Sally and Vince - In Their Lane

>”Ready Sal?”
>”You bet, Vince.”
>”Let’s roll.”
>Hopping into the passenger seat she was ready to move, the man gunning the engine hard
>Brushing a hand through his thick moustache, mirrors preened and corrected, the duo zipped off to that night’s destination
>Cruising along the narrow, crowded streets Sally bounced her leg, nervous
>Everything had been building to this night
>Weeks of effort on top of her months now on the force had pushed her ahead to this point
>Their first case had been cleared, Vince recovered and wanted back in the saddle
>And the saddle was where they found themselves currently, Sally slipping a finger into her pocket to play with the little lead keepsake she’d become fond of
>Twirling it in her fingers, feeling its luck wash through her fingers, she slowed the drumming bounce of her knee
>”Everything alright Sal?”
>”Y-Yeah, just some nerves.”
>”Hey,” he said, turning to her. “You’re the best damn partner I could ask for. You got this.”
>”Thanks Vince.”
>Knee arrested still they stopped at their destination, the stooped building flashing in strobing bulbs, a train of buzzing lights running across the building’s awning
>Both had their bags in hand, Sally sporting a recent department purchase for her feet, special made for more arduous and physical police work, but ideal for tonight’s engagement
>Strolling into the building they were met by the cacophonous clatter of the building’s striking business
>Mercifully they went undetected in the noise, silently switching to their other shoes; there’d be no identifiable footprints if they could help it
>Strolling down the length of the waxed wooden floors they found their stop, their targets lazing about aimlessly, waiting
>”Sh*t, took you long enough!”
>”Why’s it always Vice that’s late?”
>”Hey, it’s fashionable,” Vince snapped. “You’d know fashion if you stopped dressing like a corpse, Jensen.”
>”Don’t tell me what’s fashionable when disco died, like, last year Travolta.”
>”Doesn’t help you dressed the robot like that too,” cackled the lady detective
>”Ooh you’re gonna regret that,” Sally joined, furnishing her weighty bag in front of them
>”Whatever, *Corduroy*,” she snapped back, laughing
>The gathered representatives of the other investigative departments, some of the city’s finest minds, furnished their bowling balls in hand
>It was a menacing sight, each of the grizzled duos bedecked in their finest, clownish bowling shoes gliding over the ground
>”I’ll set up,” Vince started, taking his place at the chunky computer between the half ring of benches
>The other watched him idly type at the machine, keys clacking as he pressed in the teams
>Tossing his head up at the overhead his eyes narrowed, brow wrinkling in turn
>Glancing back and forth he tried to match up what he was seeing, the other detectives snickering at his expense
>”Computer trouble Vince?”
>”Screw off man,” he groaned, turning to his partner. “Sal?”
>Nodding the slim robot took his place at the console, expertly piecing together its function and splaying the names and teams across the updating board
>The city had invested in primitive personal computers for the police and, lacking anyone able to work them, had run into quite the technical stopgap
>Sally, though, had no issue figuring the blocky machines out, their simple scanning displays a delight to her eyes
>”All good,” she peeped rising from her spot
>Kicking her bowling shoes around she took up a spot on the sidelines, the Arson detectives first up
>Kilkenny and Walker, grim, ashen men and the oldest of the octet playing, considered themselves some of the better bowlers in the department, choosing to remind their coworkers at any time how well they’d played *last time*
>Off to a stupendous start the two nabbed a strike and a following spare, a simple nod between them all they needed
>Next was Traffic, the garish pair of Jensen and Bianchi, swaggering up in their plush, padded jackets and bowling horribly as usual
>The first sank into the gutter, a chorus of laughs pushing the other to whiff his spare
>Sulking back to their spot on the bench they talked strategy, preparing for the next round where they’d finally stick it to the others
>Second to last was Homicide, the premier of the investigative departments, fostering some of the newest and some of the most experienced detectives on the force
>Sauntering up to bowl was Lopez, the just-graying veteran sniffing the air before bowling a perfect strike, fourteen-pounder catapulting ahead with precision accuracy
>He pat the shoulder of his junior partner, the young woman marching into place
>Sweeping a lock of her red hair back she stared dead ahead, eyes fixed on the pyramid of pins as she wound up
>The ball rocketed down the alley, a little twist pulling it away from its gutter-bound trajectory into the side of the pins, a brutish clattering clearing way for a textbook spare
>”Good sh*t Murphy,” her partner shouted, hand slapping his knee
>Grinning the lady returned to her spot, bowling ball spat back up as Vice’s turn finally came
>A friendly bit of heckling was always welcome, but with Vince stepping up to bowl the volume picked up, jeers and laughs a bit louder
>”Yo Sean,” Walker shouted back. “Travolta’s up!”
>”Feck,” he muttered, speeding back, beer in hand. “Don’t wanna miss this.”
>Nicknames were common in the department, but rarely rude
>That is if you weren’t Vincent la Fontaine, and his unfortunate partner
>”Travolta and Corduroy” was one of the biggest jokes in the precinct building for months, the discoish antics and patched jacket the only in the others needed
>Vince shook it off, one of the drawbacks of being the youngest senior detective in the precinct
>Breathing deep he stepped ahead, the ornery pendulum of his arm swinging ahead
>Pulling into his knee he let loose, a ripper cascading down the lane and rocketing into the first pin
>Bullseye
>The tumbling mess fell flat, raked back for a perfect strike
>He shuffled backwards, striking a pose to rub the Arson-holes’ faces in it
>”You’re up Sal,” he winked. “You got it.”
>A few more pokes at her patched jacket yanked her back, the bot wobbling at the edge of the lane
>Breathing she glanced back at her partner, a subtle nod all she needed
>Stretching ahead she let loose, her lighter ball (another joke for the others), slipping along the waxy wood
>It veered dangerously right, the spin barely coming in
>Breaking left it smashed into the third and sixth pins, knocking them down and away
>Wheeling around she cheered a bit, met by the stone faces of the other detectives
>Smiles started to crack as they giggled and snickered at her, the robot turning about again
>And there it was, the most infamous of splits in the entire sport of bowling
>The daunting seven-ten stared back at her like the gates of Hell, waiting for her to dare to spare
>Vince hopped up from his spot and grabbed her shoulder, pulling her into a small huddle before she tried again
>”Alright Sal, here’s how this plays out,” he whispered. “Whatever the outcome, we’re ahead of Traffic by a mile. Easy-peasy.”
>Nodding resolutely she picked up her minute ball, lining herself up perfectly
>She was going for the spare, and she knew how
>It’d take a while to run through in her head but the ingrained ballistics calculator could work for nailing the seven pin into the ten, easily
>All she needed was a moment to think, hand gently raising the ball
>Breathing slowed she focused in, the heckles from behind her forgotten as she let the ball slip forward again
>Rocketing leftward it hugged the gutter, twisting right to bounce the seven pin across the lane’s width
>Time slowed for a moment, the twirling block of wood and plastic hurled sideways into its lone sibling
>Rocking a fist in the air Vince jumped from his seat, hooting and hollering
>”*That’s* my partner,” he guffawed, pointing in the faces of his grumbling coworkers
>”It’s only the first frame Vince,” Lopez muttered
>”If this is how our first frame is gonna play out I think you’re all outta luck.”

>And he was right
>Coming down to the final frame Vice was neck and neck with the duo of Arson
>Agonizingly Vince whiffed on his spare, leaving the outcome to Sally
>After a rough spat in the middle-frames she came back into her own, nabbing a double in the previous frame
>If she could sink this strike it was all over, all those nicknames would be washed away in a smug deluge after this
>”No pressure,” Vince reminded her, drawing a straight arrow down the lane and to victory
>Breathing again, trying to slow the synthetic panic building in her chest
>Pausing for a moment she plumbed her hand into her pocket, fingers running over the silvery little bit of metal from all those months ago
>She’d weathered worse than a bowling match- this was no big deal
>”No big deal,” she mumbled under her breath, muting the groans behind her to hurry up
>Arm swung behind her she pulled low to her knee, letting the ball slip ahead, grinding silently over the wooden lane and towards the triangle of pins
>With a knock the one pin was flung sideways, sweeping its neighbors down as the ball continued its rampage through the mass
>Pins bouncing away and down the maw at the end of the lane it was painfully clear to the others what was happening
>Sally rocked up, hopping in her slippery shoes
>Vince shot up again from his seat, laughing hard in the faces of the other detectives as he rushed over to Sally
>The cheering robot couldn’t stop shimmying, adaptive programs loosening her from any pervasive social conventions
>”Fuggen *gold* Sal! Right here,” he beamed, hand up high
>Smacking his hand with hers they kept up the party, the other six already doffing their bowling shoes and packing up
>”What’s the matter guys? Not gonna stay for drinks or anything?”
>A few muttered about work piling up, others silent as they ambled about, finally leaving the alley
>The other two took the time to celebrate their win, drawing up a list of brags for the next day at the office
>Dropping Sally off at the precinct to charge Vince sailed back for his apartment, wind whipping his hair through the open window
>Racing home, heart pounding higher in amorous excitement, he couldn’t wait to fling the door open to his cozy flat
>Sherry was gonna die laughing hearing about how Sal gave the city’s finest a run for their money, the two giggling over drinks as the night wound down