"And you're ugly. But I can buy a watch." Gil Gates slipped into the chair next to Sam, glancing around. "Apparently I'm not the only late one. Where's D'Amato?"

"Oh, you know." Sam screwed up his face. "All lovey-dovey at home these days. He probably won't even show up."

"Who won't show up?" Nick D'Amato slapped the back of Sam's head. "Wouldn't be talking about me, now, would you?" He pulled out a chair, throwing his leg over the back, and sat.

"Don't do that!" Sam cradled the back of his head. "Christ, you'd think we were back at the academy together."

Nick smiled. "Sometimes I feel like we still are. These past few months, I'd swear I was twenty years younger."

Gil raised a hand, summoning the waitress. "Regular sex will do that to you. So come on, spill it. How are things at home? William getting along okay?"

They paused long enough to greet their regular server. "Hey, Donna," Sam said. "Could we get three beers, please?"

"Sure, detective. Light beer on tap, I assume?"

"Fine, thanks."

The plump, middle-aged woman nodded and returned to the bar.

Sam turned back to his friends, and had to smile. They did look the same as when they'd met in the police academy. A little more filled out, with a crease or the occasional gray hair, but basically the same. Gil still wore his blonde hair closely cropped. Nick's hair was consistently shaggy, hanging over his collar. That hadn't changed.

The spring in Nick's step, however, was a fairly recent development. Since he settled down with his lover, William, Nick wore a permanent smile on his face. They exchanged rings in front of a long-haired minister and all their friends, and settled into a bungalow in Bedford Park. Nick transferred from the vice squad, in the forty-first precinct where Sam worked, to the fifty-second precinct, and a job working with kids in an anti-gang task force.

Now both Nick and Gil lived in the more affluent Northwest Bronx. Sam was the lone holdout, content to remain in South Bronx at the older precinct, affectionately nicknamed 'Fort Apache' for the violence there decades ago.

Donna returned with three mugs of beer, setting them on the table. "Want me to run a tab?"

"D'Amato's paying," Gil informed her, picking up his stein.

"Whatever." Nick shrugged good-naturedly.

The waitress held her hand out to him. "Well?"

"We're not quite done drinking, Donna," Sam said.

She rolled her eyes. "I know that. Since when has Mr. Stuck-in-the-Eighties not wanted me to play something on the jukebox?"

"Oh!" Nick pulled a wallet from the pocket of his black leather jacket. "Here you go." He handed her two dollar bills.

"I think they put Springsteen's new song in there. Like to hear it?"

Nick screwed up his face. "Not really. Something classic, maybe?"

"What a surprise." She snatched the bills from his hand and walked off.

Sam shook his head, sipping his beer. "Some things never change. So you never answered, Nick. How's Will handling everything, now that he's out of rehab?"

"Will's doing great. He goes to meetings; collects his chips just like they give at A.A. Sometimes I go with him. I think he's done remarkably well."

Nodding, Sam grinned as the familiar tune of Born in the U.S.A. wafted overhead. He smiled at his friends and they nursed their beers. He and Gil had been surprised to learn Nick's lover had a sex addiction--they'd heard of it, but never known anyone with that particular affliction. Nick assured them it was an illness like alcoholism or drug addiction. It possibly took more help to overcome, because most people just didn't give up sex. Like overeating, it was a condition to be managed, not cured. "I'm really glad to hear it. And his job at the Bronx Zoo, how's that working out?"

"He loves it! Comes home smelling like an animal most days, but he's working outside, and really seems to enjoy it."

"Can't imagine you mind the smell," Gil teased. "You've always been an animal in the sack. If you make it to the sack, that is. Hell, you probably throw him over the sofa and mount him right there when he gets home. Am I right?"

"You been watching?" Nick raised his eyebrows and smiled. "If there's videotape, we'd like a copy. So what about you, old man? Still living vicariously through my fabulous sex life? I can share details, if you want to go in the men's room and whack off."

"Gawd, spare me." Gil waved a hand. "I'm still going through a dry spell, but that's to be expected when a long term relationship ends. Jerry and I were together eight years."

Sam nudged Gil's arm. "That ended six months ago, buddy. Time to pick up and move on."

"Don't rush me. I do things at my own pace."

"And always have," Nick agreed. He tossed back the last of his beer and deposited the mug with a thud. "Another round, anyone and everyone?"

"Yep." Gil nodded, finishing his first.

"Why not?" Sam sank back into his chair. They were all driving, but one more wouldn't hurt. Half the police force of the Bronx was in Houlihan's anyway, as they were most Friday nights. He looked around, noticing a familiar face moving through the crowd.

The man had neatly cut black hair. The sides and back buzzed close like his, but the top appeared longer, smoothly slicked back. Light brown skin hinted at a Hispanic heritage, which was common in the area. The Bronx was a melting pot. South Bronx, in particular, ran heavy with different cultures.

Where have I seen him before? The face seemed familiar, the muscular physique one Sam felt sure he wouldn't easily forget.

"What's wrong?" Gil watched his face.

"Nothing. Just thought I recognized a guy, is all."

"Who?" Nick spun around, looking from table to table around the bar. He and Gil blatantly scanned the crowd.

"Turn around!" Sam snapped, passing out the fresh beers Donna left at their table. "Christ, I can't take you two anywhere."

"What?" Nick said.

"Oh, shit." Sam fidgeted as the man approached their table. "Don't say anything."

"Why?" Gil asked, glancing up at the newcomer. "Hey, there."

"Hi. Man, this place is packed. I heard a bunch of guys at the department talking about getting a beer here after work. Thought I'd check it out."

The police department. That was it. "Ah, yeah." Sam nodded, remembering the man from work. "You're the new guy, Ramirez, isn't it?"

"Rodriguez. Bobby Rodriguez. You're Sam Nielson. I just got here from Brooklyn a couple days ago. Haven't met everyone yet."

"Oh," Sam said inanely, and the conversation lulled.

Nick extended his hand. "Good to meet you, Rodriguez. I'm Nick D'Amato. I used to work vice at the forty-first."

Bobby shook his hand, and smiled. "Vice at Fort Apache. That had to be interesting."

"Very interesting," Nick agreed.

Sam watched the exchange. Nick would never tell anyone his lover had been a hustler in his precinct when they met. That was the reason they moved north, for a fresh start. Of course, Nick knew he and Gil would keep the secret. The three men were like brothers. Sam would take a bullet for either of them. He just wished Nick would stop talking to this new guy. Something about him made Sam nervous.

"This is Gil Gates," Nick introduced. "Watch out, he's a captain up in Kingsbridge. He can make your life hell if he chooses to."

"Pleased to meet you, sir," Bobby replied nervously.

"D'Amato is full of shit," Gil muttered in his gravelly voice. "Yeah, I'm a captain. But I haven't made anyone's life hell in a long time. Might start with you, D'Amato, you asshole."

"Bring it on, big boy." Nick grinned, patting Gil's shoulder.

Sam felt Nick's boot nudge him under the table, but he couldn't think of anything to say.

"So," Nick picked up the conversation again. "What department did you say you were in?"

"Special investigations," Bobby replied.

"Really? How interesting. Sam here's in homicide." Nick glared at Sam.

"Yeah, I've seen him there." Bobby glanced around. "Well, it was great meeting you all. I'm going to grab a beer and watch some of the game on that big screen in the corner."

"Good to meet you. Have a nice night," Nick told him.

Gil added, "Take it easy."

"Yeah." Bobby glanced at Sam one last time and sauntered off.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Nick muttered through his teeth, kicking Sam's shin hard.

"Ouch!" Sam grabbed his leg.

Gil glanced toward the back of the pub. "He's one tall drink of water. And there sits Nielson, thumb up his ass, not saying a freaking word. Am I right?" He looked at Nick.

"You're right. Sam, he's gorgeous! He works in your building! What's wrong with you? Why didn't you ask him to join us?"

"Friday nights are our time," Sam replied petulantly. "We never ask anyone to join us."

"It's not a freaking law, you jackass." Gil shook his head.

"What makes you think he wanted to join us, anyway?" Sam muttered. "He wanted to watch the game, not hang out with three gay guys."

"You don't think he's gay as hell?" Nick asked incredulously.

"How the fuck should I know? It's not stamped on his forehead."

Nick and Gil burst into laughter. "He practically drooled over Sammy," Gil spouted between guffaws.

"No fooling." Nick shook his head. "Those were fuck me-big brown eyes if I've ever seen them."

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He'd get up and walk out, but his cock bulged painfully in his jeans, and he didn't want to move. "You two are full of shit."