[ Fucking smartass. The oohing and ahhing as well as the swagger, the fact that even with all Armando's threats he's still cocky enough to swing along behind him making conversation like they're best pals. Except best pals wouldn't call each other scumbag or shithead. He's got some nerve this guy. Has to have, to be undercover as him, but now that he knows that fact Ray is picking out all these problems with the work being done. Sure, he's got a bad attitude, but it's never been this bad, has it? He's not the kind of person to spit so blatantly in the face of authority. Maybe pummel the hell out of its face when noone else was looking, but...
He scowled. Every word out of his mouth made it worse for him. Armando's men were tagging along, and they'd expect him to whale on this guy, there really was no escaping that. It was a matter of pride. Every deprecating little slight, every finger that had been laid on him, Stanley would have to hurt for every one.
And while he really had learned to give less of a shit bruising up scumbags, even on the odd occasion killing them where it meant maintaining his cover, the fact remained that there were still some parts of undercover that were harder than others. If he pushed him much further...
Well. He had a reputation to maintain. Langoustini was a frightening piece of work. His name rippled through this world as far out as the 47th parallel, out to Chicago and to New York, where other branches of the various families still lived and worked. People were afraid of him who had never met him, and Ray thought if he'd heard of the Bookman before the FBI had picked him out to do the job he'd have been afraid of Langoustini too. More afraid to be him than he'd let himself be, that was for sure. He tried not to register too much irritation in his voice, mostly to save face, but also because if he did Vecchio was bound to pick up on it and make the whole situation worse. ]
Sure it means something. It means if you ask stupid questions you shouldn't be surprised when I break my fist on your nose.
[ They left the VIP section and head back through the slot machines. As they went, the murmur went through on the radio to bring the car around, and by the time they were stepping out onto the sidewalk in front of the hotel, the limousine was waiting. Mikey stepped forward to hold open the car door, and Armando stepped inside, sitting in the far back as they herded Ray in behind him.
If Ray Vecchio had been in trouble inside the casino, that was nothing to how much trouble he was in now he was in the car. From now on there would be no more public, no more witnesses. The car had tinted windows; in midday traffic a gunshot would go unnoticed. That and they were one short drive away from his Adobe house with its redundant pool, surround sound movie theatre, forty-foot kitchen...and extensive underground facilities.
Armando drew out the cop's handcuffs and tossed them across onto the opposite seat. ]
Just in case you get any ideas. One hand is enough. Do you like buttermilk?
[ Armando waved off Mikey, who seemed concerned enough that he wanted to get in with them. No. He needed at least a veneer of privacy--not that he genuinely had any. The FBI had listening devices in this car as well as inside the house. He couldn't give away his identity even if he wanted to, and in fact Fraser's well being might actually depend on maintaining this ruse. That was the problem, really. He did know where the Mountie was, but he was powerless to intercede on his behalf. Now, if he could just maneuver Ray into doing it for him...
--Without the FBI rushing in.
--And without jeopardizing his cover.
If anyone could do it, he could do it. He just had to be smart. First thing's first: no using his name. If anyone said Ray Vecchio where the Feds could hear it, he'd be whipped out of Vegas so fast his ass turned the sand to glass. ]
You'll regret it later if you don't. Cocaine, you know--it really aggravates the lining of your throat, especially if you've never done it before. [ He didn't look at Ray; he was pouring two glasses of buttermilk serenely. As though this was everyday conversation. ]
no subject
He scowled. Every word out of his mouth made it worse for him. Armando's men were tagging along, and they'd expect him to whale on this guy, there really was no escaping that. It was a matter of pride. Every deprecating little slight, every finger that had been laid on him, Stanley would have to hurt for every one.
And while he really had learned to give less of a shit bruising up scumbags, even on the odd occasion killing them where it meant maintaining his cover, the fact remained that there were still some parts of undercover that were harder than others. If he pushed him much further...
Well. He had a reputation to maintain. Langoustini was a frightening piece of work. His name rippled through this world as far out as the 47th parallel, out to Chicago and to New York, where other branches of the various families still lived and worked. People were afraid of him who had never met him, and Ray thought if he'd heard of the Bookman before the FBI had picked him out to do the job he'd have been afraid of Langoustini too. More afraid to be him than he'd let himself be, that was for sure. He tried not to register too much irritation in his voice, mostly to save face, but also because if he did Vecchio was bound to pick up on it and make the whole situation worse. ]
Sure it means something. It means if you ask stupid questions you shouldn't be surprised when I break my fist on your nose.
[ They left the VIP section and head back through the slot machines. As they went, the murmur went through on the radio to bring the car around, and by the time they were stepping out onto the sidewalk in front of the hotel, the limousine was waiting. Mikey stepped forward to hold open the car door, and Armando stepped inside, sitting in the far back as they herded Ray in behind him.
If Ray Vecchio had been in trouble inside the casino, that was nothing to how much trouble he was in now he was in the car. From now on there would be no more public, no more witnesses. The car had tinted windows; in midday traffic a gunshot would go unnoticed. That and they were one short drive away from his Adobe house with its redundant pool, surround sound movie theatre, forty-foot kitchen...and extensive underground facilities.
Armando drew out the cop's handcuffs and tossed them across onto the opposite seat. ]
Just in case you get any ideas. One hand is enough. Do you like buttermilk?
[ Armando waved off Mikey, who seemed concerned enough that he wanted to get in with them. No. He needed at least a veneer of privacy--not that he genuinely had any. The FBI had listening devices in this car as well as inside the house. He couldn't give away his identity even if he wanted to, and in fact Fraser's well being might actually depend on maintaining this ruse. That was the problem, really. He did know where the Mountie was, but he was powerless to intercede on his behalf. Now, if he could just maneuver Ray into doing it for him...
--Without the FBI rushing in.
--And without jeopardizing his cover.
If anyone could do it, he could do it. He just had to be smart. First thing's first: no using his name. If anyone said Ray Vecchio where the Feds could hear it, he'd be whipped out of Vegas so fast his ass turned the sand to glass. ]
You'll regret it later if you don't. Cocaine, you know--it really aggravates the lining of your throat, especially if you've never done it before. [ He didn't look at Ray; he was pouring two glasses of buttermilk serenely. As though this was everyday conversation. ]