The Fight Story (Hoover/Tolson)

Not exactly a "J. Edgar" fan fiction, more like, I wrote a story based on a rumor that I read about them. 

This fan fiction story is based on a rumor that the owner of a hotel in California overheard J. Edgar Hoover and Clyde Tolson fighting one night while on vacation. According to this man's story, loud screaming and the sound of breaking dishes were heard from their suite. A few moments later the door slammed shut, and Tolson came storming out of the room. Hoover had thrown a very heavy ashtray at him, busting his lip wide open, giving him a black eye. Hours later, Tolson came back to the hotel. The two men returned to Washington, and Tolson took nine days off work to treat his injuries.

-(6-4-12) I'm all for history, so I have to put a historical note in this. According to another biography I read, this really happened, but Clyde didn't return to the hotel. He was driven to the hospital by the hotel manager, and went straight from the ER back to Washington. A few days later, he and Edgar, made up over the phone, and Edgar got on the next plane back to D.C. A friend of theirs (who knew of their relationship) drove Clyde in a darkened limo to the airport. When Edgar hopped in the car, the two men had their, "make-out/up" session in the backseat. That's what it said in the bio I read (J. Edgar & Clyde Tolson by, Darwin Porter). I wrote this short story about a year before I knew the whole incident. This story supposedly took place in the late 40s/early 50s.

-Oh, what was their fight about? According to the biography, Edgar and Clyde had just returned from the races. While there, they sat with Desi Arnaz, and Edgar made a comment to Clyde about how attractive the man was.

*****

Clyde gripped the doorknob tight as he slammed the door behind him. He could hear the faint ramblings of Edgar in the shared commons of their suite, followed by the sounds of more dishes breaking.  He left the bungalow and started stalking off towards the ocean, finding himself getting angrier as he felt blood trickling down his mouth from where his lip had split. Navigating his way down the pier in the dark with one eye shut was not an easy feat but the shouts of, "Clyde you can be a goddamned annoyance sometimes," that echoed in his brain were more than enough incentive to keep going. He remembered looking away as Edgar took his dinner plate and smashed it against the dinner table, remembered Edgar standing up from the table on shaky legs as he turned to go to his bedroom, to sleep alone. In the corner of his eye, he saw Edgar start to reach for something on the bar. He didn't react fast enough, though, and a heavy ceramic ashtray hit him square in the face. For a moment the room grew dizzy and Clyde felt dazed, his left eye immediately swelling shut. When he finally comprehended what happened he turned and raced from the room, the taste of blood staining his mouth.

This isn't the first time he has hit you, belittled you in public, or emotionally abused you. His brain taunted him. With a sigh, Clyde plopped down on the cool sand. The sounds of the ocean began to calm him down. The two of them had been seeing each other for almost twenty years. They've had their good times, and bad.

"Seems like, lately, all we do is fight," Clyde murmured to himself. Eventually he rose his hand to lips, checking to see if the bleeding had stopped. It had. Slowly he opened his bruised eye. The beach was deserted, a few torches lit the pier behind him.  "He always makes it up to me, though. Always." He spoke to himself again, but this time more resolute. As soon as the words left his mouth, however, he felt that sureness drain out of him. He closed his eyes. Am I only going back to him because of the sex?

With a deep sigh, he remembered the night years ago when they were in a limo with friends, having just left a nightclub. Edgar was visibly upset over seeing a white woman dancing with a black man and had been going on and on about the utter indecency of it the entire ride home. Having had way too many drinks flowing through his system, Clyde rested his head against the window and absentmindedly muttered aloud, "Well, I'd like to dance with you." That remark got him a smack when they returned to the hotel.

A few more minutes passed before Clyde slowly stood back up. From his vantage point on the beach he could see the lights were still on in their rooms, as well as in the owners' place as well a few doors down. There was no doubt in his mind that the owners had overheard their fight. It's a good thing they know, and don't care. The rooms were booked under Edgar's name, so maybe they're too afraid of him reprimanding them to call the police.

Walking back to the bungalow, he found the door to be unlocked. Creeping in he saw that the suite to be just as he left it: smashed dishes littered the floor, food on the walls. Wonderful.

The sounds of Perry Como on the record player wafted in from their shared bedroom. Here it goes. He knew you'd be coming back. You always come back.

"Calmed down?"

Spinning around, he saw Edgar standing behind him, martini glass in hand.

"Goodness, you're bleeding!" His eyes grew large in disbelief.

"You threw an ashtray at me!" Clyde ground out between his teeth as he stomped his way into the washroom, heading right for the sink. "Of course I'm bleeding!"

Yanking open the vanity drawer, he fumbled for a washcloth. He turned on the tap and began washing off the dried blood that was smeared across his jaw.

"I didn't mean for it to hit you. I was mad. You know how I get sometimes?" Edgar said it as if it was a question. As if Clyde wasn't the person who most knew just how he could get.

Shooting a glare at Edgar in the mirror, Clyde turned off the taps, rang out the washcloth, and hung it over the rail to dry.

"I'm tired. I'm sleeping in my room tonight."

"Don't."

Clyde noticed Edgar's voice was thicker than it'd been before Clyde had left. He'd must have been downing bottles of gin as soon as Clyde had shut the door.

"Let me make it up to you! I have an idea; tomorrow we're supposed to be back at work, right? How about you take a week off. Hell, take two weeks off. With pay!" By the end Edgar was pleading, near hysterics because even in his drunkard state he could see that Clyde wasn't biting.

"Gee, thanks boss."

Right as he turned to slide past Edgar from where he was blocking the bathrooms doorway, he felt the man's hands on his shoulders. "Let me make it up to you." With a sigh, Clyde leaned back against the wall.

He felt Edgar's finger's tremble slightly as they worked at unbuttoning his shirt. This is why you always come back.

  (Thanks to @aviateurs for the editing.)