Object of His Affection

An Excerpt From: OBJECT OF HIS AFFECTION

Copyright © T. L. GRAY, 2006.

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

The last twenty-four hours of Ross Burke´s life had been just one shit pile after another, each new pile overlapping the former until he was ready to tell every man-jack in the squad room to fuck off. To top off a fruitless night spent in the worst part of town, casing Billy Bob´s Auto shop for any sign of illegal activity, he´d come to the conclusion that Swoozie MacElroy had sold him bogus information.

"Hey, Ross, you look like shit warmed over," Carter observed with a wry grin as Ross passed his desk.

"Fuck you. And if you´ve contaminated as much as a paper clip on my desk, you won´t live long enough to see the yellows of your eyes turn white again."

Since the outbreak of a hepatitis A epidemic had swept the Metro Louisville detective division several weeks ago, courtesy of Lucky Larry´s Bar and Grill-a shack of a place down on the Ohio river where everyone had gathered to get drunk, congratulate Lt. Harold Denton on retirement after thirty two years of service, and watch a totally hot stripper bend her knees back over her head-the few remaining healthy detectives had worked their asses off, pitching in to help keep the other branches above water.

What a nightmare.

Luckily, Ross had passed on the barbecue that night, having actually tasted Larry´s cuisine on one other occasion-the case of indigestion he´d contracted had come damn close to mimicking a heart attack. It wasn´t an experience he was keen on repeating. Not so for his die hard, overweight, grease-loving fraternity brothers. Carter included. As a result, almost half the detectives were now bedridden or hospitalized, yellow as gourds. Oddly enough, no one had yet filed suit against the restaurant or its proprietor.

If memory served, he had slept in his own bed a total of two nights this week. Linda was on his back again about what she perceived to be his lack of ambition to advance through the ranks. He was rung out, strung out, irritable as a whore with no prospects on Saturday night, and frigging tired of chasing his own tail.

[...]

At four-thirty a.m. the phone rang. Automatically, Ross reached out to answer it, but there was no one on the other end and the shrill ringing continued. Foggy with sleep, he realized the phone in his hand was really an Oriental knick-knack, the mouth of a large curved Chinese Carp wound around it, serving as the receiver. He stumbled to the kitchen, knowing Linda wouldn´t bother to answer from the bedroom-it was always for him at such an ungodly hour of the morning.

"Burke," he muttered, rubbing one eye with the heel of his palm.

"Ross? It´s Charlie."

It took a couple of seconds for his brain to kick in. Charlie. Desk clerk. "There better be a body with my name on it or I´m going to pull you through this phone, and after I´m finished you won´t need glasses anymore. Comprende?"

"Actually, sir...it does."

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