Hard Contact (MxM)

Cross Jurisdiction Part I

The bass in The Abbey was vibrating specifically to annoy him. It thumped against the soles of Lewis's sneakers, travel-sized earthquakes that made his teeth ache.

He checked his watch. 01:45.

"You look like you want to hit someone," the guy next to him shouted over the noise.

Lewis turned his head slowly. The guy was cute in a manufactured way; frosted tips, tank top that said DADDY, biceps that were purely decorative. He looked like every other guy Lewis had slept with in the last six months.

"Just doing math," Lewis said. He took a sip of his soda water. He was on shift in seven hours. He wasn't drinking, which made the desperation of the room smell sharper, like sweat and cheap pheromones.

"Math?" The guy leaned in closer. He smelled like vanilla vape juice. He put a hand on Lewis's bicep, squeezing. Testing the merchandise.

"Calculating how many hours of sleep I get if I leave right now versus if I take you home."

The guy grinned, confident. "I'm worth the insomnia."

Lewis looked him up and down. He wasn't trying to be an asshole; he was just appraising the structural integrity. The kid was maybe a buck-forty wet. If Lewis actually let go; if he actually let himself want something, he'd snap this kid like a glow stick.

"You're a top?" Lewis asked, deadpan.

"For you? I can be whatever."

"Pass," Lewis said, pulling his arm away. "I need sleep more than I need three minutes of disappointment."

He didn't wait for the reaction. He pushed off the bar, navigating the sea of grinding bodies with the practiced ease of a local. He caught his reflection in the mirrored wall near the exit; dark hair slightly messy, brown eyes bored, t-shirt clinging to a chest that was thick enough to intimidate but hairy enough to invite. He looked good. He knew he looked good.

He just wished he felt anything other than tired.

The alarm went off at 05:30.

Lewis slapped it off the nightstand and sat up, groaning as his spine cracked. He scratched the hair on his stomach, staring at the wall of his overpriced studio apartment on Norton Avenue.

This was the trade-off. You live in West Hollywood, you pay the WeHo tax. Rent was three grand for a shoebox, but the commute was a four-minute walk, or in his case, a ten-minute drive to the station because he wasn't walking in uniform.

He hit the shower. Cold water. Soap. No scented scrubs, no twelve-step skincare routine. He towelled off and stood in front of the mirror, brushing his teeth aggressively.

He pulled on the white undershirt, tucking it tight, then the tan shirt of the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department (LASD). He buttoned it over the chest hair, hiding the only part of himself that felt human.

The Sam Browne belt went on next. It was heavy. Ten pounds of "Do Not Fuck With Me" hanging off his hips. Gun, cuffs, radio, baton, pepper spray. He checked the mirror again.

The transformation was instant. The "WeHo Otter" was gone. In his place was Deputy Shreveport. The jaw looked squarer. The eyes looked harder.

"Showtime," he muttered.

He didn't do this for the glory. He didn't do it to 'serve and protect.' He did it because the benefits package included dental and a pension that kicked in at fifty, and because wearing the uniform turned heads. It was a job. You clock in, you deal with the drunks and the tourists, you clock out, you get paid.

The briefing was the usual bullshit. The Sergeant droned on about a rash of car break-ins on Santa Monica Boulevard and a homeless encampment near Plummer Park that needed clearing out. Lewis drank his terrible station coffee and nodded at the right times.

By 08:00, he was in his cruiser, rolling slowly down Santa Monica.

West Hollywood was 1.9 square miles of incorporated hedonism. It was his fishbowl. He knew the bouncers, he knew the bartenders, and he knew which street corners sold the best coke. He waved at a drag queen he knew, Chiffon, who was smoking a cigarette outside a diner. She gave him the finger. He smirked.

The radio crackled. "Unit 4-A-12. 918. Man down. Willoughby and La Brea."

"4-A-12, copy," Lewis said, swinging the wheel. "En route."

A 918 was a screamer. Usually some guy having a mental health crisis or a tourist who underestimated the potency of an edible.

He turned onto Willoughby, the sun glaring off the asphalt. It was going to be a hot one. The Santa Anas were blowing, kicking up dust and making everyone irritable.

He saw the construction crew first. Three guys in neon vests standing around a storm drain access point, looking down.

Lewis pulled the cruiser up to the curb, killed the engine, and stepped out. He adjusted his belt, putting his thumbs in the perfect relaxed but ready position.

"What do we got?" Lewis asked, walking up.

"Smells like hell," one of the workers said, pointing down into the concrete culvert. "Think it's a coyote or something."

Lewis leaned over the railing. The drain was deep, a concrete scarring running beneath the city streets. There was a trickle of runoff water, black and oily.

And there was a boot.

Not a coyote.

"Dispatch, 4-A-12," Lewis said, his voice dropping an octave. "Upgrade to a 187. We've got a body."

He climbed the maintenance ladder, boots clanging on the metal rungs. The smell hit him halfway down; sweet, rot, copper. He held his breath, dropped the last few feet, and landed in the muck.

The body was face down. Male. Expensive suit, ruinously stained.

Lewis didn't touch him. He walked a circle around the corpse, scanning the ground. No weapon. No obvious footprints in the sludge except his own. He crouched down, squinting at the back of the victim's head. Blunt force trauma. Someone had caved the guy's skull in.

Lewis stood up and looked around. He looked at the tunnel stretching north, then the tunnel stretching south.

He frowned.

He pulled out his phone and opened the GIS map app. The little blue dot hovered on the screen.

The body was lying directly under the invisible line that separated the City of West Hollywood from the City of Los Angeles. The head was in the County. The feet were in the City.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Lewis whispered.

If the body was fully in the city of West Hollywood, it was LASD's case. If it was in the city of Los Angeles, the case went to LAPD (Los Angeles Police Department).

When it was both? It was a paperwork nightmare. It meant jurisdiction fights. It meant measuring tapes. It meant dealing with the assholes from downtown.

He looked down at the dead guy. "You couldn't have crawled three feet to the left?"

The radio chirped again. "4-A-12, Supervisor is en route. LAPD has been notified."

Lewis sighed, long and heavy. His easy shift was over. He wasn't going to be making happy hour tonight.

"Copy," he said, staring at the dark tunnel. "Tell LAPD to bring their own coffee."