"We are talking about anger here, Fraser, a human emotion. Are you human? Because if you are, human beings feel things. Okay? They feel anger. They feel love. They feel lust and fear. And sometimes, I know you don't want to hear this, sometimes they even cry."
[ Armando Langoustini was having an awful month, which meant that the FBI were having a good month, which meant that Ray Vecchio was having a horrible, godawful, put it in the ground it's done month. He was exhausted and it showed, and what little joy he'd managed to scrimp and save out of the entire scenario had died the moment Fraser had shown up. He'd smiled politely and sat himself down at the blackjack table dressed in a penguin suit, then proceeded to win, and by the time he'd shown up on the cameras he'd already drawn attention to himself.
But that crap was all at least behind him, and compared to the last few days the headache with Fraser had really been a nothing. Insignificant in the grand scheme of things - or at least that was what the FBI idiots that called himself his handlers insisted. God, he should have done more than break that one guy's nose. Fraser was his best friend, he'd only gotten into this mess because he'd come down here looking for him.
Okay, so his best friend was also an idiot, but that wasn't new, at least to Ray.
(And Fraser hadn't done so badly. He'd in fact been there three whole days before anyone noticed him, and he'd sent a postcard back to Ray Kowalski on the second day which said "Armando Langoustini", and the name of the casino where the consigliere had his office. More than enough information for his partner to follow up if something happened. Noone had caught that one on the way out of Vegas.)
But that was last week. This week, little Bobby Scargetti had gone and gotten himself shot in the face during a closed game in Little Paris. Since then nerves had been tight, a grenade had been thrown into the coffin at the funeral, and people on both sides were baying for blood. Ray was - not for the first time - scared for his life, but the Feebs were over the moon (despite having to sneak him out from under Vegas PDs noses) because they were anticipating a sit down to iron out the disagreement, and a sit down meant Ray getting in close enough to learn something really useful.
The whole thing made him more tense than he could stand. Sal's solution was alcohol, which made Ray too drowsy to pull off too jobs at once. Sex would be an option too, except that it would be better for his health rolling in rotting carcasses than sleeping with any of the women in this city. No, he'd been developing far worse habits since coming to Vegas, things he didn't even mention to his handlers, though he suspected they knew. God, he couldn't wait to get out of this, go home and put all this crap behind him. Withdrawal would feel like a holiday after the daily stresses of filling in for Langoustini.
So long as he didn't get clipped before the sit down, everything would be fine. Noone else on the Strip had the federal government on their side if shit really went south, but Ray knew he couldn't rely on them in the day to day. If he was figured for an interloper, or even raised as a potential scapegoat to settle this Scargetti thing... Who knew what would happen next. Criminals were unpredictable--or at least these ones were. They pretended to care about loyalty, but it was all about money, and who knew why it mattered so much to them? What was there to spend it on when you had everything? Langoustini had eleven classic cars, a pool, a masseuse - that he'd had to dismiss - a butler - that he couldn't without drawing unnecessary attention to himself - a part time maid, all the drugs and women and sharp suits he could afford, and a three story sprawling villa in the desert. What else did he need?
Enough money to pay for his lawyers when the Feds took them all down for good?
He ran his hand back across his head, then came up out of his seat, moving over to the front seat of the limousine and tapping the divider glass. The electric motor whirred, and it slid open to reveal his driver. ]
How long?
[ But he didn't need the answer to that question; they were pulling up now. Vecchio straightened his tie and stepped out onto the sidewalk and the throng and noise of the Strip in the middle of the day. Langoustini didn't have a body guard - he commanded too much respect - but after the week he'd had it felt like he ought to have one, moving through the crowd alone. It thinned as he entered the grand main space of the casino, weaving his way through slot machines and roulette tables. As soon as he hit the high roller games in the quieter VIP areas where the carpet was softer and the noise was the synthetic hum of the air conditioning, betting and conversation, people began to acknowledge him. He was greeted warmly by half a dozen people he barely knew, others that Langoustini knew well, one who didn't belong, and then a younger member of the family was murmuring in his ear, talking about a guy who kept trying to get back here, snooping around. Blonde, Polish, sunglasses.
And sure enough, there he was when he raised his head. Blonde, Polish, sunglasses. Cop, his instincts said. Detective. He had a shoulder holster, but it would be empty as per casino regulation. But if Ray knew cops like this one - and he liked to think he did - there'd be a second piece in an ankle holster, and his idiot doormen would have overlooked something like that.
Not that starting a gunfight in a mob owned casino was smart, but going into one unarmed was even less bright. He shook off the concern of his entourage. ]
I'll handle this.
[ By god would he handle this. He strode toward the Detective. ]
[Fraser vanishing for undetermined lengths wasn't exactly unusual. Nothing was unusual when it came to Fraser. What was odd was that he'd not even told Ray about it. No one quite seemed to know where he'd vanished to over the last few days and Ray... well, he could admit he was starting to get concerned at the lack of contact from what was meant to be his best buddy when he was usually the first person Benton told. It could have been something personal, something that didn't quite fit within the realms of the law and therefore something he wouldn't want to drag Ray into, but even so, Ray can admit he's hurt that he wasn't even informed of it all. Stupid Mountie.
Although trying to do his own bit of detective work regarding his partner's location between work and sleep, it's only the delivery of that postcard that kicks his ass fully into gear, going from no obvious leads to a name and an address and a damn obvious starting point. Welsh lets him have the time away, of course he does, this is about Fraser needing help, and within hours of getting his mail (it's a miracle he even checked it) he's packed and ready for the next flight to Vegas, quietly cursing his partner's stupidity the whole way.
Vegas is nothing like what he's used to. All bright and buzzing and constant excitement, a vast contrast to the dark and dingy streets of Chicago where every person looks like they might punch you if you so much as look at you wrong. There's plenty of that type here too, he quickly realises, but they're drowned out by the tourists and addicted locals, the former of which thrum with the excitement of a kid at Christmas and the latter sat around tables and slot machines like zombies, praying for a win to come their way. Ray doesn't like it. It's fake. Everything about Vegas feels fake, from the smiles of the staff to the tits on every woman he sees. And sure, he feels out of place amongst everyone from the run down addicts to the high rollers, but he still shows up in a suit in a vague attempt to fit in. Nothing fancy, and he still manages to make it look overly casual even with the addition of a tie, but that might be down to the slung open jacket or the ruffled collar or the unruly hair that still makes him look more like some punk band groupie than any high stakes gambler.
He doesn't waste time on his arrival. Doesn't even sleep before heading to the given address and snooping around. He casually questions staff and gets a little too friendly with some of the locals in an attempt for information, and doesn't even bother to move when some of the security keep watching him. He gambles very lightly and usually only when the stakes are in his favour or he can sit next to someone he thinks he might get some information, and he really really doesn't care how obvious he is because one of these fuckers knows where his partner is and he'll punch the information out of every single one of them if it means finding Fraser again.
Stanley's settled himself at a Blackjack table when he spots the entrance of what he assumes is one of the higher ups. He recognises that look well enough, the one that commanded respect from the staff and punters alike. Even with his attention on his own cards, mind barely on the game, he keeps a watch out for the guy, and, sure enough, witnessing him swing back into view and heading right this way. Stan's leg is already jittering idly, had been since the start of the game, and the gum chewing is enough to keep his jaw working rather than letting him run his mouth. It's all enough to keep his nerves in check, make him look like it's all part of his game rather than any display of nerves.
When that mob guy (boss? not sure) gets within ear shot, Ray tries to get in the first word, twisting towards him enough to make it obvious who he's addressing, his accent more than giving away his location for those that knew it.]
Oh hey, about time, I've been waitin' hours for a drink. Could I get a bourbon and soda, easy on the soda, they drowned my last one. Thanks, man.
[Smug, condescending, perhaps a little too much, but that's all part of his little game.]
[ Ray is serenity refined. He finishes his approach, leaning against the edge of the table. There was something rakish and dangerous about this guy, not a typical cop, but then the Chicago accent really gave him away. Dangerous was good in Chicago; it was good in Vegas too, but the cops here were really smothered, worn down, harmless even despite their best efforts. How did you police a city like Vegas?
If he was from Chicago, then he was here looking for Fraser. New partner, maybe? Why did that make him feel so...redundant? Jealous? Was he jealous of this blonde Polack with the smart mouth? Damn yes. He missed Fraser, missed Chicago, missed his home and his family. God, he'd even give up the spotlight forever if it meant getting out of this hairtrigger deathtrap.
As for Kowalski, it took some balls - real balls - to look at a guy in a three thousand dollar suit, a clearly made man, and ask him to bring a round of drinks. He liked that--jealousy or no. He could appreciate pure ballsyness. ]
Bourbon and soda, of course. Anyone else? Scotch, gin and tonic. Lemon ice with vodka for me. [ He tapped the dealer on the shoulder, tapped her out, and the attractive young woman in the red waistcoat stepped aside, not even so much as catching his eye as she stepped away. She'd fetch the drinks, while Armando took over the table. He collected the cards, shuffled them, and laid his hands flat.
Kowalski's two tablemates seemed to consider the stakes too high for them. They raised their hands and backed off, though they didn't seem to be so eager to leave the table; this was the Vegas equivalent of watching a car crash happening, and someone might end up mangled in the ground at the end of it. They were in it for the long haul. ]
So what about it, Detective? You want to try your luck? Of course you do, on your salary. That's what--sixteen thousand five hundred? [ He reached under the table, took out a thousand dollar chip and laid it in Ray's quarter. ] But it's always better when it's not your money you're playing with, so why don't we cut right to the chase. You win, the house pays up. Dealer wins, you can keep the chip, and I get to know what you're really after. Either way you can't lose.
[ He didn't wait to hear whether or not Ray thought this was reasonable; he'd probably fight it just to be difficult, and he wasn't prepared to let a cop get a one up on him. The detective was too quick for that, and he couldn't afford to allow himself to be undermined in front of his men. He dealt cards; two for Ray, face up, 4, 7, two for himself, only one face up, a 9. ]
You came here looking for me specifically, I know that much. Few people would be that foolish. Look around you--you see those guys in Boss suits by the door, the guy by the water dispenser, the one at the chip exchange? They all work for me. You can't lose; you gonna take a hit or not?
[It wouldn't be the first time his mouth has gotten him into some scenario he could have easily avoided, but he needed to know this guy, get a feel for just what he was made of, and there was no better way to really know a person than to try pissing them off. The suit handled it well, taking the drinks order in his stride as he played it friendly. A little too friendly. The sort of friendly that suggested he might kill Kowalski the second he twitched wrong. But Stanley already knew he was walking into a dangerous situation, that much was obvious by the surrounding mafia and the fact Fraser had managed to get himself into some sort of trouble out here. But what had he gotten himself into?
That's what Ray needed to find out. Screw his own safety. The only self-preservation he needed was enough to help his friend.
As the other settled into the dealer's chair, Stanley straightened, sparing a glance to his table mates and soon realising he was alone in this. So, everyone else knew it was a bad idea to square off against this guy, which must mean he's getting somewhere. Or he's just being stupid. Difficult to know right now.
But he was getting somewhere, because this guy is talking to him, giving him options, laying out rules under the silent threat of it all. Perhaps he found Ray to be a threat, or perhaps he was just toying before the kill, who knew, but Kowalski sure as hell felt infallible right about now on his knight's quest to save the Mountie.
He doesn't answer the first round of questions. Isn't given a chance to as it all becomes apparent it's rhetoric. If he had he'd only avoid the situation more, this way he's not given the chance to squirm his way out of the situation. But he keeps it cool, rests his arms on the table and leans in jut enough to show interest, his attention flickering around the room just enough to try and get a read on all the suits nearby. He was James Bond and this right here was the villain he needed to take down. The movies made it look easy enough. A few quips and he'd have the information he'd needed if it was anything like fiction. He's got this. He's James Bond. James freaking Bond.
James Bond with what could be a really shit hand, but he could make this word. There's no way he's going to hold on an eleven so he jerks his head into a nod.]
I'll take the hit. I win, I get your cash. You win, I tell you what I want. Sure. Hit me.
[He can't lose, that's true enough. He was going to tell this guy why he was here with or without the loss, so an extra thousand in his pocket would just be a bonus.]
[ Yes, Ray was James Bond. And just like James Bond, he was probably going to get fucked by the villain before the night was out. If you were an international man of mystery, picking people up in casinos was pretty bad for your health.
Armando tilted his head, catching the eye of one of the doormen and tilting his head up slightly. He'd make sure that the present population stayed sparse. If they had to disappear this guy, having a whole bunch of witnesses to his being there would be unhelpful.
But for now they were just playing. The stakes weren't very high; he figured the cop would have to tell him why he was there either way, if he wanted to get to the truth, but the game served a whole other purpose. Not only did it show him what sort of a risk taker Ray was (he knew he took risks, he needed to know how reckless he was, whether he'd told anyone he'd come here; and yes, he could learn that from a hand of blackjack), it'd also break some of the ice. And really, ice was hard to break in his - ha! his - profession. Okay.
He took a card off the deck and laid it down on Ray's, face up. ]
Nine. Twenty.
[ Moment of truth. Either everything was decided on this next card, or Vecchio would be playing his own hand warily, checking his own sense of danger against the man opposite him. Twenty was a good score; it couldn't be beaten by the dealer in one card, and the possibility of him losing the hand was higher by far than the chance of the house winning.
It all depended on just how crazy this guy was. Was it all for looks? Was there something sharper just under the surface? Or was he the kind of man who played it much closer to the other edge of the line?
How much like Fraser was he? How much like Ray himself? And did he have a death wish? It was amazing how much blackjack could communicate. ]
[Okay, so he was James Bond at the end of the movie when he beats the bad guy and gets the girl. He's sure he can find some hot chick around here to take to the hotel after all this is over with, because it would be all over with soon. He'd find out the information he needed, find Fraser and they'd both be on the plane back to Chicago within the next day, maybe after enjoying the casinos a bit more. This was easy stuff, he knew how to deal with mobsters, he'd done it before. Hard guys, but there was always a way to get around them.
Kowalski kept his focus locked between the table and the suit, making sure there wasn't any obvious cheating going on. There's a lot to say for a man who cheats when there's nothing at stake, so he keeps watching for the signs even after being certain this is a clean game. Clean enough that his next card boosts him up to a twenty. A damn good number to sit on. The odds were against the dealer for this, and yet even with what should be an obvious choice, Ray hesitates.
His gaze doesn't look away from the other, narrowing just slightly as he considers his options without trying to give away his thought process. Holding is the smart move for any usual gambler, sure, and he'd be in pretty high standing for a win, but then what? More of this game until he eventually loses, maybe with a few thousand extra in his pocket? Or would the other get bored and take his leave before Stanley got what he wanted? If he hits he's taking a ridiculous gamble. Only an ace could give him a win, everything else would bust him, but isn't that part of the fun? A careless risk to show he doesn't care about winning mafia money?
If this is a game of who has the biggest balls, then so be it. He doesn't want to be seen slinking away with their money anyway. There's nothing to lose when the money isn't even his to start with, after all, and a ballsy (and totally stupid) move will send a message that he's not afraid of this little family.
If people think he's stupid for his choice, so be it, Stanley's more than used to being considered a dumb ass. But his dumb assery is so often, like today, very thought out ahead of time. Planned foolishness. Perhaps that's worse than accidental stupidity...]
I'm an all for nothin' kinda guy. C'mon, let's do it, see what you got, Armando.
[Leaning in just that little bit further as his lips twist upwards into a wolfish smirk, smug and reckless and perhaps just a little provoking.]
[ Ray didn't miss the hesitation, the pause, the calculation. It wasn't his job to watch the tables in the casinos, but he did it occasionally - often enough that he could see that greed had its own tells, and foolishness too, and bravery was something else entirely. This guy wasn't stupid, he had played his investigation of the casino very smart. He was still armed. He was facing up to a mobster and keeping his cool, like he did it every day. Stone cold, unafraid, probably fantastic at undercover work. He was a pacer, thus the fidgeting, but right now all that tension and energy had refined itself into utter, frightening stillness. He'd come here to get Fraser back, and if he focused on that task--oh yes, it wasn't just ballsyness. This guy worked his ass off to get what he wanted, put everything on the line.
Yes, maybe part of him wanted to lose, but it was pride with him too. He didn't give a shit about the money, but that didn't surprise Ray either--he'd set the game so that either way he walked away a thousand dollars richer. It was irrelevant, really; petty cash in an operation like this. Pride, though, the pride of raising his head and saying I'm not afraid of you; that meant something, especially back in the Chicago PD. It was something Ray treasured in himself--or had begun to once again, when Fraser had helped him unlock it. And look where that had led? Irene, dead.
Confrontational. The detective leaned into his space across the table, and Ray felt his own coiling blackness respond to the challenge, to the smirk, let it take him over. He was Armando Langoustini after all, not Ray Vecchio. They weren't two cops in the middle of a friendly game, bluffing confidence over matchsticks. He was a dangerous man, and this guy was playing a dangerous game, and maybe if he projected a little more of that he might make a point and get this guy out of here before he got himself killed.
Hit me.
He almost considered it, too. One of the two patrons made a noise in his peripheral, disbelief, like what are you, stupid? but that was an insult to this guy's intelligence, and by extension an insult to Armando's. He raised his hand, gestured for the two other players to leave, and waited until one of his suits had urged them aside. When they were both alone at the blackjack table - and only then - did he deal the cop his next card.
An ace.
So what kind of guy was he? Deliberately reckless. Deliberately dumb. Calculating. Dangerous. Rebellious. Hard as nails. But most importantly--the most important thing, especially when it went hand in hand with all those other traits: This guy was lucky. Just like Fraser, really. ]
Blackjack. Bets are returned 3:2, the house loses.
[ Another two chips were added to the thousand he'd given before, bringing the total to two-five, and he reached across, returning the used cards to the deck. Oh, they could keep playing, but neither of them had time for that. ]
You shouldn't have come here, you know. Whatever it is you think you've lost, you oughta forget about it. You should, but you won't. You're an all or nothing sorta guy. So you see, this puts me in something of a quandary. You're gonna be a thorn in my side until you come up with a better lead, and in the meantime having a cop hanging around the place--well as you can see, it makes the other patrons uncomfortable. We can't have that.
[ The tray of drinks was set on the green felt, and Armando waved the young woman away irritably: ] I'm talking here! Can't you see I'm in the middle of something. Get outta here!
[ Even so, very little of the mood was shattered. He returned to that same gravity flawlessly, his eyes narrowing, ignoring the drinks. ]
So-- [ He scratched his chin with two fingers, his head tilting to one side. ] You're gonna do one of two things. You're gonna walk out of here and lick your wounds, try and get Vegas PD to cooperate with your search - which they won't; they never do, not unless it's for one of their own, and your toy soldier doesn't count - or you try something reckless, right now.
What you have to remember either way, Detective, is that this is Vegas, and the house--well, the house always wins. So what's it gonna be?
Jesus that was a lucky break. It was like he'd practically willed it into existence with an intense gaze and a constant low mantra of 'come on you fucker'.
It was a lucky break that meant more than any money he could win. Those chips were useless to him (even if that extra few thousand would feel nice weighing down his pocket), it's the message he's given with that gamble and, more importantly, with that win. He's got the balls to take a risk and succeed with it, and just maybe that single card has bolstered his own confidence a little too much, but he won't be stupid about this. Probably. God, but it's tempted to just throw himself head first into this now that he's got the guy he needs.
But no, he'd be smart. He'd listen and observe and consider his options while this guy talks shit about how this is all going to go. It's something he's heard a million times before, but he should give this guy more credit than that. Stereotypical or not, this Armando knew what he was doing. He'd known Ray was a cop in seconds, even with Ray's less than usual look about him, and even with that knowledge he'd decided to approach and play him anyway rather than chuck him out of the establishment. So there was some interest there, or maybe he just knew Ray would keep coming back again and again until one of them put a bullet between his eyes. Either way the two of them were sat here playing two different games with two different agendas and only one of them would eventually win.
Ray's just considering his line of questioning, of how and when he's going to get a chance to do it when his thoughts are interrupted by two simple words that set him on edge; toy soldier. This fucker. This fucker knows exactly why Ray's and what he wants, and he knows about Fraser. Those words weren't merely a coincidence, they were an obvious jab at the Mountie that Ray had come in search for and by God if they'd done anything to him...
With a soft exhale of forced amusement, Ray drops his gaze, jaw clenching and offering up a thin lipped smile as he tries to push himself to count to ten. It's a red mist clouding his judgement, one that he needs to get rid of before he does anything stupid. Don't be reckless, don't be reckless, don't be--
Fuck that.
With a snarl he's launching himself over the table with no grace, feet scrabbling against the green baize as he grapples for a hold on Armando's lapels and swing his right fist upwards in an obvious threat, all quite the feat considering the space he covers to get there.]
[ Reckless, death wish, dangerous to himself and others. The cop's eyes seem to glaze over, and Ray knew it, this was about the Mountie, and he knows just how possessive it's possible to get, how you'd do anything, risk life and limb, if it meant undoing some wrong that had been meted out on Fraser. There's no restraining that, no controlling it, and he watched Chicago's pale lips work down into a white line, his mouth clamped shut to stop himself from laughing or yelling or roaring, those eyes narrowing despite his thin attempt at pretense.
He's coming over the table, there's no doubt about it.
The cop doesn't even count to three. All of a sudden he's all supernatural energy, rush of adrenaline sending him flying over the table with the kind of imprecision that none the less gets him exactly where he wants to be. The tray of drinks goes crashing to the ground. It hits, thank you gravity, at the same moment that Armando and Ray hit the ground on the other side, with a violent crash, and speaking of violent crashes, he was going to be feeling the impact from the fall in his back for weeks. This guy wasn't heavy, or even big, but he was as tall as Vecchio was, and he'd sprang across the table with enough pure force to knock the air out of him.
There's a fist raised up over his head, the threat of violence, but Armando was still the vision of calm despite all of that. This guy might be promising to visit a whole lot of violence on him, but he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and dismissing Armando's men was a mistake.
He kept one hand knotted in Kowalski's tie and suit jacket, and raised his free hand toward his men to hold them back. They'd all drawn their guns, the hum seemed to have dropped into utter, horrified silence in the casino around them, nobody quite sure what to do, or who had booked this guy his ticket on the Crazy Express.
Underneath his attacker, he stayed calm. He'd faced down scarier people than this. He was more afraid for the cop than himself. ]
You really ought to have drawn your ankle gun first. You might have gotten out of here if you'd taken me hostage. I'm afraid now if you reach for it, Mikey is gonna put a hole in you. He's not super smart, you see. He can shoot straight, but he doesn't appreciate how hard it is to get brains out of silk.
[ Armando had waved him off, but in the long term that was only a partial solution. If the cop reached for his own gun or the one tucked inside Ray's suit jacket, the idiot might panic and fire anyway, nevermind that it was a whole mess to clear up on the casino's record. The Iguanas didn't like it when people got shot on their property; they'd like it less to find out it was a cop. ]
Now here's what's gonna happen if you want to live to see your friend again. You're gonna get up, very slowly, with your hands crossed behind your head. You try anything else, you hit me, and it's over for both of you.
[ He's still alive you fucking idiot, was what he was saying. The rest of it...well, the rest of it was probably a bluff. ]
[It takes Kowalski far too long to realise what he's doing, far, far too long. He's just there in the moment, snarling down at the other, eyes glazed and so, so tempted to slam his fist into the smug face over and over and over until there's nothing left. But that won't get him an answer he distantly thinks. That won't solve the problem he has right now. And that? That will undoubtedly get him killed, leaving him dead and the Mountie still possibly in need of aid.
With a few more heavy growls of breath, he finally drags his glare away from the man under him, snapping a quick look from side to side, behind and in front, to finally register the rest of the room. People are staring and there's more than a few unhappy faces with their guns out, undoubtedly ready to blast a hole through his head if he so much as moves in a manner they don't like. In fact, he thinks it's only the respect the suit under him commands that has saved him from instantly getting his face blown off. That and the issue with the clean up job and all the witnesses.
Armando barely reacts and Ray supposes he's got to give the guy credit for that. But Armando is in his own territory, he's got nothing to be scared of. What might result in a punch to the face for him would result in a whole lot more for Kowalski. He has every reason to be calm, the smug bastard.
His attention flicks to the one he assumes to be Mikey as he's mentioned, staring the goon off as he remains frozen in the position they'd fallen in, fist still raised, unwavering, but definitely not moving. Armando knows what he's doing, he knows how to diffuse a situation without guns and violence, even if it might all end with that anyway, and Ray supposes he can at least appreciate that, even if he'd still love to sock the guy.
But then there's words that Ray can fully relate to, ones that he's learnt to pick up many times before; 'live to see your friend again', 'it's over for both of you'... words that fully suggest Fraser's still alive. There was no past tense, no suggestion that the Mountie had been killed and tossed away or buried some place. Fraser was alive, and that's what Ray had wanted to hear.
With a huff of annoyance, he slowly, so slowly starts to lift his other arm, bringing them both to gradually reach and clasp behind his head. Then, and only then, does he finally move shifting on his knees to awkwardly stand without the aid of his hands.]
The whole of Vegas PD knows I'm here, wise guy. You do anythin' to me and they'll shut this place down. [A bluff, probably an obvious one, but hell, if even a few of those less than smart goons could believe it, he'd be satisfied.]
[ This guy wasn't an idiot. Ray lay still and watched his brain work, and he was fast too, straight on the ball with it even though he gave himself all the time he could afterwards to balance the suggestion, make it seem like he really had to think about not getting his brains blown off out. In the meantime Ray holds eye contact, cooly reflecting back the challenge in the other man's, trying to read what he could from him while they were still close together. There's nothing new; nothing the game of blackjack and the attack across the table hadn't told him already. Except that he was pragmatic rather than afraid: couldn't save Fraser if he was dead.
As the cop backs off, following his instructions to the letter despite the fact that it makes him wobbly on his feet, Armando lays still, propping himself up on his elbows once the other man's hands are clear out of the way, and waiting until he was on his feet before finding his own. He brushed down his suit carefully, straightened his collar and tie, made sure his mustache hadn't slipped, and then it was time to get serious.
But first, a response to that bluff: ] Oh, I believe you. The whole of Vegas PD. [ Others might have fallen for it, but Armando wasn't that soft. He hadn't known to think that he might get himself in trouble in here, but more importantly, if Vegas PD or the FBI had caught even a sniff of him getting too close to Langoustini or the Iguanas, they'd have put a stop to it. This guy would have been escorted to the airport, and that would have been the end of it.
He tugged back his sleeves, moving his hands to the detective's chest, pushing back his lapels, running his hands across his front and down his sides. Empty holster as expected. Down to one knee now, running his hands down the other man's thighs, removing his gun from his ankle holster, his ID from his hip pocket, handcuffs and keys, room key--no passport or license, but presumably those would be back in his room.
He handed the card key to the nearest thug, pointed upward and then gestured toward the door - check him out - pocketed the gun, and flipped open the ID as he straightened up, his eyes flicking from the identity to Stanley, then back again, catching himself staring. ]
Detective Ray Vecchio, Chicago PD. [ He tilted his head. ] Italian really washed out of you, huh? Well, Detective, the first thing you have to figure out is who gives the orders around here. I'll give you a clue, it's me.
[ Vecchio. God, they'd actually replaced him, put a guy undercover into his job, with his name. A Polack of all things. He'd known there'd be a guy taking his place, but they hadn't said anything about him taking his identity. And god only knew it made him feel even more out of touch with who he was. He shook it off, rolling his shoulders. ]
Put your hands down. Nobody's going to shoot you. It'd be too messy, and besides, you're going to cooperate. I like that. It's smart; and really, you have to play it smart. I could do anything to you in here, in front of all these people - shoot you, stab you, fuck you - and nobody would see a thing. In fact, even if you reported it to Vegas PD they'd tell you you didn't see anything either. You see, the things they want to put me away for we're talking hundreds of years, no parole. You're not worth their time. You're not worth the money it'd cost the state in lawyers.
Cooperation is the only thing you've got going for you. So we're going to walk out of here together. My car's up front, and we'll take a nice little drive. Maybe you'll even find what you're looking for. [ He stepped away without another word, putting Ray's ID into his pocket as he went. Vecchio. Vecchio. What was this guy's real name, that was what he wanted to know. It wasn't even like he could ask. ] What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation? Let's go.
In the week following Ray Vecchio Day 2015, this here caught my attention. Is this a stand-alone snippet or is it part of a larger work posted elsewhere?
[ It had been two months. Two months while Canada and the FBI and Russian Intelligence and who the fuck knew who else had a big old fight about jurisdiction up in the frozen north. Apparently among the many weapons they'd seized had been an enormous nuclear submarine. No big deal, right, happens every day. Except it hadn't. This was a once in a lifetime sort of bust, and it had belonged to Fraser and Kowalski, while Ray was laid up in a hospital. That was fine. Sort of fine. For a little while there he'd been afraid Kowalski would bust through the door and put his pillow over his face, choke him to death on it. The guy had been giving him a homicidal look the whole time, and while they had functioned briefly as a unit, it had been sort of necessary: you did what you had to do when people were shooting at you; when they were shooting at your stupid, unarmed, mutual best friend.
He'd proven he was still a good cop, that he still loved his friend enough to take a bullet for him, but neither he nor 'Ray' had said a single word to each other about Vegas. They hadn't had the chance. Hadn't had the chance to hit each other, either, hadn't been left alone together since those few moments in the mall. And then Kowalski was gone off to Canada, and Ray had breathed a sigh of relief.
He healed up. There was a collection put together for him, and when he got out of the hospital he blew the lot of it on a brand new Riviera, even though he'd had to get the damn thing painted from khaki to green, and that much had come out of his own pocket. It was a better car than the one Kowalski had set on fire and driven into a lake. It drove smoother, and the engine ticked over nicely. And it hadn't been cut in half and welded back together.
The Riv made him feel more like himself, but those months were hard. After getting shot, he'd had to come off the cocaine sharply. Morphine had replaced it, but he'd shunned that quickly enough, afraid of replacing one drug with another. Somehow he'd made it through those first few days despite the pain, and then he was healing, getting his life back, seeing a therapist four times a week. He couldn't live with his family any more, so he moved out days after getting home. Without interference from Frannie, he wouldn't even have had a bed, but in the end he'd snapped at her to leave him the fuck alone while she was busy arranging his books, and later apologetically he'd given her a spare key, and told her it was probably safer for both of them if she moved his stuff in when he wasn't there.
Stella proved all the distraction he needed, in the end. She liked his car, and she didn't know him from Adam, so it was like getting to be a whole different person--which since Ray didn't feel like himself any more, kept even from going back to his previous job by his injury, was what he discovered he most desired. He didn't want to be himself (though he sort of did) no matter that he'd come to claim his life back; he didn't know who he was any more, but it wasn't the man he'd left behind. He wasn't Armando Langoustini any more, but he wasn't Ray Vecchio either, and it was killing him--still killing him.
God, he missed Fraser. He probably wasn't ever coming back to Chicago, though, and though they'd spoken three times on the phone... It wasn't the same, and nothing would ever be like it was. What was Benny doing now, anyway? What about his replacement? Two months away from Chicago--hey, maybe they were fucking. ]
Fuck.
[ He rolled off the couch, grabbed his keys off the coffee table and took the elevator down. This place had an underground parking garage, which meant no parking his lovely Riviera out under the onslaught of nature's various beatings. He relaxed the moment he saw it, slid into the driver's side, and reached across to crank the radio. He put both hands on the wheel. There. There. That was it. This was his fix. He closed his eyes, lay his head down on the steering wheel and just tried to breathe out the tension he was feeling.
He didn't need the drugs. He didn't need to call his stupid on-call therapist. All he needed was the sound of that V-8 and the feel of the leather steering wheel under his hand. He could pretend he really was Ray Vecchio again if he just had that. Hell, he could almost pretend Fraser was in the seat beside him, even if he never would be again. He sighed. ]
Life sucks, Benny. I really wish you were here.
[ He sat back again, just lay there and listened to the motor running. ]
[Stanley's undercover work hadn't involved murder and deception and reenacting scenes from the Goodfellas, but it also hadn't involved a huge mansion, mass money and power. You took the good with the bad, and while Vecchio had been sunning it up in Vegas, Kowalski had been left to deal with an infuriating Mountie, a poorly paid job, Chicago's bad winters and being shot at every other week just for existing. His own little incident in Vegas was never brought up, never mentioned and never even thought about. He'd got Fraser and got out, and brushed off every single query with the occasional snap of annoyance.
Canada wasn't much better. It was cold, dangerous and full of days on end with Fraser, which in itself wasn't such a bad thing, but just occasionally Ray had to resist the urge to sock the Mountie right on the jaw for being an insufferable prick. But that was fine. Ray was learning self restraint and Fraser was learning that look that meant 'shut up before my fist and your face get intimate'. Team work and partnership. That's why they worked so well together, even if Ray hadn't been sure it'd last after Vecchio- the 'real' Vecchio- had swaggered back into their lives.
He wouldn't have believed it were it not for Fraser's certainty. That all too familiar sight of Armando showing up in Chicago, a face that Ray had long since buried in the recesses of his mind and didn't at all appreciate seeing again. He'd thought he'd made his own feeling on the whole scenario pretty obvious from the get go, meeting 'Ray' with an all too clear frostiness, even if Fraser was naively blind to it all. Or perhaps he did see and just hoped to ignore it, one can never tell for sure with the Mountie.
There might have been more to it than a few sharp words, a very minor scuffle and a general air of loathing were it not for the case that had risen it's ugly head. It had required team work from all ends and so they'd all played their part, the new (or original?) Vecchio even getting shot for the sake of Fraser. Not a bad gesture but he was still an asshole. One bullet doesn't make a saint. He's just lucky he wasn't left alone in that hospital bed.
Although no, Stan wouldn't have killed him, as tempting as that idea was. He's not a murderer, even when it does seem a fair retaliation, but the term 'an eye for an eye' certainly didn't match up with his retaliation being death. He'd just have to bide his time and get his revenge when it better suited. More particularly when Fraser wasn't around to interrupt it all or catch wind of it.
Now though? Now Fraser was in Canada, it seemed like the perfect opportunity. Trouble was, Stanley was in Canada too, and it'd taken him some time to think of a good enough excuse to abandon his partner to fly back for a few days. Parents were the perfect excuse. The sort of excuse where Fraser would politely hold back on questioning and just as politely avoid intruding. Next time they were near an airfield Kowalski had brought it up and the trip had been just as simple as he'd initially planned for. Rare for things to go his way, in fact, but just occasionally there must have been someone smiling down on him.]
It's about to get a whole lot worse.
[And so that trip had eventually all come down to Ray Kowalski laying in the back of that Riveria for far too fucking long, waiting. He had all the patience in the world when it came to revenge, after all, and this? This would be worth waiting for, if only to fill that little void that had been niggling him for far too long.
With his words comes an all too obvious press of metal to Vecchio's neck, lightning fast to prevent too much reaction in such a tight space. There didn't need to be unnecessary grappling, not when it could all be prevented by a well placed gun. And then there's Stanley, sitting up slowly to follow the gun, head peeking in between the two front seats, self-satisfied and who can really blame him?]
Benny couldn't be here, I'll send him your regards.
[ He should have seen it coming. So many years he'd spent doing this job now, so many things, people, babies, that had shown up on the backseat of the Riviera, he ought to have checked it instantly. He was out of practice. Being chauffeur driven around Vegas had made him soft around the edges, and he hadn't gotten back into even half of his meticulous professional habits. Sure, he had other ones, like sleeping with a gun under his pillow, but they didn't do him much good in Chicago, where there wasn't constantly some faceless villain about to machine gun up his bedroom like he was Michael Fucking Corleone. He was home, he was himself, he was safe--
Ha. Two of those things weren't true.
He'd tried not to let himself think about Stanley. In truth, back in that hotel room, he'd had a flash of the guy's face as he looked at Fraser, enough to prepare himself for his look of scornful disbelief as he turned to face him. Fraser's partner. It had never been meant to happen, and then there they were, face to face, their history like a churning bloodied no-man's land between them, and neither of them could say a word.
They weren't meant to ever be face to face. Ray had expected to be killed doing the job, because right at the time they'd met it had been more dangerous still than it had been for the long months before that. After Ray had left, he'd weathered two more assassination attempts, one very narrowly. An inch to the left and his prediction would have been correct.
With Ray's gun pressed firmly to his neck, there was no inch to the left. Ray didn't have enough time to react, to jolt up or reach into the passenger side for his gun - probably not there, though, and what would he do with it, shoot a fellow cop? - and his blood curdled. This was exactly what he'd been afraid of most. This--alone with Stanley Kowalski, with Fraser away in Canada, with nothing to protect him but his own wits.
He bristled. Fear was pouring off him in every possible direction (as it rightly should, Kowalski really could kill him here, and noone would suspect him of it) and fear because yes, that was a gun pressed into him, and if he fought it might very well go off even by accident--and then he was afraid because fuck, this wasn't happening, Stanley was really here, and what did he want? What could he possibly do? But he couldn't show it. He locked down into Armando like he was pulling on a suit of armor, because Armando didn't flinch when people pressed guns to his throat. Armando was tough. Armando bristled and spat insults back and never ever showed fear.
Funny. Ray Vecchio had done that once upon a time too. And fear? Well, it was a damn good response in a situation like this.
So he bristled, like growing up in Chicago had taught him, like being a cop in the city had hardened, and like being Armando had refined, and he bared his teeth at the mirror, raising his eyes toward it, then flicking them sidewards toward Stanley as he pressed his head between the two seats.
He was scared. He couldn't let Stanley see how much. ]
That right? My regards? I reckon I can do that myself. [ He lowered his voice. It slurred, picking up some of that Italian edge; Armando's edge. ] What're you gonna do? You wanna shoot me, Stanley? There's no point holding a gun to a guy's head if you're not prepared to use it.
[ He could fight back just as hard. He could growl and challenge with the best of them. ]
[Stanley had a right to be confident. He'd waited too damn long for this opportunity to not let some amount of smugness wash over him. He wasn't sure he'd ever get the opportunity and yet here they both were, hopefully not to be interrupted for the next few hours. Three hours would be a fair time frame, that's what he was given, after all.
Trouble was, that whole past event had been so locked away that it wasn't something Ray had thought of since, not even to sit and dream up his revenge. Now that he was here he wasn't sure where he was meant to go, but hey, he was always one for improvisation. Thinking on his feet was kind of his thing.]
That's cute. Still tryin' to play the mob boss like you're in a Scorsese film. Real intimidatin'. Keep it up, I hear they're just givin' away Oscars these days.
[Amused, his tone overly bright like it's just another day of banter at the office between a few colleagues. It's not far off that, not really, it's just they're in a car and one of them has a gun pointed at the other. All fun and games. His eyes flick up to the mirror to catch Vecchio's, and just in case Stanley's smugness wasn't obvious enough, he lifts up enough to have his reflection offering up a toothy grin, all upper teeth and pointed canines.]
Y'know I could shoot you. Wouldn't be difficult. No one would know it was me, no one's gonna expect another cop for it, not with the amount of friends you've made over the years. I'm still in Canada, y'know? Pretty hard for me to shoot you when I'm not even in the country.
But where's the fun in that, huh? Sure, I'd get my revenge, but I'd only be gettin' a second of entertainment for the hours you got. That seem like a fair trade off to you, Ray?
[The slightest of shifts from the back seat like he's restless, but he's anything but. Kowalski may be all nerves and excitement, but that doesn't drop his focus for one second, in fact it raises it if anything. This time his movement isn't from fear or coke or any other excuse he had back in Vegas, it's just pure Ray, every bit of him, on his home turf, confident and smug and with a gun in his hand. He might not have his glasses on, but he doesn't need them from this range.]
[ Ray let it sink in. Kowalski was enjoying this, and who could blame him? Armando - Vecchio - had crushed his pride in every possible way, stomped him all but flat and shown him just how powerless he and the law were in Vegas. He'd taught him a lesson he would never forget, and now Ray himself was reaping the rewards of that education: so long as you were the one holding the gun, you had all the power. You could do whatever you liked.
Oh, he wished he'd broken a few of those teeth.
Kowalski was right; he'd managed to cover it all. He was in Canada, he was probably using Ray's own gun, and there were any number of guys who wanted him dead, people who would recognize his Buick and wait out there for him. It'd be a tragedy, but not a surprise. Hell, they'd probably have Kowalski carrying the fucking coffin.
Breathing slowly, he let his eyes drop closed, not willing to give Ray anything more. He put everything he had into looking cool and serene. He could feel Kowalski's focus, like he'd sensed it in the moment before he went out all guns blazing and shot down two guys without flinching. He wasn't a killer, no, but he had every reason to hate, and every reason to take advantage. He wanted to see Ray frightened, in pain maybe--who even knew? He didn't know how deeply Kowalski's vehemence went. It was hard to get a read on him, Ray hardly knew him at all.
Kowalski worked with Fraser. He needed glasses to shoot straight. He was energetic but it hid a frightening serenity, and he concealed his emotions under a shield of pure nerve. He could put his pride away for the sake of duty. But that didn't mean he wasn't prepared to reclaim that pride when the time came, either; they had that in common. He knew all this, but what else? Was Stanley the kind of man who'd shoot anyway? Had he killed people like Ray had? Could he shoot dead another person without thinking twice? Do it without passion, without remorse, unflinching as other people looked on? Could he deliberately cause pain, just because he'd been wronged?
He opened his eyes again. ]
Alright. [ He said, softly. ] You're here for revenge, I get it. Maybe I deserve it, I'm not gonna argue with that. [ He licked his lips, his first outward sign of anxiety since he'd frozen dead. ] I'm not gonna make any excuses, tell you I was just doing my job. We both know that was a judgement call.
[ His hands were still on the wheel. He squeezed it firmly, lifting his head off the seat, every movement careful so that Stanley could keep the gun steady. ]
You didn't plan for this, I get it, but you can think on your feet. You want me to drive somewhere, Stanley, or do you want to take this upstairs? I mean if you wanna just sit here we can do that too. You're the one with all the power. How about it?
[Ray had to be careful, he knew that much. If Vecchio fought back even half as much as he himself had done, then he was risking coming out of this with a few wounds to hide from Fraser. Maybe he could pass it off as his dad and him having a fight if the need really arose, but he'd rather avoid injury altogether. It was only fair that this happened. Only karma coming back to make Vecchio pay for what he did, so why should he fight? Might as well accept fate and take it like a bitch.
It wasn't just about what had happened in that mansion, but the fact that asshole had still acted like he had even after realising Ray was his stand in. What sort of person does that? A person stuck deep undercover, sure, but that didn't sit as a reasonable excuse for Stanley. Being undercover as Vecchio didn't mean he had to go around trying to fuck his ex-wife. And maybe his undercover work was a little easier, he got that, but he should still be entitled to his revenge.]
You talk too much, Vecchio, anyone ever tell you that? Maybe some people got the patience for it, but me? I hear 'Stanley' one more time and I'm gonna crack your skull with this gun, yeah?
[The gun doesn't move, neither does his gaze, locked on Vecchio from the back seat, alternating between what he could see from his current angle and what the rear-view mirror presented. He'd catch any movement, and even the slightest creep of a hand away from that wheel would be questioned. The Italian likely knew that much, especially as he grips tighter around it, Kowalski catching the slight whitening of his knuckles even in the poor lighting of the car.
Vecchio was tense. It was a beautiful fucking sight to see him like that, cooperative and careful, tightly strung thanks to the metal at his skin, and oozing tension even without much of an outward display of nerves. Not a bad show of calmness, really, but Ray knew what this was like, knew what must be racing through the guys head right now. It's a desperate clamber of thoughts, of self preservation while knowing that there was so little that could be done.
He had to make a decision. Couldn't keep both of them sitting here for the rest of the night. The car might have been a nice enough spot, but it was too cramped for him to be able to keep tabs on the other, the risk far too high. There was the smallest of chance the other cop kept additional protection elsewhere in the vehicle. No, the Riv was out of the question. Driving might be an idea, but where? And would they be seen? No point Ray feigning innocence and claiming he was in Canada when someone saw him sitting in the back of Ray's Riv.]
You and me, we're gonna take a lil' walk up to your place. In a sec I want you to open the door, one hand, real slow, then get outta the car. I'm gonna keep this gun on you the whole time. If I don't like the way you move, I'll fill your skull with lead.
[As he speaks one hand shifts slowly to the seat mechanism, ready to pop it up if Ray tries to bolt. These old cars weren't so great for speedy access in and out of the back seat, but bullets travelled plenty fast enough.]
You got any visitors at the moment, Vecchio? Anyone you need to kick out? I think we're gonna need our privacy.
[ Before Vegas, this wouldn't have been his life. Oh, he was cool under a certain amount of pressure, but he could freak out with the best of them, scream and beat his hands against steel doors and hate on his best friend utterly shamelessly. He was still doing that, but it was all inside now; all his terror compartmentalized until he could process and control it. He screamed internally, but on the outside he did his best not to show it, and as a result - right now - inadvertently bled real, genuine fear; fear that only Stanley, who knew the feeling intimately, could see. The tightening of his hands, the sudden clenching of the muscle in his jaw, his forehead knotting in the center as he frowned.
Shut up, Kowalski said. And don't call me Stanley. The threat held more weight here; he had to believe that Ray meant it.
Still, Vecchio considered every option before he moved. The idea of trying to get his gun, the thought of getting out of the car and slamming the door in Stan's face, then making a run for it. But he'd been here before, knew full well that all it would take was one bullet and it would be game over.
When Stanley had been under his thumb in Vegas, most of his own power had come from being on the other side of the gun. There was a pureness to the understanding that guns equaled death; that if you made one wrong move then it might come even by accident, without warning, and regret would do him no good when he was dead. Like Stanley had surmised back in the dungeon, cooperation was the fastest route to survival, and survival was the key here. Only survival mattered: whether it was surviving until a suitable moment for resistance arrived, or surviving until the ordeal was over. Whichever came first.
There was no real judgement to make. The only thing he needed to do was batter his already beaten pride back, convince any hint of instinct for self preservation that he had left that he ought to cooperate. The decision was already made. He reached forward slowly and took out the keys, dropping them onto the passenger seat. Stanley would need them to get the door to his apartment open, but Vecchio was well aware that letting him having a handful of keys he might try to use as weapons was unlikely to be the top of the other man's to-do list. He preempted that one with the efficiency of a man who was used to the variables himself.
Nice and slowly, he opened the door of the Riviera and pushed it wide on the hinge, then he put his hands behind his neck, folding them in place with his elbows up in the air, and climbed out without placing a hand for balance, exhaling slowly as he found his feet. Slowly, cooperate, let Stanley get out behind him. Let him have his control. He couldn't hold onto that gun forever.
The elevator door was still open. At this time of night that wasn't surprising. Nobody was going in or out, the entire building was quiet and still. He tapped for the eighth floor, then waited anxiously. If he was going to try and wrestle the gun from Kowalski this would be the moment. He had to be aware of that too. He had to be aware because Kowalski would be jumpier, ready to snap at the first wrong move Vecchio made so long as his tenuous connection to control was the trigger of the gun and nothing else. ]
Sure [ He murmured in answer, keeping his voice as neutral as he could but ending up slightly growly despite himself. His aggression was pinned down and pent up with nowhere to go. Being in this position didn't suit him anymore, the way he once might have been able to stand being pushed around. And impatience made a bad cop. ] I got the whole of the Chicago Blackhawks in there watching the game with me.
[ Still a wise ass, but he was trying just too hard to be now, and it gave a poor impression of confidence. ]
[Stanley had been through this before. Not just in Vegas, but every single time he'd had a gun pointed at him with no means of defence. It's the not knowing that gets you, the thought process that has you thinking through every scenario it can come up with while desperately trying to think rationally. He knew the effect it would have on Vecchio, knew that even if he tried to hide behind smart talking and over confidence that he'd still have that fear creeping up is spine like a slow shudder.
That's good. Let the fucker guess where this was going, let him wonder if Kowalski really was pissed enough to kill or whether he was just going to get the same treatment he gave in Vegas. Neither was good. Stanley wasn't a killer. He hadn't come here for that, but he'd still defend himself with this firearm if the need arose. He'd get away with it. No one would know.
He snatched for the keys and got out the back without too much fuss, unfolding as he straightened up, shoulders rolling back, chest out, gun hand relaxed but still locked on Vecchio. He kept the keys in his left hand, intertwined them with his fingers and clenched his hand around it to make an uneven knuckle duster. It's a back up for the gun, and even with a left hook those keys would hurt if Vecchio got close enough. Stan needs whatever close range protection he can get when there an elevator. Any advantage will get the other thinking twice.]
Chicago Blackhawks, huh? I'm sure they won't mind watchin'. Give 'em some excitement.
[He kept his distance, as much as the elevator would allow, lingering just slightly behind Vecchio in the hopes that the turn of his body would give Stan the warning he needed that an attack might be coming. The gun stayed steady, still pointed, and as a precaution Kowalski announces out loud:] Fingers on the trigger, Vecchio.
[It's a risky position to rest his finger on a live firearm, but it was that extra bit of protection. It spared him that extra split second of moving his finger and it meant the extra danger of an accidental shot at any sign of a struggle. Hopefully Vecchio wouldn't be stupid enough. He tried not to concern himself with it. Kept up the confident smugness as the elevator climbs.]
Yeah. [ Murmured, mostly under his breath. ] Well considering the season they're having...
[ He hung close to the exit, his chin still raised with abject defiance, but his thoughts and instincts were wired in to the man behind him; the man with the gun in his hand and the quite legitimate beef with him. Ray had fucked him up, and that had to come back somehow. This was Chicago, Chicago rules, and there was no relying on karma to get the job done. Ray knew that. Ray had lived that, back with Frankie Zucko a million years ago. Sometimes what it took was a fist. Or a gun.
Finger on the trigger.
That shouldn't surprise him either. Good idea really, in a tight space like this. All it would take was a sudden movement, and instinct would have Stan shooting him without second thought. He got that. It also meant he didn't necessarily plan to do it, and that was fair and obvious: if Kowalski had wanted him dead he would have done it in the car. No witnesses, no evidence, and it could have been some sort of mugging gone wrong, the kind of murder they never solved because the motive could be as simple as a few quarters on the dashboard.
He wasn't going to get himself shot by accident. He hadn't come this far to do that. But he did turn his head very slightly, his shoulder, looking down his nose at Ray's left hand with the keys in it and raising his eyes again to clock Ray's expression out of the corner of them. Smug bastard. He tipped his head away, swallowed visibly, his nerves getting the better of him. ]
Aches like hell in the morning, and when it gets cold. Doc says I lost about fifty percent mobility in my thumb. Nerve damage. [ The doors opened in front of him, and he preempted Stanley's order by stepping out and leading the way down the hall, still keeping his hands up behind his neck where they could be seen at all times. ] How's your hip?
[ Sure, because this was legitimate. Trading war wounds they'd inflicted on each other when Vecchio had sexually assaulted him 'in the line of duty'. That was totally where he'd thought his life was leading two years ago. Fucking FBI, fucking mobsters. How was it he'd ended up here? He'd had a nice life, with a nice car, a nice ex-wife and a nice Mountie. Where had it all gone wrong?
Vecchio stepped obediently in against the door when they reached it, still wary of the gun. He wasn't going to try anything yet. Yet. That was the mantra he kept repeating in his head. Stanley would make some sort of mistake - after all he had - and when that happened he'd be all over it. But right now? With live ammunition involved? It wasn't likely. ]
You're gonna be disappointed. It's not nearly as nice as the old Vecchio house is. You know--before the fire damage. Thanks for that, by the way.
[Neither of them particularly wanted to deal with Vecchio getting shot. It was more trouble than it was worth from Stanley's point of view, and if he killed the guy, well... he wasn't a killer, and he'd sure as hell feel the guilt from it, revenge or not. He didn't go in for all that killing for the sake of pride. It should be an eye for an eye, not a life for an eye. Gangs were fucking that one up often enough without Stanley having to add to it. It was better for all involved that this went smoothly, and Vecchio appears smart enough to realise that.
Still, he stays alert, even with the mild reassurance that the Italian won't be trying anything too stupid, offering up a growing smirk as he's glanced at. Smug indeed.
It's obvious enough that the second he lets his guard drop, the other will be on him. It's exactly what Kowalski did back in Vegas. take any chance you can get, even if it's a really bad idea. That's what he did with that bite, the bite that still seems to causing Vecchio some issues. Good.]
Yeah? Great to hear. Hip ain't so bad. Little scar. Nothin' more.
[They exit the elevator without fuss, glad to see initiative used and following in just behind, gun half tucked away against himself just in case anyway comes into the hallway. Stanley doesn't know this place. Doesn't really know the layout, and he briefly thinks that he should have found that out before he started all this, but fuck it, he didn't have time. Not when his travels back to Chicago were all last minute.
It's not worth him fumbling for the right key, so instead he tosses them back to Vecchio with minimal effort, gun still locked on it's target, unwavering. Keys still weren't a match for a bullet. Don't fucking dare, Vecchio.]
I'm sure it'll do. Probably won't wanna live here either after we're through, huh? What's with the move anyway? Mama Vecchio finally get fed up of yer whinin'?
Hey hey! This is actually dogsled, you chat to me on temetnosce, and I haven't been checking this account often enough recently, but yes. I love that you read this (also ps I did enter the santa exchange, I'm glad you reminded me since it hadn't actually showed up on my feed). In any case this is just one of my many many threads. It's less a comment fic and more role play, RayK has been played here by a friend of mine, and we have a whole bunch of other threads too, all done now since she no longer plays Ray. I play Fraser in a game on Dreamwidth now, (under the sn dogsled, actually), with about 250 characters from other fandoms. It's definitely different from fanfic, and its own kind of challenging, but there you go. Hi again!
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But that crap was all at least behind him, and compared to the last few days the headache with Fraser had really been a nothing. Insignificant in the grand scheme of things - or at least that was what the FBI idiots that called himself his handlers insisted. God, he should have done more than break that one guy's nose. Fraser was his best friend, he'd only gotten into this mess because he'd come down here looking for him.
Okay, so his best friend was also an idiot, but that wasn't new, at least to Ray.
(And Fraser hadn't done so badly. He'd in fact been there three whole days before anyone noticed him, and he'd sent a postcard back to Ray Kowalski on the second day which said "Armando Langoustini", and the name of the casino where the consigliere had his office. More than enough information for his partner to follow up if something happened. Noone had caught that one on the way out of Vegas.)
But that was last week. This week, little Bobby Scargetti had gone and gotten himself shot in the face during a closed game in Little Paris. Since then nerves had been tight, a grenade had been thrown into the coffin at the funeral, and people on both sides were baying for blood. Ray was - not for the first time - scared for his life, but the Feebs were over the moon (despite having to sneak him out from under Vegas PDs noses) because they were anticipating a sit down to iron out the disagreement, and a sit down meant Ray getting in close enough to learn something really useful.
The whole thing made him more tense than he could stand. Sal's solution was alcohol, which made Ray too drowsy to pull off too jobs at once. Sex would be an option too, except that it would be better for his health rolling in rotting carcasses than sleeping with any of the women in this city. No, he'd been developing far worse habits since coming to Vegas, things he didn't even mention to his handlers, though he suspected they knew. God, he couldn't wait to get out of this, go home and put all this crap behind him. Withdrawal would feel like a holiday after the daily stresses of filling in for Langoustini.
So long as he didn't get clipped before the sit down, everything would be fine. Noone else on the Strip had the federal government on their side if shit really went south, but Ray knew he couldn't rely on them in the day to day. If he was figured for an interloper, or even raised as a potential scapegoat to settle this Scargetti thing... Who knew what would happen next. Criminals were unpredictable--or at least these ones were. They pretended to care about loyalty, but it was all about money, and who knew why it mattered so much to them? What was there to spend it on when you had everything? Langoustini had eleven classic cars, a pool, a masseuse - that he'd had to dismiss - a butler - that he couldn't without drawing unnecessary attention to himself - a part time maid, all the drugs and women and sharp suits he could afford, and a three story sprawling villa in the desert. What else did he need?
Enough money to pay for his lawyers when the Feds took them all down for good?
He ran his hand back across his head, then came up out of his seat, moving over to the front seat of the limousine and tapping the divider glass. The electric motor whirred, and it slid open to reveal his driver. ]
How long?
[ But he didn't need the answer to that question; they were pulling up now. Vecchio straightened his tie and stepped out onto the sidewalk and the throng and noise of the Strip in the middle of the day. Langoustini didn't have a body guard - he commanded too much respect - but after the week he'd had it felt like he ought to have one, moving through the crowd alone. It thinned as he entered the grand main space of the casino, weaving his way through slot machines and roulette tables. As soon as he hit the high roller games in the quieter VIP areas where the carpet was softer and the noise was the synthetic hum of the air conditioning, betting and conversation, people began to acknowledge him. He was greeted warmly by half a dozen people he barely knew, others that Langoustini knew well, one who didn't belong, and then a younger member of the family was murmuring in his ear, talking about a guy who kept trying to get back here, snooping around. Blonde, Polish, sunglasses.
And sure enough, there he was when he raised his head. Blonde, Polish, sunglasses. Cop, his instincts said. Detective. He had a shoulder holster, but it would be empty as per casino regulation. But if Ray knew cops like this one - and he liked to think he did - there'd be a second piece in an ankle holster, and his idiot doormen would have overlooked something like that.
Not that starting a gunfight in a mob owned casino was smart, but going into one unarmed was even less bright. He shook off the concern of his entourage. ]
I'll handle this.
[ By god would he handle this. He strode toward the Detective. ]
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Although trying to do his own bit of detective work regarding his partner's location between work and sleep, it's only the delivery of that postcard that kicks his ass fully into gear, going from no obvious leads to a name and an address and a damn obvious starting point. Welsh lets him have the time away, of course he does, this is about Fraser needing help, and within hours of getting his mail (it's a miracle he even checked it) he's packed and ready for the next flight to Vegas, quietly cursing his partner's stupidity the whole way.
Vegas is nothing like what he's used to. All bright and buzzing and constant excitement, a vast contrast to the dark and dingy streets of Chicago where every person looks like they might punch you if you so much as look at you wrong. There's plenty of that type here too, he quickly realises, but they're drowned out by the tourists and addicted locals, the former of which thrum with the excitement of a kid at Christmas and the latter sat around tables and slot machines like zombies, praying for a win to come their way. Ray doesn't like it. It's fake. Everything about Vegas feels fake, from the smiles of the staff to the tits on every woman he sees. And sure, he feels out of place amongst everyone from the run down addicts to the high rollers, but he still shows up in a suit in a vague attempt to fit in. Nothing fancy, and he still manages to make it look overly casual even with the addition of a tie, but that might be down to the slung open jacket or the ruffled collar or the unruly hair that still makes him look more like some punk band groupie than any high stakes gambler.
He doesn't waste time on his arrival. Doesn't even sleep before heading to the given address and snooping around. He casually questions staff and gets a little too friendly with some of the locals in an attempt for information, and doesn't even bother to move when some of the security keep watching him. He gambles very lightly and usually only when the stakes are in his favour or he can sit next to someone he thinks he might get some information, and he really really doesn't care how obvious he is because one of these fuckers knows where his partner is and he'll punch the information out of every single one of them if it means finding Fraser again.
Stanley's settled himself at a Blackjack table when he spots the entrance of what he assumes is one of the higher ups. He recognises that look well enough, the one that commanded respect from the staff and punters alike. Even with his attention on his own cards, mind barely on the game, he keeps a watch out for the guy, and, sure enough, witnessing him swing back into view and heading right this way. Stan's leg is already jittering idly, had been since the start of the game, and the gum chewing is enough to keep his jaw working rather than letting him run his mouth. It's all enough to keep his nerves in check, make him look like it's all part of his game rather than any display of nerves.
When that mob guy (boss? not sure) gets within ear shot, Ray tries to get in the first word, twisting towards him enough to make it obvious who he's addressing, his accent more than giving away his location for those that knew it.]
Oh hey, about time, I've been waitin' hours for a drink. Could I get a bourbon and soda, easy on the soda, they drowned my last one. Thanks, man.
[Smug, condescending, perhaps a little too much, but that's all part of his little game.]
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If he was from Chicago, then he was here looking for Fraser. New partner, maybe? Why did that make him feel so...redundant? Jealous? Was he jealous of this blonde Polack with the smart mouth? Damn yes. He missed Fraser, missed Chicago, missed his home and his family. God, he'd even give up the spotlight forever if it meant getting out of this hairtrigger deathtrap.
As for Kowalski, it took some balls - real balls - to look at a guy in a three thousand dollar suit, a clearly made man, and ask him to bring a round of drinks. He liked that--jealousy or no. He could appreciate pure ballsyness. ]
Bourbon and soda, of course. Anyone else? Scotch, gin and tonic. Lemon ice with vodka for me. [ He tapped the dealer on the shoulder, tapped her out, and the attractive young woman in the red waistcoat stepped aside, not even so much as catching his eye as she stepped away. She'd fetch the drinks, while Armando took over the table. He collected the cards, shuffled them, and laid his hands flat.
Kowalski's two tablemates seemed to consider the stakes too high for them. They raised their hands and backed off, though they didn't seem to be so eager to leave the table; this was the Vegas equivalent of watching a car crash happening, and someone might end up mangled in the ground at the end of it. They were in it for the long haul. ]
So what about it, Detective? You want to try your luck? Of course you do, on your salary. That's what--sixteen thousand five hundred? [ He reached under the table, took out a thousand dollar chip and laid it in Ray's quarter. ] But it's always better when it's not your money you're playing with, so why don't we cut right to the chase. You win, the house pays up. Dealer wins, you can keep the chip, and I get to know what you're really after. Either way you can't lose.
[ He didn't wait to hear whether or not Ray thought this was reasonable; he'd probably fight it just to be difficult, and he wasn't prepared to let a cop get a one up on him. The detective was too quick for that, and he couldn't afford to allow himself to be undermined in front of his men. He dealt cards; two for Ray, face up, 4, 7, two for himself, only one face up, a 9. ]
You came here looking for me specifically, I know that much. Few people would be that foolish. Look around you--you see those guys in Boss suits by the door, the guy by the water dispenser, the one at the chip exchange? They all work for me. You can't lose; you gonna take a hit or not?
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That's what Ray needed to find out. Screw his own safety. The only self-preservation he needed was enough to help his friend.
As the other settled into the dealer's chair, Stanley straightened, sparing a glance to his table mates and soon realising he was alone in this. So, everyone else knew it was a bad idea to square off against this guy, which must mean he's getting somewhere. Or he's just being stupid. Difficult to know right now.
But he was getting somewhere, because this guy is talking to him, giving him options, laying out rules under the silent threat of it all. Perhaps he found Ray to be a threat, or perhaps he was just toying before the kill, who knew, but Kowalski sure as hell felt infallible right about now on his knight's quest to save the Mountie.
He doesn't answer the first round of questions. Isn't given a chance to as it all becomes apparent it's rhetoric. If he had he'd only avoid the situation more, this way he's not given the chance to squirm his way out of the situation. But he keeps it cool, rests his arms on the table and leans in jut enough to show interest, his attention flickering around the room just enough to try and get a read on all the suits nearby. He was James Bond and this right here was the villain he needed to take down. The movies made it look easy enough. A few quips and he'd have the information he'd needed if it was anything like fiction. He's got this. He's James Bond. James freaking Bond.
James Bond with what could be a really shit hand, but he could make this word. There's no way he's going to hold on an eleven so he jerks his head into a nod.]
I'll take the hit. I win, I get your cash. You win, I tell you what I want. Sure. Hit me.
[He can't lose, that's true enough. He was going to tell this guy why he was here with or without the loss, so an extra thousand in his pocket would just be a bonus.]
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Armando tilted his head, catching the eye of one of the doormen and tilting his head up slightly. He'd make sure that the present population stayed sparse. If they had to disappear this guy, having a whole bunch of witnesses to his being there would be unhelpful.
But for now they were just playing. The stakes weren't very high; he figured the cop would have to tell him why he was there either way, if he wanted to get to the truth, but the game served a whole other purpose. Not only did it show him what sort of a risk taker Ray was (he knew he took risks, he needed to know how reckless he was, whether he'd told anyone he'd come here; and yes, he could learn that from a hand of blackjack), it'd also break some of the ice. And really, ice was hard to break in his - ha! his - profession. Okay.
He took a card off the deck and laid it down on Ray's, face up. ]
Nine. Twenty.
[ Moment of truth. Either everything was decided on this next card, or Vecchio would be playing his own hand warily, checking his own sense of danger against the man opposite him. Twenty was a good score; it couldn't be beaten by the dealer in one card, and the possibility of him losing the hand was higher by far than the chance of the house winning.
It all depended on just how crazy this guy was. Was it all for looks? Was there something sharper just under the surface? Or was he the kind of man who played it much closer to the other edge of the line?
How much like Fraser was he? How much like Ray himself? And did he have a death wish? It was amazing how much blackjack could communicate. ]
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Kowalski kept his focus locked between the table and the suit, making sure there wasn't any obvious cheating going on. There's a lot to say for a man who cheats when there's nothing at stake, so he keeps watching for the signs even after being certain this is a clean game. Clean enough that his next card boosts him up to a twenty. A damn good number to sit on. The odds were against the dealer for this, and yet even with what should be an obvious choice, Ray hesitates.
His gaze doesn't look away from the other, narrowing just slightly as he considers his options without trying to give away his thought process. Holding is the smart move for any usual gambler, sure, and he'd be in pretty high standing for a win, but then what? More of this game until he eventually loses, maybe with a few thousand extra in his pocket? Or would the other get bored and take his leave before Stanley got what he wanted? If he hits he's taking a ridiculous gamble. Only an ace could give him a win, everything else would bust him, but isn't that part of the fun? A careless risk to show he doesn't care about winning mafia money?
If this is a game of who has the biggest balls, then so be it. He doesn't want to be seen slinking away with their money anyway. There's nothing to lose when the money isn't even his to start with, after all, and a ballsy (and totally stupid) move will send a message that he's not afraid of this little family.
If people think he's stupid for his choice, so be it, Stanley's more than used to being considered a dumb ass. But his dumb assery is so often, like today, very thought out ahead of time. Planned foolishness. Perhaps that's worse than accidental stupidity...]
I'm an all for nothin' kinda guy. C'mon, let's do it, see what you got, Armando.
[Leaning in just that little bit further as his lips twist upwards into a wolfish smirk, smug and reckless and perhaps just a little provoking.]
Hit me.
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Yes, maybe part of him wanted to lose, but it was pride with him too. He didn't give a shit about the money, but that didn't surprise Ray either--he'd set the game so that either way he walked away a thousand dollars richer. It was irrelevant, really; petty cash in an operation like this. Pride, though, the pride of raising his head and saying I'm not afraid of you; that meant something, especially back in the Chicago PD. It was something Ray treasured in himself--or had begun to once again, when Fraser had helped him unlock it. And look where that had led? Irene, dead.
Confrontational. The detective leaned into his space across the table, and Ray felt his own coiling blackness respond to the challenge, to the smirk, let it take him over. He was Armando Langoustini after all, not Ray Vecchio. They weren't two cops in the middle of a friendly game, bluffing confidence over matchsticks. He was a dangerous man, and this guy was playing a dangerous game, and maybe if he projected a little more of that he might make a point and get this guy out of here before he got himself killed.
Hit me.
He almost considered it, too. One of the two patrons made a noise in his peripheral, disbelief, like what are you, stupid? but that was an insult to this guy's intelligence, and by extension an insult to Armando's. He raised his hand, gestured for the two other players to leave, and waited until one of his suits had urged them aside. When they were both alone at the blackjack table - and only then - did he deal the cop his next card.
An ace.
So what kind of guy was he? Deliberately reckless. Deliberately dumb. Calculating. Dangerous. Rebellious. Hard as nails. But most importantly--the most important thing, especially when it went hand in hand with all those other traits: This guy was lucky. Just like Fraser, really. ]
Blackjack. Bets are returned 3:2, the house loses.
[ Another two chips were added to the thousand he'd given before, bringing the total to two-five, and he reached across, returning the used cards to the deck. Oh, they could keep playing, but neither of them had time for that. ]
You shouldn't have come here, you know. Whatever it is you think you've lost, you oughta forget about it. You should, but you won't. You're an all or nothing sorta guy. So you see, this puts me in something of a quandary. You're gonna be a thorn in my side until you come up with a better lead, and in the meantime having a cop hanging around the place--well as you can see, it makes the other patrons uncomfortable. We can't have that.
[ The tray of drinks was set on the green felt, and Armando waved the young woman away irritably: ] I'm talking here! Can't you see I'm in the middle of something. Get outta here!
[ Even so, very little of the mood was shattered. He returned to that same gravity flawlessly, his eyes narrowing, ignoring the drinks. ]
So-- [ He scratched his chin with two fingers, his head tilting to one side. ] You're gonna do one of two things. You're gonna walk out of here and lick your wounds, try and get Vegas PD to cooperate with your search - which they won't; they never do, not unless it's for one of their own, and your toy soldier doesn't count - or you try something reckless, right now.
What you have to remember either way, Detective, is that this is Vegas, and the house--well, the house always wins. So what's it gonna be?
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An actual ace.
Jesus that was a lucky break. It was like he'd practically willed it into existence with an intense gaze and a constant low mantra of 'come on you fucker'.
It was a lucky break that meant more than any money he could win. Those chips were useless to him (even if that extra few thousand would feel nice weighing down his pocket), it's the message he's given with that gamble and, more importantly, with that win. He's got the balls to take a risk and succeed with it, and just maybe that single card has bolstered his own confidence a little too much, but he won't be stupid about this. Probably. God, but it's tempted to just throw himself head first into this now that he's got the guy he needs.
But no, he'd be smart. He'd listen and observe and consider his options while this guy talks shit about how this is all going to go. It's something he's heard a million times before, but he should give this guy more credit than that. Stereotypical or not, this Armando knew what he was doing. He'd known Ray was a cop in seconds, even with Ray's less than usual look about him, and even with that knowledge he'd decided to approach and play him anyway rather than chuck him out of the establishment. So there was some interest there, or maybe he just knew Ray would keep coming back again and again until one of them put a bullet between his eyes. Either way the two of them were sat here playing two different games with two different agendas and only one of them would eventually win.
Ray's just considering his line of questioning, of how and when he's going to get a chance to do it when his thoughts are interrupted by two simple words that set him on edge; toy soldier. This fucker. This fucker knows exactly why Ray's and what he wants, and he knows about Fraser. Those words weren't merely a coincidence, they were an obvious jab at the Mountie that Ray had come in search for and by God if they'd done anything to him...
With a soft exhale of forced amusement, Ray drops his gaze, jaw clenching and offering up a thin lipped smile as he tries to push himself to count to ten. It's a red mist clouding his judgement, one that he needs to get rid of before he does anything stupid. Don't be reckless, don't be reckless, don't be--
Fuck that.
With a snarl he's launching himself over the table with no grace, feet scrabbling against the green baize as he grapples for a hold on Armando's lapels and swing his right fist upwards in an obvious threat, all quite the feat considering the space he covers to get there.]
Where is he, scumbag?
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He's coming over the table, there's no doubt about it.
The cop doesn't even count to three. All of a sudden he's all supernatural energy, rush of adrenaline sending him flying over the table with the kind of imprecision that none the less gets him exactly where he wants to be. The tray of drinks goes crashing to the ground. It hits, thank you gravity, at the same moment that Armando and Ray hit the ground on the other side, with a violent crash, and speaking of violent crashes, he was going to be feeling the impact from the fall in his back for weeks. This guy wasn't heavy, or even big, but he was as tall as Vecchio was, and he'd sprang across the table with enough pure force to knock the air out of him.
There's a fist raised up over his head, the threat of violence, but Armando was still the vision of calm despite all of that. This guy might be promising to visit a whole lot of violence on him, but he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and dismissing Armando's men was a mistake.
He kept one hand knotted in Kowalski's tie and suit jacket, and raised his free hand toward his men to hold them back. They'd all drawn their guns, the hum seemed to have dropped into utter, horrified silence in the casino around them, nobody quite sure what to do, or who had booked this guy his ticket on the Crazy Express.
Underneath his attacker, he stayed calm. He'd faced down scarier people than this. He was more afraid for the cop than himself. ]
You really ought to have drawn your ankle gun first. You might have gotten out of here if you'd taken me hostage. I'm afraid now if you reach for it, Mikey is gonna put a hole in you. He's not super smart, you see. He can shoot straight, but he doesn't appreciate how hard it is to get brains out of silk.
[ Armando had waved him off, but in the long term that was only a partial solution. If the cop reached for his own gun or the one tucked inside Ray's suit jacket, the idiot might panic and fire anyway, nevermind that it was a whole mess to clear up on the casino's record. The Iguanas didn't like it when people got shot on their property; they'd like it less to find out it was a cop. ]
Now here's what's gonna happen if you want to live to see your friend again. You're gonna get up, very slowly, with your hands crossed behind your head. You try anything else, you hit me, and it's over for both of you.
[ He's still alive you fucking idiot, was what he was saying. The rest of it...well, the rest of it was probably a bluff. ]
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With a few more heavy growls of breath, he finally drags his glare away from the man under him, snapping a quick look from side to side, behind and in front, to finally register the rest of the room. People are staring and there's more than a few unhappy faces with their guns out, undoubtedly ready to blast a hole through his head if he so much as moves in a manner they don't like. In fact, he thinks it's only the respect the suit under him commands that has saved him from instantly getting his face blown off. That and the issue with the clean up job and all the witnesses.
Armando barely reacts and Ray supposes he's got to give the guy credit for that. But Armando is in his own territory, he's got nothing to be scared of. What might result in a punch to the face for him would result in a whole lot more for Kowalski. He has every reason to be calm, the smug bastard.
His attention flicks to the one he assumes to be Mikey as he's mentioned, staring the goon off as he remains frozen in the position they'd fallen in, fist still raised, unwavering, but definitely not moving. Armando knows what he's doing, he knows how to diffuse a situation without guns and violence, even if it might all end with that anyway, and Ray supposes he can at least appreciate that, even if he'd still love to sock the guy.
But then there's words that Ray can fully relate to, ones that he's learnt to pick up many times before; 'live to see your friend again', 'it's over for both of you'... words that fully suggest Fraser's still alive. There was no past tense, no suggestion that the Mountie had been killed and tossed away or buried some place. Fraser was alive, and that's what Ray had wanted to hear.
With a huff of annoyance, he slowly, so slowly starts to lift his other arm, bringing them both to gradually reach and clasp behind his head. Then, and only then, does he finally move shifting on his knees to awkwardly stand without the aid of his hands.]
The whole of Vegas PD knows I'm here, wise guy. You do anythin' to me and they'll shut this place down. [A bluff, probably an obvious one, but hell, if even a few of those less than smart goons could believe it, he'd be satisfied.]
Take me to him.
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offout. In the meantime Ray holds eye contact, cooly reflecting back the challenge in the other man's, trying to read what he could from him while they were still close together. There's nothing new; nothing the game of blackjack and the attack across the table hadn't told him already. Except that he was pragmatic rather than afraid: couldn't save Fraser if he was dead.As the cop backs off, following his instructions to the letter despite the fact that it makes him wobbly on his feet, Armando lays still, propping himself up on his elbows once the other man's hands are clear out of the way, and waiting until he was on his feet before finding his own. He brushed down his suit carefully, straightened his collar and tie, made sure his mustache hadn't slipped, and then it was time to get serious.
But first, a response to that bluff: ] Oh, I believe you. The whole of Vegas PD. [ Others might have fallen for it, but Armando wasn't that soft. He hadn't known to think that he might get himself in trouble in here, but more importantly, if Vegas PD or the FBI had caught even a sniff of him getting too close to Langoustini or the Iguanas, they'd have put a stop to it. This guy would have been escorted to the airport, and that would have been the end of it.
He tugged back his sleeves, moving his hands to the detective's chest, pushing back his lapels, running his hands across his front and down his sides. Empty holster as expected. Down to one knee now, running his hands down the other man's thighs, removing his gun from his ankle holster, his ID from his hip pocket, handcuffs and keys, room key--no passport or license, but presumably those would be back in his room.
He handed the card key to the nearest thug, pointed upward and then gestured toward the door - check him out - pocketed the gun, and flipped open the ID as he straightened up, his eyes flicking from the identity to Stanley, then back again, catching himself staring. ]
Detective Ray Vecchio, Chicago PD. [ He tilted his head. ] Italian really washed out of you, huh? Well, Detective, the first thing you have to figure out is who gives the orders around here. I'll give you a clue, it's me.
[ Vecchio. God, they'd actually replaced him, put a guy undercover into his job, with his name. A Polack of all things. He'd known there'd be a guy taking his place, but they hadn't said anything about him taking his identity. And god only knew it made him feel even more out of touch with who he was. He shook it off, rolling his shoulders. ]
Put your hands down. Nobody's going to shoot you. It'd be too messy, and besides, you're going to cooperate. I like that. It's smart; and really, you have to play it smart. I could do anything to you in here, in front of all these people - shoot you, stab you, fuck you - and nobody would see a thing. In fact, even if you reported it to Vegas PD they'd tell you you didn't see anything either. You see, the things they want to put me away for we're talking hundreds of years, no parole. You're not worth their time. You're not worth the money it'd cost the state in lawyers.
Cooperation is the only thing you've got going for you. So we're going to walk out of here together. My car's up front, and we'll take a nice little drive. Maybe you'll even find what you're looking for. [ He stepped away without another word, putting Ray's ID into his pocket as he went. Vecchio. Vecchio. What was this guy's real name, that was what he wanted to know. It wasn't even like he could ask. ] What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation? Let's go.
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He'd proven he was still a good cop, that he still loved his friend enough to take a bullet for him, but neither he nor 'Ray' had said a single word to each other about Vegas. They hadn't had the chance. Hadn't had the chance to hit each other, either, hadn't been left alone together since those few moments in the mall. And then Kowalski was gone off to Canada, and Ray had breathed a sigh of relief.
He healed up. There was a collection put together for him, and when he got out of the hospital he blew the lot of it on a brand new Riviera, even though he'd had to get the damn thing painted from khaki to green, and that much had come out of his own pocket. It was a better car than the one Kowalski had set on fire and driven into a lake. It drove smoother, and the engine ticked over nicely. And it hadn't been cut in half and welded back together.
The Riv made him feel more like himself, but those months were hard. After getting shot, he'd had to come off the cocaine sharply. Morphine had replaced it, but he'd shunned that quickly enough, afraid of replacing one drug with another. Somehow he'd made it through those first few days despite the pain, and then he was healing, getting his life back, seeing a therapist four times a week. He couldn't live with his family any more, so he moved out days after getting home. Without interference from Frannie, he wouldn't even have had a bed, but in the end he'd snapped at her to leave him the fuck alone while she was busy arranging his books, and later apologetically he'd given her a spare key, and told her it was probably safer for both of them if she moved his stuff in when he wasn't there.
Stella proved all the distraction he needed, in the end. She liked his car, and she didn't know him from Adam, so it was like getting to be a whole different person--which since Ray didn't feel like himself any more, kept even from going back to his previous job by his injury, was what he discovered he most desired. He didn't want to be himself (though he sort of did) no matter that he'd come to claim his life back; he didn't know who he was any more, but it wasn't the man he'd left behind. He wasn't Armando Langoustini any more, but he wasn't Ray Vecchio either, and it was killing him--still killing him.
God, he missed Fraser. He probably wasn't ever coming back to Chicago, though, and though they'd spoken three times on the phone... It wasn't the same, and nothing would ever be like it was. What was Benny doing now, anyway? What about his replacement? Two months away from Chicago--hey, maybe they were fucking. ]
Fuck.
[ He rolled off the couch, grabbed his keys off the coffee table and took the elevator down. This place had an underground parking garage, which meant no parking his lovely Riviera out under the onslaught of nature's various beatings. He relaxed the moment he saw it, slid into the driver's side, and reached across to crank the radio. He put both hands on the wheel. There. There. That was it. This was his fix. He closed his eyes, lay his head down on the steering wheel and just tried to breathe out the tension he was feeling.
He didn't need the drugs. He didn't need to call his stupid on-call therapist. All he needed was the sound of that V-8 and the feel of the leather steering wheel under his hand. He could pretend he really was Ray Vecchio again if he just had that. Hell, he could almost pretend Fraser was in the seat beside him, even if he never would be again. He sighed. ]
Life sucks, Benny. I really wish you were here.
[ He sat back again, just lay there and listened to the motor running. ]
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Canada wasn't much better. It was cold, dangerous and full of days on end with Fraser, which in itself wasn't such a bad thing, but just occasionally Ray had to resist the urge to sock the Mountie right on the jaw for being an insufferable prick. But that was fine. Ray was learning self restraint and Fraser was learning that look that meant 'shut up before my fist and your face get intimate'. Team work and partnership. That's why they worked so well together, even if Ray hadn't been sure it'd last after Vecchio- the 'real' Vecchio- had swaggered back into their lives.
He wouldn't have believed it were it not for Fraser's certainty. That all too familiar sight of Armando showing up in Chicago, a face that Ray had long since buried in the recesses of his mind and didn't at all appreciate seeing again. He'd thought he'd made his own feeling on the whole scenario pretty obvious from the get go, meeting 'Ray' with an all too clear frostiness, even if Fraser was naively blind to it all. Or perhaps he did see and just hoped to ignore it, one can never tell for sure with the Mountie.
There might have been more to it than a few sharp words, a very minor scuffle and a general air of loathing were it not for the case that had risen it's ugly head. It had required team work from all ends and so they'd all played their part, the new (or original?) Vecchio even getting shot for the sake of Fraser. Not a bad gesture but he was still an asshole. One bullet doesn't make a saint. He's just lucky he wasn't left alone in that hospital bed.
Although no, Stan wouldn't have killed him, as tempting as that idea was. He's not a murderer, even when it does seem a fair retaliation, but the term 'an eye for an eye' certainly didn't match up with his retaliation being death. He'd just have to bide his time and get his revenge when it better suited. More particularly when Fraser wasn't around to interrupt it all or catch wind of it.
Now though? Now Fraser was in Canada, it seemed like the perfect opportunity. Trouble was, Stanley was in Canada too, and it'd taken him some time to think of a good enough excuse to abandon his partner to fly back for a few days. Parents were the perfect excuse. The sort of excuse where Fraser would politely hold back on questioning and just as politely avoid intruding. Next time they were near an airfield Kowalski had brought it up and the trip had been just as simple as he'd initially planned for. Rare for things to go his way, in fact, but just occasionally there must have been someone smiling down on him.]
It's about to get a whole lot worse.
[And so that trip had eventually all come down to Ray Kowalski laying in the back of that Riveria for far too fucking long, waiting. He had all the patience in the world when it came to revenge, after all, and this? This would be worth waiting for, if only to fill that little void that had been niggling him for far too long.
With his words comes an all too obvious press of metal to Vecchio's neck, lightning fast to prevent too much reaction in such a tight space. There didn't need to be unnecessary grappling, not when it could all be prevented by a well placed gun. And then there's Stanley, sitting up slowly to follow the gun, head peeking in between the two front seats, self-satisfied and who can really blame him?]
Benny couldn't be here, I'll send him your regards.
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Ha. Two of those things weren't true.
He'd tried not to let himself think about Stanley. In truth, back in that hotel room, he'd had a flash of the guy's face as he looked at Fraser, enough to prepare himself for his look of scornful disbelief as he turned to face him. Fraser's partner. It had never been meant to happen, and then there they were, face to face, their history like a churning bloodied no-man's land between them, and neither of them could say a word.
They weren't meant to ever be face to face. Ray had expected to be killed doing the job, because right at the time they'd met it had been more dangerous still than it had been for the long months before that. After Ray had left, he'd weathered two more assassination attempts, one very narrowly. An inch to the left and his prediction would have been correct.
With Ray's gun pressed firmly to his neck, there was no inch to the left. Ray didn't have enough time to react, to jolt up or reach into the passenger side for his gun - probably not there, though, and what would he do with it, shoot a fellow cop? - and his blood curdled. This was exactly what he'd been afraid of most. This--alone with Stanley Kowalski, with Fraser away in Canada, with nothing to protect him but his own wits.
He bristled. Fear was pouring off him in every possible direction (as it rightly should, Kowalski really could kill him here, and noone would suspect him of it) and fear because yes, that was a gun pressed into him, and if he fought it might very well go off even by accident--and then he was afraid because fuck, this wasn't happening, Stanley was really here, and what did he want? What could he possibly do? But he couldn't show it. He locked down into Armando like he was pulling on a suit of armor, because Armando didn't flinch when people pressed guns to his throat. Armando was tough. Armando bristled and spat insults back and never ever showed fear.
Funny. Ray Vecchio had done that once upon a time too. And fear? Well, it was a damn good response in a situation like this.
So he bristled, like growing up in Chicago had taught him, like being a cop in the city had hardened, and like being Armando had refined, and he bared his teeth at the mirror, raising his eyes toward it, then flicking them sidewards toward Stanley as he pressed his head between the two seats.
He was scared. He couldn't let Stanley see how much. ]
That right? My regards? I reckon I can do that myself. [ He lowered his voice. It slurred, picking up some of that Italian edge; Armando's edge. ] What're you gonna do? You wanna shoot me, Stanley? There's no point holding a gun to a guy's head if you're not prepared to use it.
[ He could fight back just as hard. He could growl and challenge with the best of them. ]
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Trouble was, that whole past event had been so locked away that it wasn't something Ray had thought of since, not even to sit and dream up his revenge. Now that he was here he wasn't sure where he was meant to go, but hey, he was always one for improvisation. Thinking on his feet was kind of his thing.]
That's cute. Still tryin' to play the mob boss like you're in a Scorsese film. Real intimidatin'. Keep it up, I hear they're just givin' away Oscars these days.
[Amused, his tone overly bright like it's just another day of banter at the office between a few colleagues. It's not far off that, not really, it's just they're in a car and one of them has a gun pointed at the other. All fun and games. His eyes flick up to the mirror to catch Vecchio's, and just in case Stanley's smugness wasn't obvious enough, he lifts up enough to have his reflection offering up a toothy grin, all upper teeth and pointed canines.]
Y'know I could shoot you. Wouldn't be difficult. No one would know it was me, no one's gonna expect another cop for it, not with the amount of friends you've made over the years. I'm still in Canada, y'know? Pretty hard for me to shoot you when I'm not even in the country.
But where's the fun in that, huh? Sure, I'd get my revenge, but I'd only be gettin' a second of entertainment for the hours you got. That seem like a fair trade off to you, Ray?
[The slightest of shifts from the back seat like he's restless, but he's anything but. Kowalski may be all nerves and excitement, but that doesn't drop his focus for one second, in fact it raises it if anything. This time his movement isn't from fear or coke or any other excuse he had back in Vegas, it's just pure Ray, every bit of him, on his home turf, confident and smug and with a gun in his hand. He might not have his glasses on, but he doesn't need them from this range.]
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Oh, he wished he'd broken a few of those teeth.
Kowalski was right; he'd managed to cover it all. He was in Canada, he was probably using Ray's own gun, and there were any number of guys who wanted him dead, people who would recognize his Buick and wait out there for him. It'd be a tragedy, but not a surprise. Hell, they'd probably have Kowalski carrying the fucking coffin.
Breathing slowly, he let his eyes drop closed, not willing to give Ray anything more. He put everything he had into looking cool and serene. He could feel Kowalski's focus, like he'd sensed it in the moment before he went out all guns blazing and shot down two guys without flinching. He wasn't a killer, no, but he had every reason to hate, and every reason to take advantage. He wanted to see Ray frightened, in pain maybe--who even knew? He didn't know how deeply Kowalski's vehemence went. It was hard to get a read on him, Ray hardly knew him at all.
Kowalski worked with Fraser. He needed glasses to shoot straight. He was energetic but it hid a frightening serenity, and he concealed his emotions under a shield of pure nerve. He could put his pride away for the sake of duty. But that didn't mean he wasn't prepared to reclaim that pride when the time came, either; they had that in common. He knew all this, but what else? Was Stanley the kind of man who'd shoot anyway? Had he killed people like Ray had? Could he shoot dead another person without thinking twice? Do it without passion, without remorse, unflinching as other people looked on? Could he deliberately cause pain, just because he'd been wronged?
He opened his eyes again. ]
Alright. [ He said, softly. ] You're here for revenge, I get it. Maybe I deserve it, I'm not gonna argue with that. [ He licked his lips, his first outward sign of anxiety since he'd frozen dead. ] I'm not gonna make any excuses, tell you I was just doing my job. We both know that was a judgement call.
[ His hands were still on the wheel. He squeezed it firmly, lifting his head off the seat, every movement careful so that Stanley could keep the gun steady. ]
You didn't plan for this, I get it, but you can think on your feet. You want me to drive somewhere, Stanley, or do you want to take this upstairs? I mean if you wanna just sit here we can do that too. You're the one with all the power. How about it?
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It wasn't just about what had happened in that mansion, but the fact that asshole had still acted like he had even after realising Ray was his stand in. What sort of person does that? A person stuck deep undercover, sure, but that didn't sit as a reasonable excuse for Stanley. Being undercover as Vecchio didn't mean he had to go around trying to fuck his ex-wife. And maybe his undercover work was a little easier, he got that, but he should still be entitled to his revenge.]
You talk too much, Vecchio, anyone ever tell you that? Maybe some people got the patience for it, but me? I hear 'Stanley' one more time and I'm gonna crack your skull with this gun, yeah?
[The gun doesn't move, neither does his gaze, locked on Vecchio from the back seat, alternating between what he could see from his current angle and what the rear-view mirror presented. He'd catch any movement, and even the slightest creep of a hand away from that wheel would be questioned. The Italian likely knew that much, especially as he grips tighter around it, Kowalski catching the slight whitening of his knuckles even in the poor lighting of the car.
Vecchio was tense. It was a beautiful fucking sight to see him like that, cooperative and careful, tightly strung thanks to the metal at his skin, and oozing tension even without much of an outward display of nerves. Not a bad show of calmness, really, but Ray knew what this was like, knew what must be racing through the guys head right now. It's a desperate clamber of thoughts, of self preservation while knowing that there was so little that could be done.
He had to make a decision. Couldn't keep both of them sitting here for the rest of the night. The car might have been a nice enough spot, but it was too cramped for him to be able to keep tabs on the other, the risk far too high. There was the smallest of chance the other cop kept additional protection elsewhere in the vehicle. No, the Riv was out of the question. Driving might be an idea, but where? And would they be seen? No point Ray feigning innocence and claiming he was in Canada when someone saw him sitting in the back of Ray's Riv.]
You and me, we're gonna take a lil' walk up to your place. In a sec I want you to open the door, one hand, real slow, then get outta the car. I'm gonna keep this gun on you the whole time. If I don't like the way you move, I'll fill your skull with lead.
[As he speaks one hand shifts slowly to the seat mechanism, ready to pop it up if Ray tries to bolt. These old cars weren't so great for speedy access in and out of the back seat, but bullets travelled plenty fast enough.]
You got any visitors at the moment, Vecchio? Anyone you need to kick out? I think we're gonna need our privacy.
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Shut up, Kowalski said. And don't call me Stanley. The threat held more weight here; he had to believe that Ray meant it.
Still, Vecchio considered every option before he moved. The idea of trying to get his gun, the thought of getting out of the car and slamming the door in Stan's face, then making a run for it. But he'd been here before, knew full well that all it would take was one bullet and it would be game over.
When Stanley had been under his thumb in Vegas, most of his own power had come from being on the other side of the gun. There was a pureness to the understanding that guns equaled death; that if you made one wrong move then it might come even by accident, without warning, and regret would do him no good when he was dead. Like Stanley had surmised back in the dungeon, cooperation was the fastest route to survival, and survival was the key here. Only survival mattered: whether it was surviving until a suitable moment for resistance arrived, or surviving until the ordeal was over. Whichever came first.
There was no real judgement to make. The only thing he needed to do was batter his already beaten pride back, convince any hint of instinct for self preservation that he had left that he ought to cooperate. The decision was already made. He reached forward slowly and took out the keys, dropping them onto the passenger seat. Stanley would need them to get the door to his apartment open, but Vecchio was well aware that letting him having a handful of keys he might try to use as weapons was unlikely to be the top of the other man's to-do list. He preempted that one with the efficiency of a man who was used to the variables himself.
Nice and slowly, he opened the door of the Riviera and pushed it wide on the hinge, then he put his hands behind his neck, folding them in place with his elbows up in the air, and climbed out without placing a hand for balance, exhaling slowly as he found his feet. Slowly, cooperate, let Stanley get out behind him. Let him have his control. He couldn't hold onto that gun forever.
The elevator door was still open. At this time of night that wasn't surprising. Nobody was going in or out, the entire building was quiet and still. He tapped for the eighth floor, then waited anxiously. If he was going to try and wrestle the gun from Kowalski this would be the moment. He had to be aware of that too. He had to be aware because Kowalski would be jumpier, ready to snap at the first wrong move Vecchio made so long as his tenuous connection to control was the trigger of the gun and nothing else. ]
Sure [ He murmured in answer, keeping his voice as neutral as he could but ending up slightly growly despite himself. His aggression was pinned down and pent up with nowhere to go. Being in this position didn't suit him anymore, the way he once might have been able to stand being pushed around. And impatience made a bad cop. ] I got the whole of the Chicago Blackhawks in there watching the game with me.
[ Still a wise ass, but he was trying just too hard to be now, and it gave a poor impression of confidence. ]
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That's good. Let the fucker guess where this was going, let him wonder if Kowalski really was pissed enough to kill or whether he was just going to get the same treatment he gave in Vegas. Neither was good. Stanley wasn't a killer. He hadn't come here for that, but he'd still defend himself with this firearm if the need arose. He'd get away with it. No one would know.
He snatched for the keys and got out the back without too much fuss, unfolding as he straightened up, shoulders rolling back, chest out, gun hand relaxed but still locked on Vecchio. He kept the keys in his left hand, intertwined them with his fingers and clenched his hand around it to make an uneven knuckle duster. It's a back up for the gun, and even with a left hook those keys would hurt if Vecchio got close enough. Stan needs whatever close range protection he can get when there an elevator. Any advantage will get the other thinking twice.]
Chicago Blackhawks, huh? I'm sure they won't mind watchin'. Give 'em some excitement.
[He kept his distance, as much as the elevator would allow, lingering just slightly behind Vecchio in the hopes that the turn of his body would give Stan the warning he needed that an attack might be coming. The gun stayed steady, still pointed, and as a precaution Kowalski announces out loud:] Fingers on the trigger, Vecchio.
[It's a risky position to rest his finger on a live firearm, but it was that extra bit of protection. It spared him that extra split second of moving his finger and it meant the extra danger of an accidental shot at any sign of a struggle. Hopefully Vecchio wouldn't be stupid enough. He tried not to concern himself with it. Kept up the confident smugness as the elevator climbs.]
Hows the hand?
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[ He hung close to the exit, his chin still raised with abject defiance, but his thoughts and instincts were wired in to the man behind him; the man with the gun in his hand and the quite legitimate beef with him. Ray had fucked him up, and that had to come back somehow. This was Chicago, Chicago rules, and there was no relying on karma to get the job done. Ray knew that. Ray had lived that, back with Frankie Zucko a million years ago. Sometimes what it took was a fist. Or a gun.
Finger on the trigger.
That shouldn't surprise him either. Good idea really, in a tight space like this. All it would take was a sudden movement, and instinct would have Stan shooting him without second thought. He got that. It also meant he didn't necessarily plan to do it, and that was fair and obvious: if Kowalski had wanted him dead he would have done it in the car. No witnesses, no evidence, and it could have been some sort of mugging gone wrong, the kind of murder they never solved because the motive could be as simple as a few quarters on the dashboard.
He wasn't going to get himself shot by accident. He hadn't come this far to do that. But he did turn his head very slightly, his shoulder, looking down his nose at Ray's left hand with the keys in it and raising his eyes again to clock Ray's expression out of the corner of them. Smug bastard. He tipped his head away, swallowed visibly, his nerves getting the better of him. ]
Aches like hell in the morning, and when it gets cold. Doc says I lost about fifty percent mobility in my thumb. Nerve damage. [ The doors opened in front of him, and he preempted Stanley's order by stepping out and leading the way down the hall, still keeping his hands up behind his neck where they could be seen at all times. ] How's your hip?
[ Sure, because this was legitimate. Trading war wounds they'd inflicted on each other when Vecchio had sexually assaulted him 'in the line of duty'. That was totally where he'd thought his life was leading two years ago. Fucking FBI, fucking mobsters. How was it he'd ended up here? He'd had a nice life, with a nice car, a nice ex-wife and a nice Mountie. Where had it all gone wrong?
Vecchio stepped obediently in against the door when they reached it, still wary of the gun. He wasn't going to try anything yet. Yet. That was the mantra he kept repeating in his head. Stanley would make some sort of mistake - after all he had - and when that happened he'd be all over it. But right now? With live ammunition involved? It wasn't likely. ]
You're gonna be disappointed. It's not nearly as nice as the old Vecchio house is. You know--before the fire damage. Thanks for that, by the way.
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Still, he stays alert, even with the mild reassurance that the Italian won't be trying anything too stupid, offering up a growing smirk as he's glanced at. Smug indeed.
It's obvious enough that the second he lets his guard drop, the other will be on him. It's exactly what Kowalski did back in Vegas. take any chance you can get, even if it's a really bad idea. That's what he did with that bite, the bite that still seems to causing Vecchio some issues. Good.]
Yeah? Great to hear. Hip ain't so bad. Little scar. Nothin' more.
[They exit the elevator without fuss, glad to see initiative used and following in just behind, gun half tucked away against himself just in case anyway comes into the hallway. Stanley doesn't know this place. Doesn't really know the layout, and he briefly thinks that he should have found that out before he started all this, but fuck it, he didn't have time. Not when his travels back to Chicago were all last minute.
It's not worth him fumbling for the right key, so instead he tosses them back to Vecchio with minimal effort, gun still locked on it's target, unwavering. Keys still weren't a match for a bullet. Don't fucking dare, Vecchio.]
I'm sure it'll do. Probably won't wanna live here either after we're through, huh? What's with the move anyway? Mama Vecchio finally get fed up of yer whinin'?
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If I had seen this before RVD 2015 I would have put it on my RayV rec list for the Day. Well, next year....
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Would <3 to know more about your "many many threads" and about that DW game where you play Fraser.