New Shoes Blues

By Kier

Rating: G

Summary: A trip to an out-of-the-way town leads to a long walk back to civilisation for Orwell and Trench.

Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended towards Warner Bros. who own the characters from Harry O. Ice Cold In Alex was made in 1958 by Ealing Studios.

They walked along the deserted highway for a mile. As usual, they were fighting. It was how they disguised their affection for one another.

Harry said, "How the hell was I supposed to know the car was gonna break down in the middle of nowhere?"

Trench said, "Orwell, being broken down is your car's natural state. How could you *not* know this was going to happen?"

This, Harry thought, was entirely unfair. Ever since his good friend and regular mechanic Spencer Johnson had been killed, he'd had problems with his car. Well, to be strictly accurate, more problems than usual, because there'd never been a time when he hadn't had problems with the car. Sadly, there just weren't that many mechanics around here who understood the workings of temperamental little English sports cars in the way Spencer had. He changed tack. "You didn't have to come along."

"Yes, I did. Who else but me can keep you outa trouble?"

"Maybe it's escaped the notice of that brilliant brain of yours, Trench, but right now we *are* in trouble."

"That's not my fault. If you hadn't managed to get us lost, we'd already be back in Santa Monica."

"You make it sound like I did it on purpose."

"I wouldn't put it past you."

Now that was just plain mean, but he let it go. The day was just too hot and dusty to argue any more. He took off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder, pulling his tie loose and undoing the first three buttons of his shirt. Might as well get comfortable, 'cause looked as if they were in for a long walk back.

Trench, on the other hand, had standards to uphold. He had a firm belief that police officers, unless working undercover, should be smartly dressed at all times. Today he was wearing a light tan suit, striped shirt and plain silver and white tie, and highly polished black shoes of the most fashionable kind. His tie was tied, his shirt-collar fastened. Only his hair had dared to buck the trend, ruffled in the warm breeze.

Harry, of course, had on his usual slightly frayed button-down shirt, rumpled chinos and well-worn deck shoes. He'd begun his police career as a beat officer back in San Diego, and since then he'd *always* made sure he had comfortable footwear. Of course, his friend rode around in a squad car all day, he could afford to put fashion before comfort. He had the feeling Trench was going to regret that touch of vanity before the day was out. Probably sooner.

The thought cheered him up. He really liked Trench, but there were times when that supercilious, super-efficient cop attitude was just a bit hard to take. Trench was always calling him a drop-out and a hippie, but then he wasn't the guy wearing the tight shoes right now, was he?

After another twenty minutes, Trench began to favour his left leg. "Y'all right?" Harry asked innocently.

"I'm fine," came the somewhat testy reply in that hard-as-brass voice of his.

"Only you're kinda limping."

"I'm *fine*," Trench insisted. And then, because at heart he was a very honest man, he added grumpily, "My shoes are new, they're not exactly broken in yet. I wasn't expecting to go hiking." Without even trying, he made it sound as if it was entirely Harry's fault that his feet hurt.

"Well, neither was I," Harry pointed out smugly, "but I always come prepared, like the Boy Scouts."

Trench shot him a burst of The Glare. The Glare usually reduced the stoutest-hearted miscreants to jello. On Harry, it slid off without leaving a mark.

"If you were prepared, you'd keep a toolbox in your car, and maybe by now you'd have it fixed."

"D'ya think I'd be looking for another mechanic if I knew anything about fixing my own car?"

"Time you learnt, then. That way I won't keep having to lend you money to pay your garage bills."

That was one of the funny things about Trench. All the bitching and sarcasm and smart-ass remarks, and he still gave Harry money when he was broke. Didn't even ask for it back.

"Ever see that old British war movie about three guys and a girl crossing the desert in an old ambulance, and all they want at the end is an ice-cold beer? Right now, I know just how they feel," he said, deciding he'd better change the subject double quick - before Trench really got into his stride, so to speak.

"I didn't think movies were your thing, Orwell."

"Well, they play 'em on TV, and once in a while I like to watch." A long pause. "It's called 'Ice Cold in Alex'."

"What is?"

"The movie. It's in black and white, but don't let that put you off."

Trench came to a halt. He looked at Harry. He'd left his sunglasses behind, and he had to screw his eyes up against the light. His face bore that frustrated expression it got when the conversation veered off its expected course and into uncharted territory. The Lieutenant had a neat, methodical mind, and he liked neat, methodical conversations. With Harry, what he got was anything but neat and usually as far from methodical as it was possible to be. And that was exactly how Harry liked it. Against Trench he needed all the advantages he could lay his hands on, because Trench was smart.

Finally, Trench said, "Every day I think I understand you, and every day, you end up baffling me even more."

"That's good. Keeps you from getting bored."

"Drives me crazy, you mean," Trench said moodily, as he started walking again. Harry preferred him that way, ruffled and a little off-balance. Much more fun to rag on him.

They walked some more without saying anything. Trench pretended not to limp, and Harry pretended not to notice him pretending. The were still miles from the main highway, and since it was pretty obvious by now that they weren't going to see any passing cars or trucks to hitch a life from, there was no getting out of walking the distance for either of them.

Harry walked at an easy, but steady sort of pace. As a private detective, he did a lot of footslogging, so he was used to situations where the arrival of alternative transport was not imminent. Trench, on the other hand, even went *door-to-door* in his car. No wonder his shoes weren't broken in yet, they probably hadn't been in contact with the sidewalk for long enough to take the gloss off.

"So what happens," Trench finally said.

"Where?"

"In the movie." Evidently he wanted something to take his mind of his sore foot.

"We-e-e-ell," said Harry, "there's these two guys, English soldiers, and a nurse, and they've gotta get away from the Germans in Africa in the war. And the only transport they have is this old, beat up ambulance. They go across the desert, and they meet this other guy who's supposed to be a South African, but he's really a German undercover agent. At first he tries to radio the bad guys, but then when they all run into trouble crossing the desert he helps 'em out. The boss Englishman is this little guy with a drink problem, and he's sweet on the nurse, but he's kinda not sure of himself and his leadership skills, and they all argue a lot 'cause they're hot and short of water and scared they won't make it through the desert in this rickety old ambulance."

"Their situation begins to sound more and more familiar," Trench said dryly. "Do they make it through alive?"

"Uh-huh. With the German guy's help - even after they realise he's German, he helps 'em. In the end, when they get to Alexandria, they give him a beer and let him drink it before handing him over to the MPs as a captured German officer, not a spy, so that he won't get shot."

"Very noble of them, in wartime."

"Hey, don't complain at me, blame the scriptwriter. I thought it was great, myself."

"Who wrote it?"

"Dunno," Harry shrugged. "But the little guy playing the captain downed his beer in one at the end, and they say it took about ten takes to get it right, so by the time he was done swallowing ten glasses in a row they hadda take him away 'n sober him up, 'cause they were using real beer for the shot."

"Right now I'd settle for *one* real beer," Trench said.

"Me too. I'll buy you one when we get back to civilisation."

"You know I don't go to bars," Trench said primly.

"Well, can't ya make an exception just this once?"

"Once you start making exceptions, it's the beginning of the slippery slope. One things leads to another and before you can turn around you've excepted your principles into oblivion."

"Huh?" said Harry. Not exactly an intelligent comment, but it served its purpose, which was to keep Trench talking. The more he talked about his principles, the less likely he was to think about his foot hurting and then give Harry grief about the car breaking down.

"I start hanging out in bars with you and who knows where it'll lead."

"To a cold beer with a friend," Harry muttered. "An' you've had a drink with me before - remember Art Sully? That time at Ziggy's place, that used to be Henny's Roost? You told me you prefer Bach to jazz."

"That was a private party. Doesn't count."

Which was Trench all over. Catch him out only to discover he'd changed the rules when you weren't looking. "For that you get to stand out on the sidewalk and drink Coke."

"If I haven't melted before we reach Santa Monica again... if we ever do."

"Then take your damn jacket off. *I* don't care whether you look smart or not, and there's nobody else here."

"*I'm* here, Orwell."

"Wouldja rather go on sweating? Loosen up, Trench, it'll do you good. Ya gotta relax once in a while or somethin' vital's gonna snap in half."

"And have you turning me into a beach bum, lounging around like you do all day?"

"Now that I'd like to see," Harry said with a grin. "Get some tan on those skinny legs of yours."

For that he got another dose of the Glare. He just smiled wider. He loved it when Trench got all steamed up. Watching him go off the deep end was fun.

Realising he was being send up ever so gently, Trench started walking faster. Not the smartest thing he could have done, under the circumstances. Now he really was hurting, and too proud to admit it, of course. He'd sooner wear his foot down to a stump than say he had a blister. Blisters were for softies like private detectives.

Further up the road there was a big rock. Actually, a big squarish chunk of concrete, perhaps left behind when the highway was abandoned. Reaching it, Harry sat down. "I'm gonna take five, I suggest you do the same."

Amazingly, Trench did.

**************

Sometimes, Lieutenant K.C. Trench wondered what mortal sin he'd committed in a previous existence to merit the punishment of Harry Orwell's friendship.

Not that he didn't like Harry, of course. It was more the fact that he couldn't seem to stop himself from getting tangled up in Harry's disaster zone of a life, with frequently disastrous consequences. Like today. What should have been a straight-forward visit to an out of the way town to ask a few simple questions had turned into a marathon cross-country trek. Trench was hot, tired, thirsty, and he had a blister on his heel roughly the size of Arizona. He was not a happy man.

Glumly, he contemplated taking off his shoe for a while to relieve the pain, if only temporarily. But that left the problem of putting the damn thing back on afterwards, which might hurt a great deal more. In addition to exposing his foot, not to mention his socks, to possible mockery by Harry; (Trench might have called him 'Orwell' to his face, and to other people, but in his head, it was always 'Harry'. Quite why he should make this distinction was beyond him, but he always had).

He decided the gain wasn't worth the pain, and instead tried unsuccessfully to ignore the throbbing. Since there were no other available distractions, he looked at Harry Orwell.

Sitting beside him with his coat gathered loosely in his arms, Harry remained as laid back and unconcerned as ever, idly tossing little chips of granite across the deserted asphalt. His easy-going acceptance of their current situation annoyed Trench no end, particularly as he secretly envied it. There were a hundred and one jobs stacked up back in town that he ought to be doing right now, and instead here he was stuck in the middle of an abandoned road project with Harry Orwell. Trench's sense of order and duty seldom allowed him to relax very much. Doing nothing was anathema to him. When engaged in solving the problems of a client, Harry was hard-working and energetic; in between times, he was a sloth. As soon as it was possible to do nothing, Harry embraced the opportunity, happily and enthusiastically.

Doing nothing made Trench's teeth itch. Workaholic? He was a *lifaholic*.

"How can you just *sit* here on this concrete rock, as if nothing's happened?" he finally demanded in an aggrieved tone.

"Nothing *has* happened," Harry said reasonably. "You said my car's always breakin' down, and you were right, so why get so burned up? It's not like we're never gonna make it home. Another coupla hours and we'll be back where were can thumb a lift to a garage and get ourselves a nice cold drink." He smiled in that infuriatingly engaging way he had, and added, "They probably sell Band-Aids, too."

"Careful you're not the one who's gonna be needing the Band-Aids, Orwell," Trench said grumpily. "If I arrive back at the office and find I've missed out on something good, you'll regret you ever moved from San Diego."

"Who says I didn't regret it already?" Harry said, though the twinkle in his eyes showed he wasn't serious. "C'mon, let's hit the road. The sooner we get going, the sooner we'll be back." Casually, gazing more at the sky than at Trench, he held out his hand to pull him up.

Surprised, Trench accepted the help, wincing as he put his full weight back on his left foot. "Jesus H. Christ!" He usually didn't go in for cursing much, but under the circumstances... He wished passionately for his sunglasses, to hide the tears of pain that surged into his eyes, and blinked furiously, pretending he was dazzled by the sun, which didn't fool Harry for a second.

"Amazing how an itty-bitty thing like a blister can hurt so much. Right up there with piles and toothache."

Without answering, Trench started walking. In spite of the pain, he had to bite his lip to suppress a smile. /Damn the guy, how does he always do this to me? I must be getting soft. In the head, probably./

Twenty minutes further on, and Trench finally capitulated to the heat and yanked loose his necktie, twisting open the top button of his shirt, before sliding out of his jacket. "Give it here," Harry said gruffly. "And gimme your gun, as well, all that unnecessary ballast must be slowing you down."

Without a squeak of protest, Trench handed over his jacket, and unhooked the .38 from its holster on his belt. Harry shoved the gun casually into the waistband of his pants - /like a cheap hood/ Trench thought wryly - and slung Trench's suit jacket carelessly over his shoulder. He slapped Trench cheerfully on the shoulder. "There, doncha feel better now?"

"No!"

Harry smiled.

An hour later they finally hit the proper highway once again. By this time, Trench was really limping in earnest, hanging onto Harry's solid shoulder for support. Never in his life had he been so glad to hear the noise of ordinary traffic. Harry held out his thumb, and in a couple of minutes a car pulled up and a young man leaned out.

"Help you guys? - oh, hi, Lieutenant! Didn't recognise you there for a second. You okay?"

It was Detective Arnold Bradshaw - one of his own men.

Trench turned on Harry. "Never, ever again, in my life, am I going anywhere with you wearing new shoes!"

Two hours after that, restored to his usual immaculacy, and with his rubbed-raw heel protected from further damage by a large Band-Aid, Trench was sitting in a bar with Harry. In front of them were two ice cold beers, placed there by the bar-tender only moments before.

"See, aren't you glad you unbent those unbendable principles just a bit, Trench? Ice cold beer, just like in Alex."

"As long as I don't have to down it in a single take."

"There's just one problem," Harry said, shuffling on the bar stool somewhat uneasily, and refusing to look his friend in the eye.

"What?"

"Well, see, I think I dropped my billfold back on the old highway...."

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