[ 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?
no subject
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?