Title:
That Sunday, That Summer
Author: Tinnean
Fandom: Laura
Pairing: Waldo Lydecker/ Mark McPherson
Rating: NC-17
Feedback email: Tinneantoo@aol.com
Disclaimers: Not mine, never were, never will be. They belong,
first and foremost to Vera Caspary. And secondly to the fantastic
screenwriters of 20th Century Fox.
Archive: If I sent it to you, please feel free! Otherwise let me know.
Summary: Lydecker and McPherson meet for the first time.
Series/Sequel: No, but let's see where this goes, shall we?
Warning: m/m
Note: if you read the book or saw the movie, no spoilers; if you
didn't, then yeah, I guess you'd better beware! This is based on
the movie characterization. Clifton Webb played Waldo, Dana
Andrews was Mark McPherson.
That Sunday, That Summer
Part 1
That Sunday morning, the
front page of the Tribune was splashed with the reports of Laura Hunt’s
killing. Ostensibly, I was thumbing through the pages seeking my own column,
And More Anon, but I was avidly seeking all news on the death.
And then there he was,
the police lieutenant, on page two, those pale, pale eyes glaring into the
camera that caught him in the act of assigning a uniformed officer to keep
onlookers away from the crime scene. The image of that lean and hungry body
seized my insides, arrowing right to my private parts, and I stared in
amazement as flesh that for too many years had lain dormant, suddenly became
highly aroused. I could no more resist touching myself than I could resist the
look in Laura Hunt’s eyes the first time I met her.
I flung aside the Tribune
and hesitantly reached into my pajama pants, stroking the silken contours of my
erection, marveling at it. The soft skin of my palm closing over the hard flesh
started me to whimpering.
I had not done this since
I was a boy, and had gotten caught with my hands in my trousers. Mother had
wailed and wept, certain she was a failure and I would go to hell; after I went
blind and my palms became covered with hair, of course.
The mid-morning sun was
peeking through the voile curtains that shielded the floor to ceiling windows
of my bedroom when a gentle tap sounded on the door. My hand jerked away from
my groin. “Wha…” I had to clear my throat. “Harrumph. Yes, Roberto, what is
it?”
My Filipino houseboy
eased open the door cautiously. He knew my uncertain temper. “Flat foot to see
you Mister Waldo.”
“Policeman, Roberto,” I
absently corrected him. Why were the New York police paying me a visit at this
time on a Sunday morning? My houseboy was shuffling from one foot to the other
and his discomfort in my bedroom irritated me. “Did he give a name, Roberto?” I
snapped. Here at least was one person who knew better than to cross me when I
was in a mood.
He approached the bed on
soft-soled slippers, holding out a card. I snatched it from his cool fingers
and turned it over. Mark McPherson. The name was written across the back in
bold, slashing letters.
McPherson? The policeman
from the photo? I could feel the blood pool in my penis, causing it to swell
and grow even harder, and I struggled to retain my composure. What could the
detective in charge of poor Laura’s case possibly want with me?
I swung my legs over the
side of the bed and extended my feet until my houseboy slid my slippers on over
them. He stepped back and picked up my dressing gown, holding it out for me to
slip into. I knotted the belt and nodded for him to return to his quarters.
Like a ghost he was gone,
not a whisper of sound to mark his passing.
I ran an agitated hand through
my hair, my vanity demanding that I at least attempt to appear calm, debonair,
controlled. Above all else…controlled.
I sauntered into my
drawing room and struck a pose, casually tamping a cigarette down on the silver
case Laura had given me when my endorsement of that silly pen resulted in her
first big advertising campaign. McPherson was reaching up to my globe and
pedestal vase, twin to the one in Laura Hunt’s apartment.
“Don’t touch that!” I
said sharply, forgetting all about the importance of first impressions, almost
causing him to knock the mercury glass over.
A surprising rush of
enjoyable heat flashed through my groin. A normally graceful man was clumsy
because of me.
In a much better mood, I
gestured expansively to the sofa. “What can I do for you McPherson? Why does
one of the brightest stars in the NYPD firmament need to visit my humble abode
so early on a Sunday morning in August?”
He glanced idly at his
wristwatch, and grinned sourly. “Some people have to work no matter what the time
or the day.” He obviously favored his right leg, the silver tibia, souvenir of
the Siege of Babylon, Long Island, and he eased himself down onto the plush
cushions of my delicate couch. It suited the room, but this Cassius in blue
serge made it seem …fussy. I frowned.
What had he been saying?
He had to work the weekend? “The Deputy Commissioner does not love you very
much?”
I knew the Deputy
Commissioner, having interviewed him for one of my columns concerning
necrophilia. A small man, in every sense of the word: small in stature, small
in spirit, small in… ways that count with a man. I had thoroughly enjoyed
making mincemeat of him in print!
McPherson scowled at the
trail of smoke leaving the bowl of his pipe. “He knew I wanted to go see the Dodgers
play the Braves. Fuck him!” His eyes narrowed as he caught my frown of
displeasure. “Language too rough, Lydecker?”
I sniffed dismissingly
and walked to the sideboard to pour myself a drink. “I prefer to leave that
kind of language in the gutter, where it belongs. Is it too early for you, Mr.
McPherson?” I proffered the decanter of fine scotch whiskey.
He leaned back and smiled
into my eyes, and my breath caught in my throat.
“It’s got to be afternoon
somewhere in the world.”
I set the decanter down
so hard some of the whiskey sloshed over the side. I stared at the puddle of
good liquor that began to dribble onto the white area rug beneath the antique
piece of furniture it sat on, my lips twisting in annoyance.
McPherson got leisurely
to his feet; he was my height, or just a trifle shorter. He took the glass from
me. For the briefest flare of time our fingers touched. My mouth went dry and I
had to run my tongue over my lips. McPherson’s pale eyes stared deeply into
mine then dropped to my mouth.
He seemed to be
fascinated with my mouth. He was leaning toward me and I stood there unmoving,
I was going to let him take my mouth. I was going to let this legendary cop,
this detective investigating my dearest Laura’s murder, do whatever he might
want with me. Things I had dreamed of, but shied away from in the light of day.
I moistened my lips.
He would strip me naked
and take me, here, on the white rug in front of my elegant sofa. He would place
my legs over his shoulders, exposing all my body below my waist, spreading me,
holding me open. His privates would rub against mine, making me so impossibly
hard. And then he would start to push it into me…
My eyelids felt suddenly
heavy and began drifting closed of their own accord. My lips parted. I could
feel his breath on them.
“That’s a very
interesting clock you’ve got there, Mr. Lydecker.”
I drew back in shock.
“There’s one just like it
in Miss Hunt’s apartment!”
His face was bland, but
his eyes told me he had noted every nuance, every flicker of emotion. My face
flushed.
“The clock? …Yes, it was
mine. I gave it to Laura for her twenty-fifth birthday.” I couldn’t bear it.
“What are you doing, McPherson?”
“Just letting you know
who’s running this investigation, Lydecker! Don’t get in my way!” He knocked
back his drink like it was mother’s milk and gently set the glass on the
sideboard. “I’ll just let myself out.” His grin was cocky and he walked
jauntily to the door. “Oh, and Waldo, I wouldn’t leave town, it I were you!”
And then the cheeky devil
had the unmitigated gall to wink at me!