Chapter Text
May 1983
The first wave of fleeing, drunk teenagers begins to disperse just as the cops are pulling up to the Harrington house with their lights flashing—red and blue casting long shadows across the manicured lawn. This crash of sprinting legs belongs to the teens spread around the front and side yards. They hold beer cans openly in their hands and cigarettes burn from between their underage fingers, but it is all now tossed and abandoned in the chaos of making a break for it. The brazenness is staggering as if they are blind to an entire neighborhood of taxpaying homeowners looking down on them, uncaring that even one might take issues with the hedonistic display of flagrant adolescence. They drop their drinks as they run, watering the Harrington’s lawn with cheap beer and in the case of one young girl left behind by her accomplices—vomit. Phil tries to note where the puddle of bile and regurgitated booze falls, for the safety of his footwear.
The particular taxpayer calling in tonight about the party had been Mrs. Ohlmeyer—a lifelong homemaker whose retired husband once put on and took off Phil’s braces. The pair live across the street and two doors down the Harrington house. She had told Flo that the party was interrupting her husband’s sleep and how was he supposed to drive them to Illinois to visit their son tomorrow if he couldn’t get any sleep. It’s a valid point, despite the fact that Mrs. Ohlmeyer is also infamous for calling to complain about crooked street signs, low-hanging tree branches, and threatening-looking chickens that have escaped from their farms. Phil has the creepy sense that she is watching them from a dark window, ready to complain if they don’t quash the partying in a timely manner.
Three cop cars, including the Chief’s SUV, park haphazardly around the driveway, but not actually on it so as not to run over any drunk children. As soon as the cars are in park and the officers are outside, the Chief starts barking orders. He gets Daniels over to the vomiting girl, who is still trying to stumble off to freedom. He guides her over to the curb without much fight and helps her sit down and take some deep breaths. She begins to cry just as her butt is hitting the curb—about being sorry, about it not being her fault, about how they can’t call her mother, please. A dribble of puke is drying on the corner of her mouth. Phil can’t help but sneer at it, at the lack of shame so particular to drunks and teenagers and so profound at the nexus of the two.
Vomit Girl is a cute one when you get past the bodily fluids—wispy, Scandinavian blondness, fine-boned and button-nosed, skinny knees visible past the hem of her ruffled skirt, but Jesus, she’s got some lungs. Her sobs echo around the yard, shrill like a piccolo. Phil would have some sympathy, maybe, if she just shut up for a moment. Or maybe not. Beyond the way her squawky sobs rub against his nerves, it’s also kind of nice to know that someone is having a worse night than him. No, they won’t call her mommy but they will drive her up to her mommy’s front door and ring the bell. The runners, they’ll get away with it this time, but the little blonde with vomit mouth isn’t going to get so lucky despite all her theatrics.
God, Phil hates working Friday nights. He should be home with Angie. His belly should be full from her pork chops and that imported beer she buys him as a surprise sometimes. He should be talking her into some hanky-panky before passing out in his nice warm bed with the frilly duvet he couldn’t stop her from buying. But instead, of course, he is part of a team of trained law enforcement professionals, babysitting a bunch of intoxicated toddlers so they don’t damage their growing brains or whatever reason it is children aren’t supposed to drink, other than it being the law.
Phil and Powell follow the Chief up to the front door, while Becker heads around back to where the noise indicates some kids haven’t gotten the message of their arrival. The Chief pounds on the door with the meat of his big hand, shouting, “Police!” as he does in that intimidating bass Phil can’t ever seem to pull off no matter how much he practices. Angie tells him it’s a physiology thing—whatever that means.
Nothing happens for a moment and the Chief gives the door another pound and booms out another shout, until finally, some scrawny freshman-looking shithead with patchy skin opens the door like he thinks they might be guests arriving for a dinner party. Somehow, it surprises him that they are cops, even though behind him there is a blur of children scrambling to try and find an exit not blocked by police. The acne-ridden boy goes rigid and backs up, holding his hands up as if they have guns trained on him. He trips on his own feet and lands flat on his ass, hands still in the air.
Chief looks over at Phil, half-exasperated, half-amused and a little glassy-eyed from whatever he has taken this shift. He sweeps his arm out, inviting Phil to enter the house ahead of him, a little smirk on his lips as if saying, ladies first. Phil rolls his eyes.
“All right, kid, get up, go sit on the couch, Jesus—and don’t vomit, there’s already been enough vomit,” Phil says, helping Acne Boy get back up on his feet, which isn’t easy when the boy is entirely elbows and knees and those joints happen to be very drunk.
A little punk in a varsity jacket rams into Phil’s shoulder as he is guiding Acne Boy to the couch. He shouts out for the kid to freeze, but he barrels past both the Chief and Powell, who let him go, looking disinclined to chase after him. Well, so is Phil. He hates running. It means that he loses his grip on Acne Boy, who takes the opportunity to bolt after Varsity Jacket. He makes it out the front door—good for him—until he trips over his feet and gets a mouthful of grass for his trouble. He’s Daniels’s problem now.
The house is clearing out quickly, with only those too drunk to get their feet working left to deal with the consequences. Out the large front window of the Harrington’s living room—a bay window, Angie always talks about how much she wants a bay window—Phil can see Becker and Daniels corralling all the stumbling, slurring teens that didn’t disappear into the woods out back or simply down the street. They are sat down in a line next to Vomit Girl on the curb.
So far, Phil hasn’t seen any sign of the little asshole who actually has a claim to the house: Steve Harrington. He is looking for the big sweep of his cool-kid hair, recognizable in the dark from fifty yards away, but its distinctive silhouette is missing from the evening’s activities.
Powell goes to sweep around the rest of the main floor and pick up whatever left-behinds haven’t already bolted out the back. This isn’t the first party they’ve broken up in this house, not even the second or the third, and Powell knows the layout just as well as Callahan, well enough to anticipate which corners might be hiding an inebriated high schooler. With the yard and the first level taken care of, that leaves just the upper story to worry about and it seems like it is up to Phil and the Chief to do it.
However, when they get to the grand staircase that leads off the too-large foyer—Phil doesn’t know what the senior Harrington does for a living, but he knows for a fact he is overpaid—they are stopped by the lanky body of Mr. Cool Guy himself. He moves toward them quickly but is stopped by his own clumsiness, sliding down the slick wooden stairs as he attempts to make a break for it. Where does he think he is going to go, anyway? He lives here.
Well, the kid’s an idiot. Everyone at Hawkins PD knows that. He’s only proven it half a dozen times with his parties and by trying to take advantage of slutty girls in his car in broad daylight and by shoplifting beer from the convenience store around the corner from his house. Chief even went and talked to his teachers once—who happen to share the PD’s opinion of the kid’s IQ—in an attempt to work out the kid’s home situation for whatever reason. Phil doesn’t get it, but Chief’s just like that sometimes. Home situation. The kid’s a spoiled brat who skates through life with a pretty boy smile and his daddy’s money—no great mystery to solve there. But, of course, Chief snapped at him when he tried to point this out, so he shut his mouth about it. The Chief can waste his time if he wants.
Harrington is, unsurprisingly, only half-dressed when his socked feet lose their grip on the floor and he bangs down sideways. He’s got a striped polo in one fist that goes flying as he lands, letting out a pathetic ooph as the corners of the stairs jab into his ribs and hip. He slides down a few steps before coming to a stop, probably getting some kind of fiction burn on his naked torso for his trouble. In unison, Phil and the Chief recoil at the impact and hiss, a sympathetic pulse of pain appearing in Phil’s ribs. It disappears. His next reaction is a laugh that he tries to muffle, ineffectually, behind his hand. That’s karma for you. The Chief sends him a quieting glare.
“Jesus, kid,” Chief says, shaking his head as he jogs up a few steps to reach Harrington, helping him get back up to his feet. Up at the top of the stairs, the two little assholes that Harrington is always palling around with are staring down at him with looks of resigned annoyance. What are their names? Shit, Phil doesn’t remember, but he knows the boy’s freckles and disheveled hair and the girl’s snotty sneer and red-washed curls. They both look ruffled in a telltale fashion. Freckles has his belt hanging undone from their loops and Queen Bee is flushed, her breasts poking against her top in a way that means she isn’t wearing a bra.
Phil needs a raise. When he became a cop he really didn’t think he’d have to spend this much of his time dealing with bratty teens who need a health class or a priest to scare them out of sticking their parts into each other. If it were up to him, he’d carry around a bucket of icy water balloons to drench them with whenever they are getting too hot around the collar. He tries to peer around the two, waiting for the second girl to show up. Freckles and Queen Bee are a couple, that’s pretty common knowledge—but some poor girl must have been up there getting her virtue tainted by Harrington. She’s probably hiding, too ashamed by the idea of getting caught in the act by the cops.
“You got it, kid? You all right?” The Chief is saying as Harrington steadies himself. He’s not swaying too badly so it’s possible he hasn’t had time yet tonight to get too far down a bottle—probably too focused on his dick.
“Yeah, sorry. Yeah, I got it, thanks, Chief,” Harrington replies, in that faux-polite way of his. The kid is like that. He’s a gross little deviant, but he smiles and charms and minds his manners whenever he gets caught. Phil rolls his eyes.
“That was quite a fall. Nothing broken?” Chief asks, looking the kid up and down. There is a red patch along his side that looks like it is going to bruise something fierce, but he’s not doubled over in pain and his breathing looks normal. That’s good enough for Phil.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You sure?” The Chief says, sounding doubtful and concerned in a way that is hard to hear if you don’t spend half your time with the guy. To a stranger, he’d just sound as gruff and authoritative as always.
“No, I’m good. Really, Chief. Sorry.”
“All right, good. Now, let’s go downstairs and talk about how much trouble you’re in. You got a phone number for your parents? Where are they this time?” Chief says, the controlled calm coming back, washing over the previous worry. It’s that voice and the aura of balanced authority that keeps Phil respecting the guy despite the pill-popping, despite the occasional burst of temper, despite the odd flights of investing too much time in rich asshole pretty boys. Chief points up to the two spare high schoolers at the top of the stairs, motioning for them to follow. “You too—Hagan, Perkins. Let’s go. Come on. Party’s over, it’s consequence time.”
“Oh, come on, Chief. Do you gotta call my parents?” Harrington whines as he starts following the Chief back down to the living room.
“I have to at least know where they are, kid,” Chief says.
Phil presses himself against the wall to let the procession pass by, nodding to the Chief’s look when he jerks his head back up towards the second story. He gets it—look for the extra girl and any other teens who haven’t been schooled enough on pregnancy and VD stats, who haven’t heard the news vis-a-vis premarital sex and hell.
He wanders around upstairs for a while, opening every door he can find, including all the closets, and there are a lot of closets—an absurd amount, and a total of four of them are being used to store Mrs. Harrington’s wardrobe. Phil is pretty sure if you totaled up all the cash that was shelled out for all the dresses, coats, and designer pants that Mrs. Harrington has left in closets that likely haven’t been opened since her son was playing little league, Phil could buy him and Angie a second house, one with a bay window. He gets an ugly little thrill from snooping around the Harrington’s house—the dusty guest rooms no one uses, the book-lined office that smells like cigar smoke, the opulent master bedroom that could fit Phil’s entire first apartment inside. Jesus, these people. Their empty house and their careless, entitled, sex-maniac son.
Though he does discover what must be Queen Bee’s bra—cantaloupe-colored and overlayed with lace—abandoned oddly on Harrington’s desk along with his homework, what Phil doesn’t find for all his snooping is a second girl. She might have snuck out at some point, maybe when Phil was trying to figure out if Mrs. Harrington’s fur coats were made of mink or—well, he doesn’t know what else fur coats are made of. Probably mink. It dawns on Phil as he is making his way back downstairs that maybe there wasn’t a second girl. Maybe that little Queen Bee, whatever her name is, was up here with both boys and—Phil can’t help the way his face contorts in disgust at the idea. Jesus, are all these little brats perverts these days? Do none of them have any sense of—of self-respect? A sense of shame?
It’s not like Phil is so drastically removed from this generation. He’s twenty-seven, for God’s sake. He hasn’t even made it to his ten-year high school reunion yet, but somehow these kids seem completely removed from his understanding of the world. He certainly wasn’t taking some poor girl upstairs at a party with his friend and—and sharing her between them.
In a rarely visited part of Phil’s mind, some cluster of neurons acknowledges for a flash of a moment that he probably would have done that, if he had been invited to any parties or if any girls had ever actually agreed to have sex with him when he was sixteen. Some prickly sense of unnamed unease appears across his scalps but then—it’s gone. The thought and the feeling both evaporate before they can leave any sort of impression. It doesn’t dent the sense of self-righteous indignation that Phil can feel settling into the breadth of his shoulders.
When Phil makes it back downstairs, the Chief is standing in the middle of the Harringtons’ living room, which is filled with that kind of ornate, expensive furniture that people don’t tend to actually sit on. Phil knows that there is a second living room in the back of the house that is designed for actually living, while this room is simply a show of wealth. Chief has his arms crossed in front of him, making his broad chest look even bulkier than normal. The shadow of his arms also does something to hide the paunch of his belly that is always pressing threateningly against the fabric of his shirt.
A fourth teenager has appeared in the interim, joining the other three where they are seated on that uncomfortable furniture, all finely carved wood and shiny brocade. A boy with wild, dark curls that reach just below his chin in a ratty, unflattering style, sticking out below a bandana that’s been tied around his forehead. He is an anomaly in the room—certainly not matching the furniture, but he doesn’t even match the other children. His clothes are shades of black and ripped in strategically cool ways—one tear shows off a patch of pale skin on the boy’s chest. Phil doesn’t recognize him, but the blasé expression on his face makes Phil sure already that he doesn’t like him.
The only one who looks anywhere close to chastised is Harrington, over on the armchair, looking down at the carpet, his hands clasped in front of him like he is doing an impression of an altar boy sitting through the Sunday sermon. Phil wonders how long it took him to perfect that look—he’s certainly had a lot of opportunities to practice it. The final two are leaning back on the couch like they don’t have a care in the world. Freckles is glaring in defiance up at the Chief, his mouth twisted meanly. The girl plays with her curls, her eyes casually grazing back and forth from the Chief to random objects in the room like she finds this entire situation to be a big bore. She occasionally looks over at the odd boy in the black clothes, offering him a subtle snarl that he returns with a wink and a grin.
Phil has a passing urge to smack the girl—he wouldn’t, of course. No matter how much these brats get on his nerves, he’d never do that. He’s never raised a hand to any woman and he’s not going to start. It doesn’t mean he can’t have his little fantasies. This girl, with her smeared blue eye shadow and slouched posture—her soft, orange bra left behind without a care. This look of untouchability, superiority—like she wasn’t just in a bedroom at a party with two boys. Phil soothes himself with the knowledge that she’s got a payday coming to her without Phil’s help and she is not going to like it. They all do.
“You find any other little miscreants?” The Chief asks Phil, breaking the tense spell of silence in the room. He says the word—miscreants—with a mixture of perfunctory disapproval and amused tolerance and it does something to weaken the annoyance pulsing alone Phil’s jawline. The Chief’s good at that. Diffusion. Phil’s not sure how he does it. Every time Phil tries, it always seems to work in the opposite direction, no matter how much he is just aping the Chief’s demeanor. Maybe it’s what Angie says—what was it, physiology? Or is it anatomy? Phil honestly can’t remember the difference. Or psychology, or—who knows.
“No, sir, Chief. Looks like it was just these three up there.”
Chief nods. Phil waits for him to put the pieces together, to realize what these little deviants must have been doing, but he just moves past it. There isn’t a side-eyed glance or a wrinkle on his brow. “All right. I already sent everyone else off to take the unlucky ones back home to their mommies and daddies. I want you to take Miss Perkins and Mr. Hagan back to their respective homes. Mr. Munson, too—Powell found him trying to hide in the laundry room but he didn’t have room in the back of his car. Come back and pick me up when you’re done. I’m going to stay here and continue my chat with Mr. Harrington.”
“You sure you don’t want to charge ‘em, Chief?”
“Charge them?” Chief asks, looking surprised at the suggestion. His voice turns upward at the end of them followed by a breathy chuckle.
“Underage drinking.”
“You want to do that paperwork? No, just take them home. Let their parents deal with it.”
The truth is—no, Phil doesn’t want to do that paperwork, even if feels a bit like heartburn that the little punks, this trio that take up so much of the PD’s time and never seem to actually face any consequences, are getting off scot-free once again. Oh well, the faster he gets them back to their parents, the faster he can get home to Angie and a cold beer and his bed.
They have to take the Chief’s SUV, Munson sliding into the passenger seat next to Phil, continuing to wear that expression of insouciance—like it’s just a common hassle that he is driven home by the cops. Phil almost misses Vomit Girl and her weeping. At least she understood the gravity of the situation, had some respect for the badge. Perkins and Hagan don’t look any more likable in the backseat, sitting there with sullen faces, occasionally trading eye contact like they are carrying on a silent conversation. Phil doesn’t know why it’s so irritating—this preternatural connection the two have with each other. Teenagers shouldn’t be bonded like that. It’s weird. You’ve got to be marrying age before you find a partner you can read with a simple glance, that can comfort and understand you without words, without touch.
Jesus, this girl was just showing her underage tits off to this guy’s best friend. They shouldn’t be exchanging looks like that.
“You know, it’s strange,” Phil says, looking back at the two through his rearview mirror. Hagan’s bullish mouth and Perkins’s haughty brow are firmly in place. Munson stares out the passenger side window, pretending he isn’t listening. “Seems to me like there was some—ah, funny business going on upstairs at that party. Weird though, seeing as there were two boys and only just the one of you, Miss Perkins.”
“What are you trying to say?” Perkins says in a drawl. Her face hardly moves, just a challenging twitch to one of her eyebrows.
“I’m just wondering how that math works, you know. What kind of girl gets mixed up with two—”
“Hey, buddy, watch your mouth,” Hagan interrupts. Finally, there is some emotion other than stubborn irritation washing over his face. A spark of actual anger.
“That’s officer,” Phil barks back. “I’m not your buddy, kid. I’m an officer of the law!”
“All right—watch your mouth, officer.” The boy is sitting up straight, scooting as far forward as his seatbelt will allow. Phil almost wants him to lose it, to try to take a swing at him. Even the Chief isn’t going to let a kid get away with striking an officer. “I don’t like the way you are talking to my girl.”
“Your girl?” Phil lets out a chuckle. “This is how you treat your girl? Letting your buddies take a turn at her?”
“Hey, screw you!” Perkins shouts, stomping her foot down on the car floor. There’s a fizzle of rage on her face now, too and it feels—yeah, it feels satisfying. Next to him, Munson is now fully tuned in, watching the disagreement like it’s the Super Bowl. “He doesn’t let anyone do anything to me! Besides, I wasn’t even the one doing anything, God. I mean, barely. It was mostly just them—ah!” Phil looks up to the rearview mirror quickly enough to see Perkins rubbing at her forearm like she’s just been pinched. Hagan’s furious face is turned toward his girlfriend now, something fierce and meaningful in the look he is giving her. She melts a little at it before letting out a huff and turning to stare out the window at her side. Phil looks between them, barely able to keep his eyes on the road, trying to figure out what just happened. It was mostly just them—what? Them doing what? What does that mean?
“Whatever,” Perkins grumbles. “You just can’t handle a woman who likes sex, officer. You’re jealous. Probably a virgin.”
Jesus, this—this brat. This slut, coming at Phil like she knows anything about him like she has any—any authority to try and judge him, to look down on him. Phil squeezes the leather of his steering wheel, listening to it squeak below him. “Yeah? You think? I’m married, genius.”
“Yeah?” Hagan interjects. “And how many times do you think you’ve ever made this ‘wife’ come?” The girl stifles a giggle by sucking in her lips between her teeth which only makes Hagan’s smirk broaden.
“That’s it!” Phil shouts, pulling the car over to the side of the road and throwing it into park. He swings around, waving a finger between the two of them. “I am a goddamn police officer, you two! You will give me some—some respect or I will charge you with underage drinking, I don’t care what the Chief says. You understand me?”
They stay silent, perfectly matching glares on their faces.
“I said do you understand me? Do you want to go to the station? Spend the night in a holding cell?”
The two of them look down at the threat—finally, a sign of submission. “No,” Hagan grumbles out.
Phil looks toward the girl, who is still sneering despite the cowed posture. “You want to, little girl?”
She snarls at him but bites out, “No.”
“No, what?”
“No, officer.” She says the word like it is a swear, but it’s good enough. Phil turns back around and starts the car again.
They only get a few seconds down the road before Munson breaks the silence by snorting out a laugh. Everyone in the car glares over at him at once, but he just keeps snickering to himself like he couldn’t care less.
“What?” Perkins snaps before Phil gets the chance. “What’s so funny, freak?”
Munson shrugs, elongating the moment by busying himself with his bandana, pulling it off, flipping his hair around. Phil tries to just keep driving—just move forward. He has to get these fucking kids home so he can go home. Munson sends a little grin toward the backseat once he’s done fiddling. “Just, I’m over here thinking that if Perkins wasn’t even the one doing anything”—he mimics her high, droll tone with surprising accuracy—“then I’m just trying to figure out how the math works there. Seems to me like that funny business must have been particularly funny—”
“Shut your stupid mouth,” Hagan seethes, a feral sibilance to his words. He shoots forward too quickly and the seatbelt locks against his chest, making his next words even more choked. “I will fucking kill you, Munson, I swear to God—”
“Okay!” Phil shouts into the void that is the teenage mind. “Jesus, do you seriously not get that it’s a bad idea to make death threats in front of a cop? No more talking, do you hear me? All of you. Next person who says a goddamn word is going to jail.”
Blissfully, the three of them all fall silent. Hagan continues to stew in the back, while Perkins offers pathetic little pats to the side of his arm in an effort to calm him down. It seems to work if only a little. He glances over to her and Phil can see his expression soften by a few degrees. Munson, on the other hand, seems to be overly pleased with himself, smiling out into the night.
Phil wonders how mad Angie would be if he got an impulse vasectomy.
The rest of the car ride goes by with interruption. He arrives at the Perkins’ place first, parking in front of a modest rambler that is closer in size to Phil’s starter home than it is to the Harrington house. It’s painted a warm brown and has a well-tended garden—unpretentious and comfortable. It does not endear him. He climbs out into the night, happy to have his jacket on to keep off the chill despite the fact that it is quickly becoming summer—fucking summer, where there will simply be more parties and more vandalism and more loitering. An itch appears around his jaw and shoulder when he isn’t immediately joined by the lady of the house. He knocks against her window but finds her staring at the side of Munson’s face with a surprisingly solemn expression.
“Eddie,” she says, the demanding tone missing from her voice for once.
He looks back at her, still looking a bit smug and knowing. He seems to catch something in her expression, the pleasure on his face breaking into annoyance. The boy rolls his eyes. “What?”
“Are you going to be an asshole about this at school or what? Because—because that’s not cool. You know it’s not.”
Munson huffs, his lips pursing with a bit of sass that seems to be etched on his face permanently—but beyond that, deeper, there is perhaps a bit of sympathy. “Whatever,” he says. “I’m not the asshole around here.”
Phil has no idea what just happened, but Perkins seems satisfied. She takes a deep breath and finally deigns to follow Phil up to her front door. He feels off-balanced as he rings the doorbell and waits for Mr. or Mrs. Perkins to come to take their wayward daughter off his hands. It’s like something significant had passed underneath the conversation just now in the Chief’s SUV, but he didn’t have the key to translate it into actual words. Perkins is probably worried that Munson will spread around a rumor about her bedding two different guys in one night but—there seemed to be something else happening.
Whatever. Just stupid kid stuff, probably. Who the hell knows?
Disappointingly, when Mr. Perkins does come to the door, he is not particularly phased to hear his daughter has been out drinking at a party with boys and welcomes her inside with an indulgent pat on the shoulder. He smiles at her like she is still an innocent little preschooler who has done something cute like put her mother’s lipstick on, smearing it well past the edges of her lips. At least when they get to Hagan’s house and Phil walks him up to the door of his similarly modest family home, the boy incurs a twisted ear from his mother for being escorted by a cop.
By the looks of it, neither of the two comes from half the amount of money that Harrington does, which is an odd bit of comfort. Harrington’s going to come out smelling like roses no matter what he does because of his daddy’s money, but these two won’t be so lucky.
Lastly, Phil ends up at Forest Hills Trailer Park. Munson points him toward one trailer in particular, which is dark and still. As Phil starts shutting off the SUV, Munson mutters, “You don’t have to walk me up to the door or anything. No one’s home.”
“Nice try, kid,” Phil replies, getting out of the car and marching up toward the trailer. There’s no doorbell to press, so he pounds on the cheap, metallic door with the side of his fist, creating a tinny sound that echoes around the park. It’s well past midnight at this point, but a few trailers still show signs of life—the glow of televisions showing through windows, the soft hum of voices and music leaking out through thin exterior walls. The Munson trailer stays quiet as the echo dies out.
Munson appears at Phil’s elbow, a set of keys rattling in his hand. “I told you,” he says. “No one is home.”
Phil’s brow scrunches as Munson opens up the front door and swings it open, leaving it like that so Phil can peek inside and look around. Still, no one stirs from inside. “Where are your parents?” he asks.
“Great question,” Munson replies, something jaunty to his tone that does nothing to cover the ring of bitterness. “If I knew, I’m sure I’d tell you.”
“You don’t live here alone—”
“My uncle works nights, all right? I’m legally guarded. Are we done here?” He tosses his keys down onto a table to the side of the front door and turns to look at Phil with a stony expression, arms crossed over his chest.
For a moment, Phil feels slightly out of his body, and the strange, metaphysical largeness of him that extends behind the boundaries of his flesh is looking down at the two of them. It is thinking how young Eddie Munson looks with his scowl and his terrible haircut and his scrawny limbs. It is thinking how flimsy this little trailer feels and how alone and angry Phil might be if he were a seventeen-year-old going to sleep in the quiet of this box.
But then the moment is gone and Phil is just Phil again and he has no desire to spend one more second looking at or thinking about Eddie Munson. “Whatever, kid. Maybe try doing something productive with your next Friday night? Don’t want to end up some low-life stuck in a trailer for the rest of your life.”
Munson mumbles something under his breath that sounds sort of like fuck off but Phil’s too exhausted to care.
It’s at least forty-five minutes between when Phil leaves the Harrington’s house and when he makes it back. He bangs on the door, trying to get it to vibrate the way that the Chief does, but of course, it sounds hollow from his fist. How the hell does he do that? Harrington answers the door, standing aside for Phil to reenter the house, informing him that the Chief is back in the kitchen. When Phil finds him, he is sitting happily on a barstool at the kitchen island, eating a sandwich.
“Chief, what the hell?” Phil asks, pointing at the crumbs on his uniform. The man shrugs, unconcerned that it might be considered, Phil doesn’t know—inappropriate for a cop to just be snacking away with a kid whose party he just busted up.
“Got hungry. Didn’t think you’d take so long with the drop-offs.”
“Do you want a sandwich, officer?” Harrington asks from behind Phil, startling him into jumping and spinning around like he might be under attack. The kid looks unperturbed by Phil’s reaction and just stands there, blithely pointing at his refrigerator, inching toward it like he is perfectly happy to start pulling out some cold cuts.
“No,” he snarks out. “I don’t want a sandwich, kid. Jesus. Chief, are we done with this whole thing, yet? It’s almost one and I—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Chief says, waving his hand to shut Phil up like he does sometimes, always making Phil feel about ten years old. He tosses the last corner of his sandwich into his mouth and turns to look at Harrington with an expression of semi-seriousness, speaking through half-mushed bread and turkey. “You remember what I said, all right—about those two friends of yours. I know they’re your pals and that’s important, but you have to look out for yourself, too. And tell your father I want to have a word with him the next time he’s in town.”
“Yes, sir,” Harrington says, walking the two of them to his front door. The Chief claps him on the shoulder as he says goodnight to the boy and then he and Phil are on their way back to the Chief’s car.
“That Harrington kid is a piece of work,” Phil says once they are on the road, the Chief in the driver’s seat taking them to the station.
“Eh,” The Chief says, easily, pulling out a cigarette from the pack that lives permanently in his breast pocket. He lights it up, rolling down his window to let the smoke disappear into the late night. “He’s just a dumb kid. Hangs out with a couple of little jerks, sure, but they’re all just kids. Still got growing up to do. Harrington’s good enough underneath. Doesn’t act like it a lot of the time, but it’s hard to blame him with his parents the way they are.”
“What?” Phil asks, scoffing. “You mean spoiling him rotten? That little asswipe’s gotten everything handed to him.”
The Chief is silent for a long moment, taking a few turns with only the sound of his breath as he inhales and exhales smoke. The bright spots from various street lights gradually arrive and disappear at a measured pace.
“Things usually aren’t that simple, Callahan. There are a lot of ways to get screwed over,” Chief says, and—well, Phil doesn’t really know what that means. The Chief gets off on being cryptic sometimes and then turns around and gets pissy when no one manages to crack his code. Whatever. Phil’s done with it all for the night. He just stays quiet for the rest of the ride, lets the Chief think he is mulling over this piece of supposed wisdom and when they get back to the station, he says a simple goodnight and gets in his car to go home.