Part Two

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By Way of Introduction

Actually, they were more blue-gray, with an intensity and tenderness missing from Sid's cool ones. I tried not to gape as I felt myself drifting deeper into them; I had really fought to do that when I looked at Sid. It would give the psycho the wrong ideas.

"You okay?" I heard White ask. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

Shaking my head, I heard myself exhale, visibly relaxing my guard for the first time in minutes. "No, I'm fine. About the only way he hurt me was giving me a migraine."

"Yeah, Sid tends to do that to most people. We normally keep our distance from each other. Don't exactly see eye to eye."

"Understandable." I was studying him closer, hoping it wasn't too obvious. Unlike Sid's perfectly moussed, reddish tresses, Bud's hair was shaved quite short, like a proper police officer. Many on my LPD - young and older officers - wore theirs the same. Whereas Sid had been nattily attired, Bud's suit was obviously off the rack, all he could afford on his salary. Talk about a night and day difference.

January of 1998 -- that was when I'd first seen 'L.A. Confidential', a few weeks before the Oscar nominations were announced. Being a movie buff, I liked some film noir, but had seen most modern directors botch recreating it. The movie was exceptional, although I figured the bulk of it out halfway through. Honestly, in the beginning, I was watching for Kevin Spacey (coming off 'The Usual Suspects'), Guy Pearce (who I thought a doll), and James Cromwell (having admired him since 'Babe'). The screenplay was wonderful; the atmosphere thick; the language a treat. Nevertheless, I kept getting sidetracked by Officer Wendell "Bud" White of the notorious LAPD. The second he appeared on the screen, I had recalled the 'Virtuosity' incarnation, only now -- what a contrast. Yes, I admit it. At first I misread him: a big, dumb cop used for his muscle. As the movie continued however, each scene stripped away another layer, and I understood "the little bulldog" (my nickname for him, considering his tenacity) better than the scene before. By the end, Bud White was the only one I thought about . . . and I felt for him.

I continued. "I appreciate the rescue though. Wasn't sure how to disentangle him. He's very unrelenting."

"Tell me about it. I wish we could permanently get rid of him, but --" He shrugged, looking frustrated. "-- well, he's part of the gang unfortunately. Comes with the territory. But Liz --"

"She's the owner." I nodded. "She'd never let Sid really hurt someone. I'm just sorry he was making a nuisance of himself -- again. Can't let a woman come in and enjoy herself without him trying to --" He paused as if he had decided against his next words, so I finished the sentence for him.

"Set her up for the kill?" He was momentarily startled to hear my plainness, then he chuckled. "Yeah, well, I was trying to think of another way to put it, but that pretty much hits the nail on the head. Sid loves to annoy the hell out of people, especially some of us in the group."

"Knows which button to push, huh?" I asked, taking a sip of my Mimosa.

"Sometimes. The two of us stay into it." He looked at me admiringly. "Have to admit . . . I was real impressed with how good you were holding your own with him."

"I... threw him for a loop. Brought up a mutual acquaintance whom both I and one of Sid's programs know, and -- he realized I knew who he is." One corner of Bud's mouth cocked upwards in one of those Harrison Ford half-smiles I adored, only on him, it looked even better.

"Well, . . . just glad you're okay, Miss." He bowed his head and started to walk away.

I practically jumped out of my chair. "Wait," I called out. He turned around to look back at me. For a second I was almost timid, surprising considering I had spoken so boldly to Sid 6.7. But that was the assertiveness I'd learned from working on a police department. Considering many of the people I worked with (and what pains they were), I learned to watch my back, and talk up if necessary. With Bud, the situation was different.

"I-I'd be pleased if you'd stay." My words were almost shy, and I felt my cheeks beginning to warm. Normally at ease around men, I could make conversation or joke with them. But now my voice was nearly choked, and my left hand nervously gripped the edge of the table. I didn't want him to leave. He nodded at my cocktail.

"Figured you wanted to be alone, especially after dealing with Sid."

"I did, but --" My words faded. Why the hell was I scared? "Please -- at least let me buy you a drink. Consider it my . . . I don't know . . . my thanks for rescuing a damsel in distress."

He was scrutinizing me, trying to figure me out I think. I would have liked him to smile for me -- he had such a sweet smile. Finally he indicated with one hand that I should sit first, before he occupied the seat Sid had used. I motioned at the bartender that I wanted to order, then faced Bud. "What'll it be?"

"Bourbon on the rocks, thanks."

"'Maker's Mark'," I suggested. He looked confused. "Have you ever tried 'Maker's Mark'?"

"Well, I'm a bit biased 'cause it's made in my home state of Kentucky. I don't drink bourbon, but I'm told 'Maker's Mark' is the best in the world."

"Okay. Okay, I'll give it a shot then, . . . since you recommend it." He was nearly smiling. I took that as a good sign.

"I don't think you'll regret it . . . 'Maker's Mark' on the rocks," I called to A.J. "Oh, and put it on my tab." The bartender winked, realizing I obviously intended to stay longer than originally planned.

For the few moments we waited until A.J. arrived, we had - what they called in 'Pulp Fiction' - a comfortable silence. There was no need for nervous chitchat as we were at ease. I finally relaxed because I was in the company of someone I liked - at least I figured I would because of the movie anyway. I took another drink from my glass, realizing I had barely touched it (thanks to keeping an eye on Sid), and after taking a couple of peanuts, pushed the bowl toward Bud. He looked down at it, nodded his thanks, and grabbed up a handful to pop in his mouth. I couldn't believe I was watching him eat, but his complexities continually fascinated me. How could someone who could behave so ferociously, be so tender deep down? I recalled the tiny things he had done: politely calling me "Miss"; letting me sit before he did; coming to my assistance when I really needed it. Sid might be more polished, but Bud - he was the true gentleman.

"Here you go, Bud," the bartender said as he put the drink on the coaster.

"Thanks. Oh, and when Miss-- Well, when the lady's finished hers, we'll have another round. If . . . that's okay with you, Miss." I nodded. "Run it on my tab, if it's still good."

A.J. smiled. "Of course your credit's good, Bud. I'll take care of it." He discreetly slipped away.

The cop picked up his glass, but before taking a drink, he bent it in my direction. Catching the hint, I raised my champagne glass. "Cheers," he said.

"Cheers," I repeated as the edges clinked almost musically. The drink felt energizing as it went down my throat, and I hoped my voice would return a bit stronger the next time I spoke.

"You know--" Bud started as he downed half the bourbon "--hey, this *is* smooth. You called it 'Maker's Mark'?"

"Mm-hmm. You'll know the bottle from the red wax seal dripping from the cap and down the neck. Very distinctive."

"Well I started to say -- we haven't been introduced yet. My fault. So much else going on." He extended a hand. "Officer Bud White, LAPD."

Smiling, I replied, "Etienne . . . uh, Tina. LPD."

Bud raised an eyebrow. "LPD?"

"Louisville Police Department -- Louisville, Kentucky."

"No kidding. What do you do there? Receptionist, clerk, secretary?"

My smile broadened. Guess those were about the only assignments women could have held on a Fifties police department. "No . . . No, I-uh . . . I work crime scenes."

I watched his eyes widen the same way they had on seeing Lynn for the first time. "You work . . . crime scenes?"

"I'm a civilian evidence technician."

"Right. We work at the direction of a lead police officer or detective. Photography; fingerprinting; evidence collection, preservation and transportation; maintaining chain of custody--"

"Fu--" He caught himself before that four letter 'F' word left his lips, but I could tell he was astonished. "Damn. You were trained to do all that and you're not even a cop?"

I nodded. "The department thought civilians could be taught to perform those same duties which specialty detectives had performed before. That way the cops could return to what they had been schooled to do: street work, or detective work. Since we work at their direction, they're the ones responsible for making sure everything's in order, like search warrants."

"What sort of scenes do you work?"

"Murders, sexual assaults, robberies, burglaries -- a little of everything." I watched as a smile appeared on his lips. He was obviously impressed.

"You've seen a lot of stuff then."

"Unfortunately, yes."

"And you've been doing this-- How long . . . uh--"

"Geez. Not burnt out yet?"

"I love it. It's not like it was in the radio room, where I started. I was sick of it after three years, and was already looking for another job when the Evidence Unit opened up . . . It's just . . . The detectives, most of the officers . . . they respect our knowledge, our input and opinion. It's fulfilling for me. There's nothing like having the ID Lab get a match on a fingerprint you've lifted so something can be solved. Or . . . Well, a ten-year-old case of mine - a robbery and sexual assault - just got solved a couple of weeks ago based on a DNA match with some fluids found at the scene."

Bud was shaking his head in amazement. "Congratulations. See -- I love that kind of stuff. All these forensic improvements . . . Sometimes when I'm near Liz's cable TV, and nobody's watching anything else, I look at those crime shows on, like, Discovery Channel or the-uh Learning Channel and Court TV. Oh, and there's that A & E show with uh-uh...Bill Kurtis --" 'Investigative Reports', we both said simultaneously, and I added. "Fantastic show."

"And there's two dramas...uh...'Law and Order,' 'The Practice'...those are good, too. Gives me a hell of a lot of insight. It's amazing what's been developed. Damn. You know, if we'd had all this when the Nite Owl massacre went down-- Maybe a lot of things wouldn't have happened."

Nodding thoughtfully, I offered, "Well, you had a decent photographer at least. He--" (Because I figured only men were in that job at the time) "--did get the close-up pics of that cup with the lipstick. That was what clued *you* in," I commended him.

"Yeah, it did, didn't it?" I watched Bud glance down at the table, embarrassed by getting praise I doubt he heard very often, even if it was deserved. Particularly since it concerned him using his brain, something he did not have a reputation for doing. Exley, after all, had called him a mindless thug; when Dudley suggested using Bud's talents, he wasn't referring to his intellect. The man had been short-changed his entire life.

Looking at me, he asked, "So you work close with Homicide, huh?"

"Well, our murder rate's *nothing* like an L.A., or New York, or D.C., but yeah, we work close with the Homicide dicks. Actually, we probably work closer with them than with any other unit on the department."

He looked pensive. "I always wanted to qualify for some specialty unit like that. Especially Homicide. Or even Robbery." I could almost hear him swallow deeply. "Just never figured I was bright enough."

For a second I remembered him saying that to Lynn. I felt sympathy for him then and now. "That's not true, Bud. That's not true at all." He looked at me. "I know a few guys who made Homicide who were no where near as smart as you. We've got some district dicks who are total idiots. You're not like any of them. You'd be an asset to any specialized unit you were assigned to."

He gulped the last of his bourbon. "*Detective* Bud White, huh?"

"I think it has a nice ring to it." Bud smiled back. There you go, I thought. See, you do have a sweet smile. "Hey, I was thinking. You really ought to consider doing a ride-along with me sometime."

"When you make your scenes?"

"Yeah, I've had people do that with me before. My sergeant wouldn't have a problem with it. All you have to do is agree to sign a waiver for the front office, saying that you won't hold the department responsible--"

"If I accidentally get my brains blown out?" he quipped.

He grinned even more. "I think I'd like that . . . the riding with you part, I mean." He probably noticed the question on my face because my eyebrows had suddenly furrowed. "What's wrong?"

"I just . . . I just realized . . . " Why had I made him such an offer without asking. "Can - Can you . . . leave?"

"Here. The - The Tavern. Can you leave?"

"Sure we can leave, anytime we like." He now realized what I was leading to. "Oh I see . . . No, we're not trapped here or something. It's not like that . . . you know, that musical about the Scottish town that only appears for one day every hundred years, and no one can leave without killing everyone else."

"Brigadoon." It was one of my favorite musicals.

"Yeah, that's it. Brigadoon. This isn't Brigadoon." He pointed around him. "This isn't our whole world. We could go if we wanted -- most of us just don't want to go. Besides, there might be too many questions if a few of us showed up."

"Well I know if Sid showed up there would *definitely* be some questions." We both laughed.

"So the offer still stands? Hasn't been withdrawn?"

I finished the last of the Mimosa, which had grown warm. "About the ride-along? Sure it does. Our front office is in such an internal uproar right now, I doubt anybody would notice your name and what it's connected to."

"Then *nobody* will make the connection--" and our glee continued. Unless they were some hard core fans of the movie, and I had never met one of those at the department. Of those I had talked with about 'L.A. Confidential', honestly, they did recall Bud's character, but hardly ever his name, although he was the most memorable of all for most of them. Unfortunately, almost down to a person, the majority thought the movie too talky, with a few exceptions. The big gunfight was nearly everyone's favorite scene, including mine. "Of course it'll be my luck we won't hit a lick that night. That's the way it usually happens. None of that exciting stuff like a business robbery--"

"Well, you never know. Or, we'll make a bunch of residential burglaries, and you can get fingerprint powder up your nose. That stuff causes cancer, you know."

"I'd still like to go, Miss --"

"Bud, *please*, you can call me Tina."

"Okay . . . Tina." I saw him ponder something briefly. "That must be your nickname, right?" I nodded. "You said another name before . . . "

I could tell he was about to stumble over the pronunciation of my given name, which wouldn't be the first time, so I sounded it out. "It's Et - tea - in."

"Et -tea - in. Etienne. That's pretty."

"Like Aigner? I've heard of some designer called Etienne Aigner."

I grinned. Why did people always make that connection? "Yeah, yeah, like Aigner."

"It's -- what? French?"

"So are you --" I shook my head. "Not a drop as far as I know . . . My mother minored in French. She ran across the name . . . somewhere and liked it, and since I was the oldest -- "

"So it means . . . What?"

"Stephen . . . or Stephanie, I guess. Masculine or feminine. I know there's a St. Etienne."

"I don't think I've ever met an Etienne before," he joked.

"Well, I don't think I've ever met a Wendell . . . 'til tonight." He started laughing, which started me laughing too. I liked seeing this cheerful side of him, and again, I considered how enigmatic he was. Breaking the backs of wooden chairs in two; putting pistols in suspects' mouths and threatening to pull the trigger; ripping bolted down chairs from their foundations; even slapping Lynn when he had been betrayed. All this and he could still be a passionate, caring lover; cover the nude body of that rape victim to maintain some modesty for her; protect a beaten wife from more abuse. Or come to *my* rescue. For me, there was more animal magnetism than Sid would ever possess. Still, I wasn't - should the opportunity arise at the moment - considering going to bed with Bud White. We felt like good friends who shared common interests and a love for our work. I couldn't deny that Bud was handsome, or that he possessed a brute sexuality I found oddly alluring but for now, he was a fellow law enforcement agent whom I liked a great deal.

"You hungry?" he asked.

I nodded, suddenly realizing I had only had a bowl of 'Cheerios' and soy milk for breakfast before going to rent my car. That was eight or nine hours before, and my stomach was beginning to rumble. "Starving. I'd almost forgotten I haven't eaten since breakfast."

"How about I get us something then? The Tavern doesn't serve any fancy stuff -- that's in the hotel restaurant. We just have bar food here."

"Bar food sounds fine."

"Bud --" I didn't want to feel obligated.

"*My treat*, Tina." He winked. "No strings attached."

"No strings, huh?" I was smiling, hoping my cheeks weren't burning as much as I thought they were.

His smile was mischievous. "Okay, maybe one. Hell, I'm selfish . . . I like your company . . . I-uh . . . You've been great to talk to."

"The feeling's mutual."

"Okay then. It's settled . . . Hey, A.J.!" The bartender walked over. "Another round . . . and how about a half-slab of baby backs; an order of potato skins, . . . some mozz sticks --" He looked at me and I nodded in agreement. "Oh, and definitely buffalo wings. What kind do you like, Tina?"

"Mild . . . Medium."

"Mix 'em up; throw some hot ones in there, too, and don't forget my Tabasco."

"You got it, Bud. Want two orders of each?" The men looked at me for an answer, and I shook my head. This was going to be my little splurge of the evening. I had been working out, had changed my eating habits, and watched my fat grams for over a year. The results had been fantastic. (God knows, a year ago I wouldn't have dared wear a sleeveless chemise under any circumstances. Or, expected a man to really want my company as either Sid or Bud did). Nevertheless, since I had been a good girl, I was going to treat myself. "We can share, if that's all right?"

"One of everything then," Bud said.

"Okay. I'll go ahead and put your order in with the kitchen, then bring the drinks over."

I was relaxing, legs crossed, eyes shut, my chin propped on my folded hands as I listened to a latest hit on the sound system. Bud must have noticed how intently I was following the rhythm, my head moving with nearly each beat.

"What kinds of music do you like?" he asked.

I opened my eyes. "Lots of different kinds. Classical -- I adore opera; rock, pop, gospel, movie soundtracks. Don't care much for country, and I hate acid rock and most rap. I like some blues; I love jazz, swing, and big band."

"So do I. Liz just doesn't keep enough of it in stock for my tastes. I'm always asking her to get more . . . Just a few extras since I'm not really into a lot of today's stuff . . . Who do you like?"

"In big band? Or swing? ...Okay - mm . . . the Dorseys, Sinatra, Miller, Ellington, Goodman --"

"Some of my favorites." As though someone had overheard us, the Blaque single 'Bring It All to Me' ended, and was followed almost at once by a clarinet's vibrant opening bars. I shut my eyes in pure delight for I knew the tune. I still remembered it from 'The English Patient' score. "Oh my God. Speak of the Devil -- it's Goodman."

"You like this one, too?"

"I love this." He briefly contemplated something then surprised me with

I shrugged and chuckled. "Just barely. Especially considering that at one time I wanted to be a ballerina."

"Well I don't dance all that well myself." He held one hand toward me.

"So we'll dance not too well together if you'd like." I must be getting bolder in my "old age." Not that long ago I would have declined. Instead, I smiled and took the offered hand so Bud could lead me out to the floor. As no one else was dancing to the instrumental-only 'Wang Wang Blues', the entire space was ours, something I considered good luck since I wasn't sure how awkward my partner or I might be. The extent of my dance ability consisted of what I call my version of 'Flashdance': with no formal training, I simply listen to the music; unwind; and allow it to flow until I'm dancing up a storm. That was in the privacy of my home though. This was for public consumption, and momentarily I *was* concerned I'd end up looking silly. I didn't need to worry. Although the tune was fast paced, Bud - despite saying he wasn't all that good - was a very capable dancer. I was more than able to follow his lead. No, we weren't Astaire and Rogers. That didn't matter. We were just having a good time, and it amazed me that we only stumbled once or twice. When we did, we simply laughed and went on. I liked 'Wang Wang Blues'. I *really* liked my companion. At one point, Bud pulled me close as we made one move.

"I'm not stepping on your toes, am I?" he whispered, grinning. Shaking my head, I tried not to giggle when I took a misstep and nearly fell into him.

"No, but I'm too worried about not stepping on yours." I was near enough I could have pressed a cheek against one of his -- and that was when I felt his body tense. I could see he was glaring straight ahead.

"I'm okay, Tina. Just . . . taking care of business."

"Huh?" I tried to look over my shoulder, and I saw what had my partner's attention. Sid was on one side of the dance floor, a very accommodating woman on his arm, but his concentration was on Bud and me. The handsome features were twisted into a grimace; the repugnance was too obvious. When he noticed I was watching, he smirked and winked seductively. Uncomfortable, I turned away and looked back at Bud, his face still frozen in a gaze which could have killed. "Bud . . . it's all right. Just ignore the SOB."

"He gets on my last fucking nerve. Sorry," he apologized.

"No problem, and he gets on mine, too, but pretend he's not there." Easier said than done, I thought to myself. I could feel those icy blue eyes boring into me, as if stripping away each layer. "You should be trying to spin me around about now. I think this part coming up is great for that," I said, trying to lighten the mood. Bud shook his head, then managed a smile -- right before he raised my right hand above my head to gracefully pirouette me. The song ended with Bud giving me a "Get ready" right before he dipped me. I was laughing so hard I wasn't sure I could stop, and we both applauded our effort. When a few others in the tavern clapped and cheered, both of us bowed as if we'd performed a Broadway musical. We started back to our table, our fresh round of drinks already in place.

"Are you always like this?" Bud asked as he pulled the chair out for me.

"Like...what?" I had managed to calm to a mild snicker.

"So...lively," he replied, sitting next to me. "Always laughing. You have a great laugh."

"A lot of times I'm pretty serious. But I love to laugh. I know my sense of humor's fairly warped."

"Guess that comes from eleven years of doing what you do."

"Oh yeah. That's what did it all right. I can laugh at things that... well, I know some people probably think 'God, she's sick'." We clinked our glasses again, but when Bud said "Cheers" my response was "Skoal!" I noticed his questioning expression. "I swear... I'm not drunk. I'm not... It's just that --" My voice softened as I appeared introspective. " -- this is the best time I've had since I got back from England."

"I heard you mention England to A.J. That's what got ol' virtual boy excited... So-uh... tell me... about England. Where'd you go? What'd you see?"

Smiling as I swirled my drink, I started: "I've been in love with England forever...." I'm not certain how long we talked because the minutes passed too quickly. I gave a synopsis of my three week "pilgrimage" to the land of my dreams, and then we were back to discussing shop. Our food arrived only minutes after we sat down, so there we were, talking crime scenes like a couple of "grizzled veterans" over buffalo wings, a half-slab of baby back ribs, mozzarella sticks, potato skins and drinks.

"So honest to God --" Bud started as he swallowed part of a mozzarella stick.

"Between the two of us,... you've *never* thought about planting evidence?"

I shook my head so violently my hair swung into my face. "Never."

"Even if somebody was guilty and you knew it, and you just needed that little -"

"No!" My response almost made him spring back in the chair. "No, never! I'd *never* do something like that. I'm not crazy. If some detective or officer or prosecutor can't make their own damn case without me falsifying evidence, they can go screw themselves. I'm not going to do it. That's not something I want on my conscience."

Bud obviously saw the fire in my eyes, even behind my gold-rimmed, wire framed glasses. He smiled and replied admiringly, "You wouldn't, Tina. I know you wouldn't. You'd never plant something. You'd never perjure yourself. Fourteen years on your department and you still have integrity. You're honest... and honorable... Dignified."

"Honorable *and* dignified?" I blushed. "Never thought of myself as that."

"Well you are. You have a devotion and love for what you do, and you'd never put yourself into some compromising position where it would come into question. Reminds me a little of --" He paused, smiling as if thinking of someone else he knew. "Nah -- you'd never do some of the things I've done. God knows," he chuckled, sprinkling a few drops of Tabasco on his already hot wing, "you couldn't have worked for Dudley."

I almost fell out. "Not hardly. I have about three strikes against me. One, I'm a woman doing a man's job."

"Second," and he touched one of my wrists with an index finger, "and don't take this the wrong way, but, you're not exactly the right color for Dudley."

"I concur," I replied, smiling. "I don't even think the part-Irish on my mother's side would be an asset." I continued to watch him add a little more hot sauce. "Would you like a chicken wing with that?"

"Huh... Oh - um... I... I just like the hot stuff. Tabasco just gives it that extra...kick."

"Even when it's already hot?"

"Here - try some." He shook a drop of two onto my mild peg leg. "Go ahead. Give it a shot." I took a bite -- and immediately grabbed my glass of ice water. "Good?" he asked, grinning as I fanned my mouth.

"Oh yeah," I said, almost hoarse. "It's good all right. Talk about a kick." We both chuckled. "Your stomach must be cast-iron. The only thing missing is the jalapenos."

"I *knew* I forgot something...Anyway, where were we? Oh yeah -- why you couldn't have worked for Dudley."

"Right...Number three..." My voice lowered. "You make your own damn case. I *don't* falsify evidence."

Bud shook his head, smiling. "Dudley would have loved you."

"I'll bet. I wouldn't have gotten a foot in the door."

"Yeah, well... times change. Sometimes for the best when you think about it."

I nodded. "Did it ever bother you?"

"Did what ever bother --"

Not wanting to sound too rude, I carefully measured my words. When... Well,... when you went into that apartment to rescue that rape victim,... and what went down... went down... Look, I'm not saying that guy wasn't a piece of crap. He was. When it comes to stuff like that, I don't see race. I never have. I see scum. But... But... he --"

"Was unarmed; I shot him, cracked off a round into a wall, and put the weapon in his hand," he answered in a matter of fact manner.

"And it never bothered you?"

Bud wiped his hands on a napkin, then reflectively said, "No, no it didn't... Years ago, when I first went on the force, and I was still green and probably a lot like Exley - idealistic and all that - yeah, it might have. But that's a big 'might'. Like you said, the guy was scum. If I hadn't killed him then, some other cop might have at a later date...I don't actually think I did anything wrong, although I see your point. Guess old age does that to you."

"You're not old, Bud."

"In departmental years I am. Nothing personal, but you, too, Tina. You've got fourteen years under your belt. You said you see youngsters who have been on the street two years now training rookies."

"They're like babies teaching babies."

"So we're both old in that aspect. We've seen a lot. Experienced a lot. Witnessed stuff...normal people would puke or have nightmares about. It's just that you and me...we see things -- Guess we're aiming for the same results; we just do it differently."

"I guess," I whispered. We looked in each other's eyes. "It's only that...with some changes..." I paused, but Bud nodded, wanting me to proceed. "Bud, you'd make such a fantastic detective." His next move surprised me. He leaned forward and gave me a peck on the cheek. We weren't ready to jump in bed together -- it was more his way of letting me know he appreciated being listened to. I heard him softly say, "Thanks Tina," to which I answered quite gently, "You're welcome -- Wendell." I said his name, not as a joke, but as a good friend and he took it that way. That was when I saw his eyes drift.

"Bud...what's wrong?"

He looked completely disgusted. I groaned, outwardly and inwardly. "Not Sid again?"

"Depends on how you define pain in the behind." I followed his gaze, and my mouth dropped as I watched a figure huffing and puffing toward us. I did a double-take, for although this man was the same height as Bud and Sid.... He didn't belong here, I told myself. He might be part of it all - "the group" Bud had called them - but of everyone that should be at Crowe's Tavern, this one seemed completely out of place.

"Ms. Stewart?" he panted. It didn't help that he was carrying likely forty extra pounds on him. I nodded, trying not to appear too shocked and hoping my stare wasn't overtly rude. Here was a not unattractive middle-aged man of good poise, but very "white bread" -- somewhat pasty, definitely overweight, with thinning gray hair, and a pair of thick rimmed glasses. I was floored though, unsure what to say as he took my right hand to shake. "It's very nice to meet a fellow Louisvillian after so long. Word is starting to spread about your arrival and... and I... I just heard about you," he continued softly, still trying to catch his breath; he still had hold of my hand. "I hoped you hadn't left yet. We only have one other hometown person here, I believe. But what a pleasure to meet you."

Was it me -- or did he have a nervous twitch on occasion? He finally glanced at Bud, and if I was uncertain before, I no longer had any questions. Bud didn't care for him. "Officer White," the new arrival greeted my companion. Bud's response was bowing his head in acknowledgment. "But... I'm sorry to disturb you, Ms. Stewart."

"No, it's quite all right." Why was he still shaking my hand? Were his nerves still *that* bad?"

"And please -- before you think I'm completely insane, let me introduce myself."

"No intro is necessary. It's a great pleasure to meet you at last -- Dr. Wigand. I didn't even realize you were here."

His chuckle had a vacuous quality to it. "I'm not surprised. Others here are a tad more prominent than me, at least as far as the ladies are concerned." His free hand drifted subconsciously to his paunch, and I think that was when he realized we were still shaking hands, only now at a slower pace. "Oh, I'm so terribly sorry. I didn't realize --"

"That's fine, Dr. Wigand." I gave my hand a gentle shake, and stretched each finger, noticing that Bud was about to bust a gut.

"Please Ms. Stewart -- call me Jeffrey."

"Jeffrey. Nothing broken, and you can call me Tina."

"Tina...Well, as I was saying, a few of the gentlemen here are more prominent in some aspects --" He glanced at Bud, then his eyes returned to me. I looked past the lenses and into blue eyes which exhibited none of Sid's beauty or Bud's passion. Even now they were restless, nervous. Understandable, considering 'The Insider' had renewed old controversies, and created new ones. "But here I am: Dr. Jeffrey Wigand, infamous tobacco industry whistle blower."

"I... I thought it took a lot of courage to do what you did. I admire you for that."

"I never thought of myself as a hero." He pulled over another chair and sat a few inches from me. The sigh which Bud emitted - and the slight tapping on the table top - indicated his annoyance. "I just did... I did... what I thought was the right thing. But since you're from Louisville, you know the whole damn story." I nodded. "I heard you work for the LPD Evidence Unit?"

"Yes -- I do the crime scenes."

"Too bad you weren't around to fingerprint that bullet. That's part of your job, right? Fingerprinting?... Damn FBI. Totally useless. Totally useless. You know what they're saying, don't you?" His soft-spoken voice started to rise. I knew he had a temper -- he admitted that himself...and he drank too much. He was definitely a flawed hero who had sacrificed a great deal. "Their report about the bullet -- and the-the-the computer; my hard drive."

"I know. Well, all I can say is...I may be in law enforcement, but the FBI and I don't *always* see eye-to-eye." Wigand smiled. I was looking for something underneath the pale coloring and flab to remind me of the others.

"Well... too bad someone more competent wasn't in charge of that portion of the investigation." He removed his glasses, then slipped them back on more firmly. "Well I'm-uh...I'm sorry I took up so much of your time. You and Officer White were having supper." He stood. I'm sure he noticed - as did I - that Bud let out a sigh of obvious relief. "Tina -- it was so nice speaking to you. I'm glad they told me you were here."

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Jeffrey."

"And if you're around again --"

"I - I think I definitely will be coming back."

"Then we can talk some more. It'll be nice to discuss all the happenings in Louisville since I've left. I used to read the 'Courier-Journal' -- but it's becoming more an advertisement than a newspaper of record. Then, when 'The Insider' was released, their opinion of me seemed...slanted."

"Well, some of the TV and radio news, and the damn talk shows weren't any better. I got sick of hearing about it to be perfectly honest."

"So we'll talk again?"

"I hope so," and I meant it.

Bud barely gave him the time of day. "Wigand," was all he managed. As soon as he was out of earshot, I turned to Bud, still leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. "One question: is he *always* that nervous?"

"You'd be paranoid, too if you thought people were after you... even here. Sometimes I have the feeling he thinks we're *all* in cahoots with big tobacco -- Sid especially... which might not be far from the truth..." I chuckled softly. "Hey, didn't think he'd ever give your hand back."

"Yeah well, he's okay,... I guess. Definitely needs to chill out some."

"Some? How about a *lot*? Needs to chill out a *lot*!"

"Oh, and obviously the two of you aren't friends. You could have sliced the tension around this table when he arrived."

Bud shrugged. "I don't like stool pigeons, Tina."

"Bud --" I began, trying not to sound too scolding.

"Yeah, I know - I know. I saw the damn movie. They could've chopped a half-hour from it, and you wouldn't have missed it. And I know what he did. I can't blame him actually when it comes down to it. But that still doesn't change the fact - I *don't*... *like*... stool pigeons."

"Fair enough," I admitted, crunching on some ice.

"The guy's been a pain since he got here last year. At least to me anyway. And if I hear him say one more time that thanks to him, RC got that Oscar nomination, I'll kick his teeth down his throat."

"He actually mentioned that?" I was surprised to hear Crowe's name come into the conversation. It was a weird feeling, hearing a "character" discuss the actor who had brought him into being.

The cop paused, then thoughtfully said, "Well, it ain't like RC didn't deserve it. Overly long movie -- but our boy... he *was* fantastic. I would have voted for him."

Smiling I admitted, "It seems... odd... no strange... to hear you talk about - RC you called him? - to hear you talk about Russell Crowe that way."

"Hell, we were all proud of him. Even psycho-Sid was, although *he* said if anybody was going to be nominated, it should've been *him*. But... RC's --he's... he's... something. Each of us carry this little bit of him... Yeah -- sure... We were proud of him."