at his party guests, who'd gathered at the other end and were trying real hard to look innocent.
"Okay," Ray said. "Let's start with your names. Mr. Froman, you're good. Everyone else?"
They all talked at the same time: "Jimmy."
"All of you?"
A hand went up. The youngest-looking guest was a guy in glasses and a black sweatshirt that just said MEAT. "My name's Doug?"
"You don't sound real sure about that," Ray said.
"That's cuz we call him Jimmy," said someone whose name was also Jimmy.
"Shut up, Jimmy," said Doug-Jimmy, middle fingers up. "You do not!"
"All right, all right," Ray said. "Everyone's named Jimmy, that's. That's great. That's just great." He wrote JIMMY in his notebook. "And that guy in there, who is not named Jimmy, gets shot twice, right in front of you, in the middle of a ketchup brawl, blam blam, and no one sees anything?"
The Jimmys exchanged shifty glances. "We told you, it was dark."
"Right." Ray looked at his notebook in despair. JIMMY. "You're seriously all named Jimmy? Even you?" He pointed at the woman on the far end of one of the couches, a stocky lady with close-cropped gray hair and thick glasses. She was wearing jeans and a mustard yellow t-shirt that said HOT DIGGITY on it.
She crossed her arms and glared at him. "I'm Missus Jimmy."
Ray stared at her for a few seconds and then yelled, "Fraser!!"
The wall next to the fireplace swung open and Fraser stepped into the room.
"You called, Ray?"
Great. A meat palace full of secret passages and people named Jimmy. "Oh, it ain't that bad," said— someone. From somewhere. Ray looked around, but it was sausages and status quo all the way down: the Jimmys looked shifty, Froman looked pissed, the uniform at the door looked like she wanted to go home, and Fraser looked Canadian.
Ray stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it around. "Yeah. Can I talk to you a sec?" He stepped through the wall-door and found himself in a long bare hallway with a few mismatched light fixtures and a bunch of doors. On the plus side, there wasn't any encased meat to be seen.
Fraser pulled the wall-door shut and stood close enough for Ray to notice he smelled like hot dogs, but way better. "What is it, Ray?"
"You know all those people in there are named Jimmy?"
"Surely not. Mr. Froman—"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever." He was probably James Abraham Froman. Ray didn't want to think about it. "Did you find anything helpful? Coroner's on the way, should be here by ten."
"Yes, Diefenbaker found a gun in the relish. I assume it's the murder weapon." He held up an evidence bag full of neon green goop gumming up a Glock. "I'm afraid there must have been some sort of chemical reaction with the pickles, though I'm not sure I entirely understand."
"What are you talking about?"
"This color, Ray. It's unnatural."
"Nah, that's what color relish is supposed to be. You been in Chicago how long, and I still gotta tell you about ketchup and relish?"
"Diefenbaker is the hot dog aficionado. I'm afraid I find the emulsification process a bit unpalatable."
Ray ran that through his head a few times. "Fraser, wait a minute. Are you telling me you don't like hot dogs?"
"Not at all, Ray. Only that I find other meat-preparation techniques to be preferable."
"Uh-huh." Ray actually wanted to hear more, because who didn't like hot dogs? But this was not the time. They were on a case, and Fraser smelled good, and Ray was trying hard to be professional. "I would love to hear all about how you like your meat, but we gotta get back in there and talk to the Jimmys." He looked around. "Where's Dief, anyway?"
"Guarding the body until the coroner arrives."
"You left him in there with the meat?"
"He's very responsible when it comes to murder investigations, Ray."
*
Back in the drawing room, Ray held up the evidence bag by one corner. "Anyone missing a Glock?"
"Motherfucker!" This from a guy with bad dye job wearing a hot dog-patterned Hawaiian shirt. As he launched himself off the only piece of comfortable furniture in the room, Ray realized he knew exactly who it was: Jimmy No-Nose Durantie. He was pretty high up in the Chicago mob, maybe even the highest up, depending on who you asked. Ray's night was just getting better and better.
"Hold it right there, sir," Ray said. "I take it this is yours?"
The guy stopped and held his hands up, like he was thinking about coming in peace but wasn't totally sold on the idea. He shuffled closer to get a look at the gun and pasted on a smarmy grin. "How the fuck should I know? The relish is obscuring any identifying marks."
"Sir," Fraser said, "do you have a license for your weapon? Perhaps we could check the serial number."
No-Nose pulled a face. "License? Serial number? Is he kidding?"
"No, sir. I—"
"He's Canadian," Ray cut in, moving everyone right along. It was only a week since last time Fraser tangled with the mob, and that hadn't gone great.
No-Nose thumped Ray's badge. "But you, Detective, you know that speaking hypothetically, if I ever got fed up with somebody, maybe didn't like him much, I might hypothetically mention it to a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy, then maybe that somebody I don't like ends up getting whacked and it's a lucky break for me but a real shame for his family." He put his hands over his heart and tried to look sad.
"Uh-huh."
"Anyways, and still being real hypothetical, Abe don't like when I carry in here so I woulda left my piece in the car. If that's it"—he pointed—"I ain't got nothing to do with it."
Ray snapped his fingers at the rookie in the doorway, trying to get her attention. It took a while. "Hey. Hey officer, what's your name?"
"Me?" She pointed at herself and looked around at the zero other officers in the room. "Deen."
"Lemme guess. Jimmy Deen?"
She beamed at him. "Yeah! Most people don't pick 'Jimmy' for a girl's name."
"Well, I'm very enlightened," said Ray. "Please take Mr. Durantie here and see if the gun's still in his car."
*
Abe Froman, Sausage King of Chicago, had an office befitting his title, which is to say it was covered in meat-themed decor but was also understated. Or maybe it just seemed that way to Ray, who'd been half expecting giant animatronic hot dogs to pop out of the wall singing some Sinatra.
Jimmy Buffet ("like all-you-can-eat"), six-foot-six and skinny enough to hide behind a susage rope if he turned sideways, paced in panicky circles around the edge of the rug. He was avoiding the big Chicago-style dog in the middle, like he thought stepping on it would be disrespectful. Hell, maybe it would. Ray had thought he knew from hot dogs, but he was really starting to wonder.
"So you think," Ray said, again, because he wanted to be sure he had this right, "that Jimmy No-Nose found out about a deal you brokered to cut him out of distribution, and so he killed Big Moe."
"Yeah."
"And next he's gonna kill you, Doug Jimmy, Missus Jimmy, Mister Jimmy, who is not married to Missus Jimmy—"
"He's totally married to Missus Jimmy, just not the one downstairs."
"—and Jimmy Haffa."
Jimmy Buffet snapped and went straight into fingerguns. "And Jimmy Haffa."
"I was under the impression Jimmy Hoffa was already dead, Ray," said Fraser, materializing through another secret door-wall, Dief on his heels.
"Haffa with an A," said Buffet with one T. "But if you say the other guy's name kinda nasally, they sound the same." He tried to demonstrate, Haaaffa.
"Ah." Fraser thought about that. "I see, the Northern Cities Vowel Shift. Right you are. Ray, might I speak with you in here?" He pointed at the secret passage.
"Sure, I think we're done for now. Jimmy, go back downstairs with the other Jimmys, would you? Diefenbaker can take you."
*
In the secret passage, Fraser stood too close again and said he'd been familiarizing himself with the passageways through the house. Officer Deen had come back and reported that yes, the gun was missing. One crime scene tech had managed to show up and take pictures, which took forever, and the coroner had come and gone with the body. Ray was glad to hear that, because they were about 20 minutes away from being officially snowed in. Snowed in sucked, but snowed in with a body was way, way worse.
He started down the secret hallway, checking the doors to see what rooms he could get into. First was a library, which probably contained books like Obscure Meat Encasement Techniques of the Thirteenth Century and other riveting reads. He shut the door and went to the next one.
"So we're going to be stuck in the madhouse of meat for at least three days with a wolf, a murderer, and a bunch of people named Jimmy."
"And me," someone whispered in his ear. Ray almost jumped out of his skin, but the only person around was Fraser. Fraser was close, but he wasn't ear-whispering close, and it hadn't really sounded like Fraser anyway.
"There's a much higher than average chance that the murderer in this case is also named Jimmy," Fraser pointed out, very helpfully.
"What?" Ray turned in a circle, but it was just him and Fraser. He opened the next door—pool table, wet bar, hot dog sculptures—but there was no one in there, either. "Oh. Yeah. Yeah, good point."
"Are you all right, Ray? What are you looking for?"
"Nothing, no one, nada, just— No-Nose. You think it was No-Nose? They were gonna cut him out of some deal so it sounds like he's got motive but he's also right, he's got guys for that."
"That's true, but 'I've got guys for that' is not an especially strong alibi. Did he say anything useful when you spoke to him?"
No-Nose was an old hand at talking to cops, so no, his interview hadn't been useful at all. He'd mostly ranted about the fucking ketchup. Doug Jimmy thought the ketchup was fine if its flavor profile was taken into account during the spicing and smoking processes. He'd rhapsodized about encased meats until Ray had wanted to encase his head in some concrete.
Fraser, looking nearly as rhapsodical, said, "I wonder if he's had the chance to try kiviaq. It's really fascinating, Ray. The Inuit of Greenland take auks, which are a type of seabird, and sew them into a sealskin, and—"
"Gross," said the voice.
"Shut up," Ray said under his breath, still not sure where the voice was coming from.
Fraser stopped talking. "Quite right, Ray. It's not important. It is a delicacy, however."
Ray opened the next door—art gallery, maybe? Fancy overhead lights came on, and there were a couple benches in front of giant vintage hot dog advertisements. The one directly across from the door said TENDERATED WIENERS. Ray considered asking Fraser the difference between 'tenderated' and 'tenderized' and slammed the door. Fast.
"Sorry, Fraser. I didn't mean... you know, I bet Doug Jimmy would be real excited to talk to you about kivisealiak later. Mister Jimmy, too."
Mister Jimmy ran Vienna Beef and was absolutely dead set against ketchup on hot dogs ("it'd get me shot"), but it could be all right on other types of sausage. He kept shaking his head and calling things 'bun-believable,' and then he'd started lecturing Ray about the difference between hot dogs, sausages, weiners, and franks.
"I thought he might have motive, if Big Moe's special hot dog formula could be a competitor, but if it turned out good then Vienna Beef was just gonna distribute it down here, like a Canadian wiener special." Ray heard that come out of his mouth and winced, for once glad he was not looking at Fraser.
Next up had been Froman, who was against ketchup, against ketchup brawls, and mostly against ComEd: it hadn't even been a real storm yet when the power had blown, what kind of service was that? At least he'd had the upgraded generators installed—
"Wait," Fraser said, stopping Ray with a hand on his shoulder and spinning him back around. "The power outage! We need to call Francesca."
"He's not who you think," said the voice again.
"Who, Fraser?" This time when he looked around, Ray caught a flash of bright yellow out of the corner of his eye, but it was gone too quickly for him to figure out what it was.
Fraser looked back toward the office. "Francesca. Mr. Froman is right about the power outage. It was much too early for it to have been caused by the storm. And there were no other outages in the neighborhood when we arrived."
"What?"
Fraser stopped walking, his hand on the doorknob. "Ray, are you all right?" He looked concerned.
Ray figured he should probably tell Fraser if he was hearing things or losing his mind, but he wasn't sure he was. Sure, things with him and Fraser were a little weird on account of the kissing, and on account of how Ray really wanted to do it again but was trying hard not to pressure the guy, and probably all his trying to be normal was actually making things weird. But weird wasn't crazy, and Ray didn't feel any crazier than usual. He was in a crazy-making house, though, so maybe he was losing it and hadn't noticed yet. Or maybe someone was just fucking with him, talking from behind one of the zillion secret doors or hiding in a hot dog statue.
"Do I seem all right?" He opened a door on the other side of the hall and looked inside. It was full of giant inflatable hot dogs in various stages of inflation. It was like a nightmare. "Jesus."
"A bit preoccupied. Is there something on your mind? Perhaps... something you'd like to discuss?"
"I can still focus here, Frase," Ray said. "The job's getting done, right? I'm not totally fucking up?"
"No, Ray. Of course not."
"And you'll tell me, if my marbles start leaking all over the place?"
"If I see any of your marbles lying around, I'll be sure to let you know."
*
Back in Froman's office, Fraser got on the horn with Frannie to confirm with ComEd that there hadn't been an outage, and then he took off into the storm to see if the house's service had been sabotaged. He handed Ray the phone as he left; Frannie was mid-sentence.
"—give you the runoff and get outta here. If I get stuck in the precinct on New Year's Eve because you caught a frankencase, Ma's gonna be pissed."
Mostly the Jimmys didn't have records, she said. A few speeding tickets, nothing major. No-Nose had a record, of course, but also of course it was all petty shit from the 70s. He'd never been busted for anything more serious than receiving some stolen goods. Not so much as a weapons charge in sight.
In other of-course news, Haffa was a Teamster, and like any good Teamster he had some old charges about disturbing the peace that didn't amount to much. Vienna Beef's Mister Jimmy was squeaky clean. Missus Jimmy, owner of Weiner Takes All, had written a few bad checks in the 80s, and in '92 she broke a guy's nose with a jumbo foot-long. Ray assumed the guy had asked her for ketchup.
Most interesting was Jimmy Buffet, who'd recently killed his business partner, Jimmy Payge, in a fight. They owned Meaty Dogz, and the story was that Payge had bought a box of ketchup packets to give to kids for their fries. Buffet had freaked out and punched him, and Payge had slipped on some pickle juice and hit his head. He'd died a few days later, but it had been ruled an accident and the case had been closed.
"Lies," said the damn voice again, startling Ray into dropping the phone.
"Frannie, I'll call you back," he yelled in the direction of the phone before banging it back onto the cradle. "What the fuck," he said to the empty room and/or the voice. He simultaneously felt crazy and like he was absolutely not making it up.
"Fuck yourself," said Missus Jimmy, letting herself in. She marched across the hot dog on the rug with no problem and dropped into one of the wingbacks in front of the desk.
Right. Right, the next witness interview. Ray definitely had a handle on this, no problem.
"Ask her about me," said the voice. Ray was ready for it this time, turning quickly. He managed to catch another glimpse of yellow maybe about six feet up, maybe a hat? But the only thing behind him was a big window with a bunch of Vienna Beef Hall of Fame trophies lined up on the sill.
"Who are you?" Ray demanded.
"I told you already. I'm Missus Jimmy Schoos."
"Not you," Ray said, turning back around to look at her. "Wait, no. Yes. You." Doing a bang-up job so far, Ray, good work. He rubbed at his eyes, and when he stopped there was a guy standing beside him. He had on a bright yellow ballcap that said MEATY DOGZ on it, over a cartoony drawing of an especially phallic hot dog.
Ray blinked. The guy pointed to his hat, to Missus Jimmy, back to the hat.
Missus Jimmy said, "Great, the cops sent the fucking loony tunes."
She hadn't looked at the new guy who'd poofed into existence, she hadn't jumped when he showed up, and she hadn't reacted to his voice. Ray tried to think about what Fraser would do in this situation, and decided he'd probably just go with it. He'd act like everything was totally normal. He'd act like he was totally normal. Ray could do that. The guy was still pointing to his hat, so Ray asked MIssus Jimmy, "You know the Meaty Dogz guys?"
"Jimmy? He's downstairs." She was talking real slow, the way people talked to kids or dummies or sometimes Canadians.
Ray shook his head. "No, the other Jimmy. Jimmy Payge, his former partner."
"Oh. Yeah, him I liked. What about him?"
That was a good question. Ray raised his eyebrows at the guy next to him. "Ketchup," the guy said. "Ask her about the ketchup."
"What about the ketchup?" Shit, shit, shit. He had to stop talking out loud to this ghost guy. That was not normal. "I mean—"
"Yeah, the ketchup. That was weird," Missus Jimmy said, nodding. "What was the story, he brought in some ketchup for the fries and Jimmy punched him?" She shook her head. "Nah. No way."
"THANK YOU," the guy yelled. Ray twitched.
Ray was about to agree that ketchup was a shitty reason to punch a guy, but no, that wasn't the issue.
"He never woulda taken ketchup into that place, not in a million years," she said. "I known him his whole life. Grew up down the street, worked at my stand till he could open his own. Not happening."
"FUCK JIMMY, THAT FUCKING SLANDERER!"
Ray rubbed at his ear and tried to gesture discreetly for this guy to simmer down.
"So you don't think it was an accident," Ray said, his gestures at the ghost getting less and less discreet. At this point, he was pretty sure it was Dead Jimmy, so Ray got why he was pissed, but he would really appreciate a good inside voice.
"Nope. I think Jimmy wanted sole ownership, and now he's got it."
"FUCKIN' RIGHT," yelled Dead Jimmy.
"But what's this gotta do with Big Moe?" she asked.
That's what Ray wanted to know, too. He looked over at Dead Jimmy, who shrugged. "Hey, I can't do everything."
At least he'd stopped shouting.
*
"Okay, now what the fuck?" Ray said, shutting the office door behind Missus Jimmy and looking at the ghost. If Dead Jimmy was going to be haunting people, he really had to work on his timing.
"Oh hey," the guy said. "I'm Jimmy."
"Yeah, you and everyone else."
"Sorry to freak you out like that, man, I'm new to this whole, this whole ghost thing. I didn't know if I should be going for like an old-school haunting, maybe try to make scary noises, but that's not really my style. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand to shake.
Ray dug in his pockets for a new toothpick and chomped down, staring at Jimmy's outstretched hand. "This gonna work?"
Jimmy shrugged. "Worth a shot."
It didn't work. Their hands passed right through each other. Ray thought it would be cold or shivery or make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, but no, not even a few lousy goosebumps. All very normal. "Okay, good to meet you, Jimmy. What do you want?"
"My name cleared! What d'you think I've been trying to tell you?"
Ray frowned. "But.... what do you mean, cleared? You weren't accused of a crime."
Jimmy reared back, clearly affronted. "I got accused of taking ketchup into Meaty Dogz! If that's not a fucking crime—"
"Okay, okay." Ray put his hands up in surrender. He'd sooner put pemmican on a pizza than put ketchup on a hot dog, but he figured that was down to personal choice, not anything to do with him being a law-abiding citizen. "I'm just saying, even if you were guilty, it's not like I could book you for crimes against tube steak."
"But you can book that lying asshole for murder!"
"Not without some actual evidence."
Dead Jimmy scratched his cheek and looked at the empty space next to him. "I thought you said he could help me."
Ray slumped back down into Froman's chair with a groan. "Who are you talking to?" Not that he wanted to know. He most definitely did not want to know.
"No one, Ray," said Fraser, who was frozen in the doorway. He was rosy-cheeked and had snow in his hair. It was a good look, not that Ray was paying attention. "Who are you talking to?"
Jimmy was gone. "No one. Myself."
"You're hardly no one, Ray."
"Oh, thanks. Thanks for that. Find anything outside?"
The evidence bag Fraser presented him this time had some kind of Radio Shack-looking gizmo in it. Ray had no clue what it was supposed to be, but Fraser looked pretty pleased with himself, so it was probably good news. "We were right. The power was blown remotely," he said. "Which means the murder was premeditated. We just need to find the device that transmitted the signal."
"What do you think the chances are that the Jimmy who blew it still has the transmitter?"
"Well, I took the liberty of checking with the Jimmys before coming upstairs, and they're all in agreement that no one's stepped outside the house since Mr. Berman was killed."
"What about the windows?" Ray asked, spinning in the chair to look out the window behind him, not that he could see anything besides his own reflection. "I woulda tossed it, let the snow have it. No one'll find that thing till May, and by then it'll be too late to use as evidence."
"I checked on that, too," Fraser said, and Ray grinned because man, it was great to be on the same page as his partner. "Many of the windows don't open at all, particularly the larger ones on the first floor, and all the storm windows have been installed for the season. Additionally, the windows are locked and wired to the security system. It would have been virtually impossible for anyone other than Mr. Froman himself to throw something out the window while escaping the Jimmys' notice."
"And he wouldn't have needed to secretly sabotage his own power."
"Exactly."
"Okay," Ray said, starting to get excited, starting to see the end of this case, like maybe he could spend a couple days snowed into the hot dog mansion hanging out with Fraser and Dief and eating some sandwiches, instead of talking to ghosts about ketchup and telling himself how normal that was. "Okay, that's good. So the transmitter's maybe definitely in here somewhere. I bet Froman'll let us search the place."
Maybe while they did that, he could tell Fraser about the ghost. He'd been thinking about the best way to bring that up but so far he'd drawn a blank. So Frase, about my marbles...
"Did you learn anything more?" Fraser asked him.
"Maybe." Ray sat back down in Froman's chair and spun himself around in a circle. "I got no real evidence for this, but I think it was the tall Jimmy with the bad ponytail. Mr. All-You-Can-Eat." He told Fraser about the guy's history, the alleged ketchup fight. He did not tell Fraser that Dead Jimmy had been talking to him.
Fraser looked over his shoulder for a few seconds. "I think you may be right, Ray. So we find the transmission device, and try to tie it to Mr. Buffet."
"A motive would be good, too. I don't know if ketchup cuts the mustard."
Dead Jimmy put in enough of an appearance to make a rim-shot noise.
Fraser said, "I'm not sure it's possible to cut mustard, Ray."
Ray smacked his forehead into the desk. He had been in this house way, way too long.
*
Downstairs, the Jimmys had organized. Haffa was in charge. Ray really should have seen it coming. He was all set up to speechify in front of a big poster that said Please Lunch Responsibly: Use Condiments!
"I'm gonna be frank with you," Haffa said. "Our demands—"
"Are never ever gonna be met if you don't stop making hot dog jokes," Ray muttered. Next to him, Fraser seemed unaffected. Ray really needed to channel some of that, at least in certain circumstances.
"Our demands," Haffa said again, louder, as if Ray hadn't spoken, "are very reasonable, but if they're not met—"
"All right, all right, what?" Ray asked, rubbing the back of his head. He was tired, and it's not like they could strike. "What do you want?"
Haffa looked at the other Jimmys, who nodded encouragingly.
"We gotta eat, man. The murder fucked up our dinner."
Having listened carefully, Dief crossed to the other side of the room and sat down at Haffa's feet. Officer Deen was already over there.
"You are a traitor," Ray said to Dief, but the truth was, Ray was hungry, too. He hadn't eaten dinner and they'd been in a meat palace for hours now. It smelled infuriatingly delicious.
Fortunately, Froman's mansion had a staff kitchen, and Big Moe had brought enough hot dogs for everyone to have a couple, even accounting for a bunch of them being ruined by ketchup and/or murder. The Jimmys insisted on calling them Canadian wieners and also that eating the rest would be a fine tribute to Big Moe, so they grabbed condiments and steam trays and trooped up to the other kitchen. Doug Jimmy, who'd been to culinary school, was planning to cook, and the rest of the Jimmys were planning to watch.
The ketchup, Ray noticed, did not make the trip upstairs.
"Man, that looks good," said Dead Jimmy, who'd materialized to stand over Ray's shoulder and drool on his dinner. "No hot dogs has gotta be the worst part of being dead."
Ray thought being dead would be the worst part of being dead.
"You think so?" asked Dead Jimmy.
"Yeah, I think so," said Ray.
"I agree," said Fraser, who was sitting next to him and talking to Doug Jimmy about an encased meats emporium. Ray had tried to follow along for a few minutes but he'd been hungrier than he realized and the hot dog was great, plus there was a ghost to worry about. Oh, and one of these people was a murderer. Maybe two of these people. Actually, if he counted Jimmy No-Nose, three of these people. That was way too many murderous people to be dining with, but at least they'd moved on from ketchup and were now arguing about paprika.
Ray shoved the last bite of hot dog in his mouth. He really needed to figure out what the hell he was going to say to Fraser.
"If you say so," said Dead Jimmy. "He hasn't been a lot of help so far."
"What?" asked Ray. He'd been talking to Dead Jimmy, but Fraser's eyes widened and Ray had to redirect. "You agree with what, Fraser?" Ray thought Fraser had been agreeing with whatever Doug Jimmy had said.
"Ah. Well. With you, Ray. I agree with whatever you were saying."
"But I wasn't— Jesus, everything is so weird," Ray muttered. He hadn't said anything!
"I agree with that, too," said Fraser, and threw a dirty look over his own shoulder, which happened to be the exact same place Dead Jimmy was staring at while complaining about ketchup. Still.
"You need to move on," Ray said.
"I can't!" Jimmy yelled, but Ray's attention was caught by Fraser, who drew himself rigid in his chair and looked hurt.
"Well, I apologize, Ray. That isn't so easy for everyone."
"What?"
"Yeah," said Missus Jimmy, who'd tuned in from Ray's other side. "What are you two arguing about?"
"We're not arguing," Ray and Fraser snapped at the same time.
Missus Jimmy held her hands up, and then licked some stray mustard off one of her fingers. "Sure, whatever you say. How's the case going? Are we all gonna get murdered in our sleep because you two can't get your shit together?"
Ray shoved his chair away from the table and stood up. "Fraser, can I speak with you?" He gave all the Jimmys, alive and dead, a hard look. "Alone."
*
He and Fraser ducked through the first door they came across, which was a storage closet. Ray pulled the shoelace that served as the light switch and was about to spit out his ghost story when Fraser clasped his hands behind his back, stood up Mountie-straight, and launched into a speech.
"I really must to apologize to you, Ray." His blue eyes were fixed on a point about two inches to Ray's left. "You're quite right that things have been off between us, and I can't help but feel that it's my fault. You see, after the Christmas party—"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Nellie. The Christmas party? You want to talk about the Christmas party? Now??" Ray had tried to talk about the stupid Christmas party, and Fraser hadn't wanted to. And now, at the exact time Ray did not want to talk about the Christmas party because there were ghosts to discuss, Fraser brings it up. "At midnight in the middle of a case at the haunted hot dog hacienda? What the fuck?"
Fraser frowned. "But Ray, we've been in closer quarters tonight than we have been since the— the incident—"
"The 'incident'? You mean the kiss?"
Fraser closed his eyes for a few seconds, drooping, but then he pulled it together: dragged his thumb across his eyebrow, resumed his rigid Mountie pose. He still wasn't meeting Ray's eyes, though. "Yes, Ray. The kiss. And I couldn't help but notice that whenever we've been together tonight you've been acting quite odd, and on more than one occasion you hinted that you had something you wished to speak to me about. I assume you're angry that I took advantage of your inebriated state—"
"No!" Ray yelled. "Yes! My what?"
"Your inebriated state. ...Ray?"
"Oh my god, Fraser, I had one cup of punch!" He wanted to grab him by his stupid Sam Browne and shake some sense into him. Or maybe kiss it into him, if that was a thing. "Are you kidding me right now?"
"You're not angry that I kissed you?"
"I kissed you! And I'd do it again if you weren't so—" He stammered to a halt, his heart pounding. When had this turned into an argument about kissing? But here he was, staring at Fraser's mouth and yelling about kissing from two inches away. "So. I mean. If you wanted to. Do it again."
He managed to drag his eyes up to Fraser's, who was finally looking right at him, eyes wild, like he trying to beam YES YES YES directly into Ray's brain. He got through maybe a quarter of a head-nod before Ray pounced, got his mouth against Fraser's, hot and open and every bit as great as it was the first time. Maybe better, even, less sloppy, no questions, no uncertainty. It lasted longer, too, Fraser's body pressing him into the door, Fraser's hands all over him, Fraser's fingers in his hair, Fraser's breath in his lungs and Fraser kissing him back until all Ray could think was Fraser, Fraser, Fraser.
"Okay," he said, eventually, tearing his mouth away to rest his head on Fraser's shoulder, trying to catch his breath even though that was probably not ever going to happen again, not now he knew how Fraser tasted or how his breath hitched when—shit. Shit! "Okay, okay. See, that is what I mean by buddies, Fraser. That is extremely great buddies."
Fraser's laugh huffed against his ear.
"You gotta go stand over there, though, or we are never getting outta here and I'm gonna embarrass myself in front of all those Jimmys."
"Right you are, Ray," but it took Fraser a while to move, and Ray wasn't sure the eight inches were going to do them much good. But Fraser took a deep breath and straightened his tunic and said, "You did seem like you had something you wanted to talk to me about, though. If it wasn't this, what was it?"
Now or never. "Do you believe in ghosts, Frase?"
*
Back in the staff kitchen, the Jimmys were fighting about who had to clean up. Missus Jimmy wasn't about to do it just because she was the only woman, except Officer Jimmy Deen, who was also not doing it on account of being a cop. Jimmy No-Nose wasn't doing it, and no one tried to make him. Jimmy Doug had cooked, and felt like he shouldn't have to clean.
"You steamed some dogs, asshole," said Jimmy Buffet. "That's not cooking."
"Shut up, Jimmy."
Ray really tried to keep a straight face, but if he looked even half as dopey as he felt, he was grinning like a crazy man. But hey, maybe being stuck in the meaty madhouse with Fraser for a couple days would be all right. Maybe—
"Get it out of your system?" Dead Jimmy was directly in front of him with his arms crossed.
Ray rolled his eyes and jerked his head at the storeroom door he and Fraser had just come out of. He caught Fraser's eye and made the hand signal they'd agreed on for I guess I'm going to go talk to a ghost now, which was like spooky jazz hands, but subtle.
"Look," he said to Dead Jimmy, when the door was shut behind him. "I'm real sorry your good name has been tarnished with these unfounded ketchup accusations, but I don't know how to help you."
"Yeah, I was talking to Bob about that, and—"
"Who the hell is Bob?"
"Bob. Bob Fraser? Big guy, big hat, Canadian?"
"Oh," Ray said, because that sounded like Fraser's dad, which explained why Fraser hadn't blinked when Ray started talking about Dead Jimmy. Ray wished Fraser would've said something, but it was okay. They'd get there. Ray grinned helplessly at the thought, looking forward to getting there or anywhere or everywhere with Fraser. "Fraser's dad," he said to Dead Jimmy, still smiling. "What'd he have to say?"
"Bob's the one who said I should ask you in the first place. He said his son wouldn't understand about the ketchup."
"He would not," Ray said. "I'm not sure he even understands about hot dogs."
"How?" Jimmy looked about as appalled as a dead guy could look.
"Wait a minute," Ray said. He was not going to discuss Fraser's dietary preferences with a ghost. "Back up. You got to pick someone and you picked me? Why don't you go haunt Jimmy until he freaks out and confesses it was a murder? Rattle some chains or blow out some candles or something?"
"Yes! Now we're talking." Dead Jimmy rubbed his hands together. He looked like he'd twirl his mustache if he had one. "That's my plan but it's only gonna work if he confesses to someone who understands about the fucking ketchup. The other cops didn't even ask about it, they were like, 'sure, punched him for the ketchup, checks out.'"
"But iIt does check out," Ray insisted.
Dead Jimmy rolled his eyes. "But I didn't have any fucking ketchup!"
"Okay, pipe down. Let's go over it. Dief's searching the house now for the transmitter, and hopefully it'll be with Jimmy's stuff and that'll prove that he killed Big Moe."
"Oh, he definitely killed Big Moe. Jagoff was gonna put ketchup on the dogs!"
Ray groaned. "Not the ketchup again."
"I'm just saying."
"And I'm just saying I can't take your word for it. So if Dief finds something, great. If not, me and Fraser'll do a search. We find it, we lock him in the brig or the ice box or that nightmare room with the inflatable hot dogs for a couple days until we can get out of this house and down to the station. While he's locked in there, you haunt him about the ketchup until he confesses."
"Exactly."
There were a lot of holes in the plan, but Ray had decided to go with it. He could hardly believe he was partnering with a dead guy on a closed case, but then again, he could hardly believe he'd kissed Fraser—twice!—so he was going to give his beliefs a little more slack, maybe ignore a casehole or two. "All right, Jimmy," he said. "You're on."
*
Back in the kitchen, Fraser was finishing the cleanup when Dief trotted in, pawed at Fraser's leg, turned in a circle, and trotted off again.
"Did he find it?" Ray asked.
"Looks that way," Fraser said, and they followed Dief straight to the backpack Jimmy Buffet had hidden in the dumbwaiter. Inside was the transmitter he'd used to blow the power.
"That could be anyone's!" Jimmy said, when Ray went to take him into custody.
Ray unzipped the bag and held it open. "It's got your name stitched in there, dumbass."
"Oh."
"Mr. Froman," Fraser asked. "Do you have anywhere appropriate in which we could detain Mr. Buffet until the storm passes?"
Froman thought about it. "You can lock him in the basement. There's a suite with a bedroom and a bathroom, and the only way out would be to break a window to the outside. And the basement windows are covered with snow by now."
"He'd freeze his buns off," said Mister Jimmy, delighted, but Ray was in too good a mood to be bothered.
"Sounds great," said Ray, hoping there would be a lot of spooky shit in the basement for Dead Jimmy to use, like some half-melted plastic hot dogs or broken sausage statues.
*
Three days later, Ray could just see Welsh's headache getting worse as he and Fraser talked him through the case and a lot of ketchup crimes. They carefully left out the part where they made out in every available secret passage, but they were both talking pretty fast. Ray wanted to get the hell home, and he wanted to take Fraser with him, and he was absolutely certain Fraser was on board.
"The old case," Welsh said. "You're telling me we have to reopen it because it wasn't about the ketchup?"
"Yes, sir," said Fraser.
"And the new case, that was about the ketchup? Or that was about the mob?"
"Sort of both," Ray said. "Buffet set up this deal that would cut the mob out of distribution, which they do not like. He wanted No-Nose out of the picture, but he didn't want to kill him, because the mob really does not like that. So he stole the gun and he was planning to kill someone and frame No-Nose. Didn't really matter who, because No-Nose had motive to kill almost everyone. So when Big Moe reached for the ketchup, bam. Go time."
Welsh leaned back in his chair to think it through, arms folded. He looked suspiciously at Fraser. Finally he leaned forward and gestured for Ray to do the same. He lowered his voice. "He was really gonna put ketchup on the hot dogs?"
*
"So," Ray said, when the paperwork was done and Buffet had been booked for two murders and they'd escaped the precinct and made it to the Goat. It was still snowing, but the wind had stopped. The snow was head-high on the side of the streets, and in the parking lot down the block, dump trucks had piled it right up to the sky. Ray had Dief in the back and his partner at his side and two and a half vacation days left.
He grinned at Fraser, who grinned back. "Ray, would you like to go grab a hot dog?"
"I really do not, Fraser." Ray was going to be good on hot dogs for a long, long time.
"Ah." Fraser's smile dimmed a bit, but he cleared his throat and tried another offer. "Perhaps a Canadian—"
"Holy shit, Fraser, if you make a hot dog pun right now or the word 'wiener' comes out of your mouth I am kicking you out of this car and I will never speak to you again."
"Understood, Ray."
"Let's go home."
- end -