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[ 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. ]
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.]
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?
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.]
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. ]
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.]
Hit me.
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.
[ 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?
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?
[An ace.
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?
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?
[ 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. ]
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.]
Take me to him.
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.
[ 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.
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.
[Ray does play it smart. Smart enough to know when he's out gunned and out numbered. Smart enough when to fight and when to concede to orders. He's had enough training in his career to know that sometimes doing what the criminal asks is a smart move for the sake of saving lives, and right now that's exactly what this is. If he plays his cards right he'll get to see Fraser, make sure he's okay, and, hopefully, get him back to Chicago. Play it wrong and he'll be dead within minutes, possibly Fraser along with him. There was too much at stake to even humour the idea of punching this guy, not right now in front of all these guns and all these people. Maybe he'd have his chance later, maybe even in the car.
For now he stands, hands behind his head and feet shoulder width apart, loose and casual. Relaxed like he does this all the time. He's cool, he's fine, nothing to worry about. He doesn't even flinch when Armando approaches, eyes rolling towards the ceiling and lips curling upwards in vague amusement at the pat down. It's a smart move and an obvious one to make, but Stanley's all for being the joker in the classroom, especially when he's got an audience. He doesn't even refrain from the light "Ooh!" at the hands on his thighs, smirking down at the suit although quickly snapping his gaze upwards again as the other straightens. Totally on his best behaviour. Yup.
He listens like he's supposed to, nods a vague yeah, yeah, yeah like he's heard it all before. Except he hasn't. This guy may be exaggerating, but Ray believes it for the most part. Fucking police departments being scared to act against mobsters. The same happens with Chicago, sure, Fraser reminded them all of that, but no action from Vegas even if a cop goes missing? Fuck that. ... God, he hopes it's a ruse, because he really could do with the PD on his side when he gets out of this mess. Because he will get out of this.
The lowering of his hands is a delayed reaction, but only because his mind is on other things, but when they do lower he comes to realise there really isn't much he can do without his guns. Sure he's still got his feet and his fists, but right now they weren't going to help him. Armando's stripped him of all his belongings, cuffs and all, and without the weight of those and his ankle gun, he feels strangely naked. How did Fraser ever cope without all that? Apparently not well if he's managed to get himself kidnapped or whatever he's got himself into, and sure, Ray was stumbling into the same issue but he had a plan (no he didn't) and he knows for a fact that if he reunites with Fraser that they'll come up with something. They always do.
Eventually he moves without an engraved invitation, tagging along towards the car without argument, still with that swagger and still casually chewing away at that gum that he somehow didn't swallow when throwing himself over the table.]
So, you're Langoustini? That uh, that mean somethin' in Italian? Like uh scumbag or shithead or whatever?
For now he stands, hands behind his head and feet shoulder width apart, loose and casual. Relaxed like he does this all the time. He's cool, he's fine, nothing to worry about. He doesn't even flinch when Armando approaches, eyes rolling towards the ceiling and lips curling upwards in vague amusement at the pat down. It's a smart move and an obvious one to make, but Stanley's all for being the joker in the classroom, especially when he's got an audience. He doesn't even refrain from the light "Ooh!" at the hands on his thighs, smirking down at the suit although quickly snapping his gaze upwards again as the other straightens. Totally on his best behaviour. Yup.
He listens like he's supposed to, nods a vague yeah, yeah, yeah like he's heard it all before. Except he hasn't. This guy may be exaggerating, but Ray believes it for the most part. Fucking police departments being scared to act against mobsters. The same happens with Chicago, sure, Fraser reminded them all of that, but no action from Vegas even if a cop goes missing? Fuck that. ... God, he hopes it's a ruse, because he really could do with the PD on his side when he gets out of this mess. Because he will get out of this.
The lowering of his hands is a delayed reaction, but only because his mind is on other things, but when they do lower he comes to realise there really isn't much he can do without his guns. Sure he's still got his feet and his fists, but right now they weren't going to help him. Armando's stripped him of all his belongings, cuffs and all, and without the weight of those and his ankle gun, he feels strangely naked. How did Fraser ever cope without all that? Apparently not well if he's managed to get himself kidnapped or whatever he's got himself into, and sure, Ray was stumbling into the same issue but he had a plan (no he didn't) and he knows for a fact that if he reunites with Fraser that they'll come up with something. They always do.
Eventually he moves without an engraved invitation, tagging along towards the car without argument, still with that swagger and still casually chewing away at that gum that he somehow didn't swallow when throwing himself over the table.]
So, you're Langoustini? That uh, that mean somethin' in Italian? Like uh scumbag or shithead or whatever?
[ 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. ]
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. ]
Huh.
[Okay, so he got the threat well enough about the name. The shut the fuck up before I really do hurt you threat that actually gets Stanley falling quietly, chewing silently on his gum as he follows, peering around to take note of what goons were still paying attention. There were plenty eyeing him wearily, but none that seemed too overly concerned now that he'd been de-clawed, so to speak. It seemed like Armando's confidence was enough to keep the rest of the team feeling similar, and ain't that a sign of good leadership? Stay calm and they will follow. Clever.
The limo doesn't surprise him. Of course some higher up mobster is going to have a limo, of course. These guys have money to throw away at anything, they earn more in a few hours than he makes in a year and-- damn, he never got to cash in those chips. Oh well. Maybe another day.
It's not fear that has him hesitating, but e does his best to get a good assessment of the car's interior while he can. Tinted windows. No witnesses. Mafia car. They could easily blow his brains out in the back seat and just replace the car. No one would know and the repercussions would likely be non existent beyond an ineffective search by his own department with a possible but reluctant involvement with the Vegas PD. Even if shooting was the likely outcome, he couldn't prevent it. They'd just as likely get him for bolting, or even just for refusing to enter.
Easiest route was still to play along and bide his time. He could still get the information he needed and get out of here. Just keep with the program and maybe turn the cockiness down a little before he gets an actual fist to the nose.
And so he moved when ushered in, sitting opposite and sparing a glance around the cushy interior because this is fancier than anything he's used to. He's just a poor Chicago boy, he's not used to riches of Vegas.
When the handcuffs land next to him, he reaches for them, his eyes drifting from them up to Armando and then staying there, as if watching the suit will somehow prevent him from drawing a weapon. Ray does exactly as he's told, slapping a cuff over his left wrist and then leaving the other dangling uselessly as he smiles proudly, and maybe he's being a smart ass or maybe he's just being a dumb ass, it's often hard to tell with him. It's only after that he notices there was a question hanging in the air. An odd question about buttermilk that has him squinting just slightly in confusion.]
Uh.
[Regret it later? Cocaine? Never done it before. Cute.]
Nah thanks, man, I'm not a user. Legalities, y'know?
[Okay, so he got the threat well enough about the name. The shut the fuck up before I really do hurt you threat that actually gets Stanley falling quietly, chewing silently on his gum as he follows, peering around to take note of what goons were still paying attention. There were plenty eyeing him wearily, but none that seemed too overly concerned now that he'd been de-clawed, so to speak. It seemed like Armando's confidence was enough to keep the rest of the team feeling similar, and ain't that a sign of good leadership? Stay calm and they will follow. Clever.
The limo doesn't surprise him. Of course some higher up mobster is going to have a limo, of course. These guys have money to throw away at anything, they earn more in a few hours than he makes in a year and-- damn, he never got to cash in those chips. Oh well. Maybe another day.
It's not fear that has him hesitating, but e does his best to get a good assessment of the car's interior while he can. Tinted windows. No witnesses. Mafia car. They could easily blow his brains out in the back seat and just replace the car. No one would know and the repercussions would likely be non existent beyond an ineffective search by his own department with a possible but reluctant involvement with the Vegas PD. Even if shooting was the likely outcome, he couldn't prevent it. They'd just as likely get him for bolting, or even just for refusing to enter.
Easiest route was still to play along and bide his time. He could still get the information he needed and get out of here. Just keep with the program and maybe turn the cockiness down a little before he gets an actual fist to the nose.
And so he moved when ushered in, sitting opposite and sparing a glance around the cushy interior because this is fancier than anything he's used to. He's just a poor Chicago boy, he's not used to riches of Vegas.
When the handcuffs land next to him, he reaches for them, his eyes drifting from them up to Armando and then staying there, as if watching the suit will somehow prevent him from drawing a weapon. Ray does exactly as he's told, slapping a cuff over his left wrist and then leaving the other dangling uselessly as he smiles proudly, and maybe he's being a smart ass or maybe he's just being a dumb ass, it's often hard to tell with him. It's only after that he notices there was a question hanging in the air. An odd question about buttermilk that has him squinting just slightly in confusion.]
Uh.
[Regret it later? Cocaine? Never done it before. Cute.]
Nah thanks, man, I'm not a user. Legalities, y'know?
Your funeral.
[ It was a really unpleasant thing to say to a guy who was actually envisioning peril to his life, but as far as reminders went it wasn't a bad one. Ray - if that was really his name, which was unlikely - was playing a dangerous game. He had his pick of places to attach the handcuffs to. He didn't. He was probably envisioning throwing himself across the car and trying to strangle Langoustini.
But that wouldn't be a smart move, would it? As soon as the car pulled over, a half dozen mobsters would convene on him with automatic weapons. It'd be a bloodbath.
Armando sat back, not rising immediately to the bait, sipping his buttermilk serenely. His hands were both folded around the glass, doeskin leather gloves covering slender fingers. ]
As for the legalities, I shouldn't worry about it. I'm prepared to write you a written statement releasing you from your responsibility and explaining how I forced them on you. By the time I'm done with you you'll be grateful I did.
[ The glass went down into its holder in the rail, and Armando eased even further back, one arm on the rest behind him to either side, all but spreading himself across the entire seat. He possessed it easily, while Ray still looked impossibly nervous and very, very much like he didn't belong. And who did? Riding in a limousine? What sort of life was this?
He was all but inviting Ray to try his luck, and yet--and yet if he did, he'd be furious with him. ]
You know my name, but you don't really know who I am. I'm royalty. I'm the president, the king and the pope all rolled into one. You see, I like this life. I can have anything I want. I can do anything I want, to anyone I want; but that doesn't come for free. You have to earn fear. Yes, fear, not respect. Respect is a joke down here, it doesn't exist. But fear. Fear is better. It takes upkeep. I need to show a strong front. And that's why I can't be seen to be taking it easy on you.
And that's a shame. I like you. I think you're ballsy. In another life we might even have been good friends, shot a few rounds of pool together, drank a few beers. I am going to help you find what you came here for; I am if nothing else irrevocably a man of my word, but for what you did back in the casino--I'm afraid there's no escaping that debt. A balance needs to be struck, and I have to tell you, liking you or not, a part of me is gonna enjoy it.
The real question - the one you really ought to be asking yourself - is how much you like the fingers on your right hand. I know you've just been burning to hit me. I might even let you. But if you try it, I have to take my recompense. I'll break every single finger. Every one. It isn't personal, it's just business. It's just too bad that you'll never hold a gun again, but I suppose that's not gonna be a problem. Not like people shoot at you every day or anything, right?
Your call. Remember, it's like I said. Cooperation's a good look for you.
[ It was a really unpleasant thing to say to a guy who was actually envisioning peril to his life, but as far as reminders went it wasn't a bad one. Ray - if that was really his name, which was unlikely - was playing a dangerous game. He had his pick of places to attach the handcuffs to. He didn't. He was probably envisioning throwing himself across the car and trying to strangle Langoustini.
But that wouldn't be a smart move, would it? As soon as the car pulled over, a half dozen mobsters would convene on him with automatic weapons. It'd be a bloodbath.
Armando sat back, not rising immediately to the bait, sipping his buttermilk serenely. His hands were both folded around the glass, doeskin leather gloves covering slender fingers. ]
As for the legalities, I shouldn't worry about it. I'm prepared to write you a written statement releasing you from your responsibility and explaining how I forced them on you. By the time I'm done with you you'll be grateful I did.
[ The glass went down into its holder in the rail, and Armando eased even further back, one arm on the rest behind him to either side, all but spreading himself across the entire seat. He possessed it easily, while Ray still looked impossibly nervous and very, very much like he didn't belong. And who did? Riding in a limousine? What sort of life was this?
He was all but inviting Ray to try his luck, and yet--and yet if he did, he'd be furious with him. ]
You know my name, but you don't really know who I am. I'm royalty. I'm the president, the king and the pope all rolled into one. You see, I like this life. I can have anything I want. I can do anything I want, to anyone I want; but that doesn't come for free. You have to earn fear. Yes, fear, not respect. Respect is a joke down here, it doesn't exist. But fear. Fear is better. It takes upkeep. I need to show a strong front. And that's why I can't be seen to be taking it easy on you.
And that's a shame. I like you. I think you're ballsy. In another life we might even have been good friends, shot a few rounds of pool together, drank a few beers. I am going to help you find what you came here for; I am if nothing else irrevocably a man of my word, but for what you did back in the casino--I'm afraid there's no escaping that debt. A balance needs to be struck, and I have to tell you, liking you or not, a part of me is gonna enjoy it.
The real question - the one you really ought to be asking yourself - is how much you like the fingers on your right hand. I know you've just been burning to hit me. I might even let you. But if you try it, I have to take my recompense. I'll break every single finger. Every one. It isn't personal, it's just business. It's just too bad that you'll never hold a gun again, but I suppose that's not gonna be a problem. Not like people shoot at you every day or anything, right?
Your call. Remember, it's like I said. Cooperation's a good look for you.
[If there's one thing he can learn from all of this, it's that villains really do like to monologue and that this guy really does like to talk. A lot. But Ray listens, he has to listen in case he misses something important in it all. It's all about self preservation and balancing that out with his usual cockiness. He's starting to realise his smugness isn't going to get him many places, not when there's threats of debts and finger breaking and other typical mafia lines that he really doesn't doubt are true. He's in the back of a limo, gunless and at the whim of some higher up in the mob, you can bet he's concerned for his own safety.
So maybe he should do as he's told, which is why he's finally reaching up towards the assist handle above the limo door and clipping the other cuff onto it, rolling his eyes as he does so and then snapping his gaze to Armando with an obvious 'happy now?' look on his features.
He won't be doing any more pouncing and punching. Not yet. There's still far too much risk involved in it especially now that he's got the possibility of finding the Mountie he came in search for just by cooperation. He doesn't doubt that stupid actions from him could result in the death of himself and the guy he's come to aid.]
Okay, sure, give me a glass, I'll take it.
[Of all the things to be drinking in the back of a limo, he gets stuck with butter milk. Limos in the movies always have champagne and martinis and plenty of hot chicks to go with it all. But whatever, he'll take what he can get right now.]
You got anything a little stronger than milk?
So maybe he should do as he's told, which is why he's finally reaching up towards the assist handle above the limo door and clipping the other cuff onto it, rolling his eyes as he does so and then snapping his gaze to Armando with an obvious 'happy now?' look on his features.
He won't be doing any more pouncing and punching. Not yet. There's still far too much risk involved in it especially now that he's got the possibility of finding the Mountie he came in search for just by cooperation. He doesn't doubt that stupid actions from him could result in the death of himself and the guy he's come to aid.]
Okay, sure, give me a glass, I'll take it.
[Of all the things to be drinking in the back of a limo, he gets stuck with butter milk. Limos in the movies always have champagne and martinis and plenty of hot chicks to go with it all. But whatever, he'll take what he can get right now.]
You got anything a little stronger than milk?
There's plenty that's stronger than milk. [ He gestured. ] Nothing I'm going to give you. Alcohol turns cocaine into a poison, multiplies its lethality, and like I said--I like you.
[ He liked him better cooperating, with his hand cuffed to the rail and his ass in the opposite seat. Politely he leaned forward, picking up the second glass and offering it to Ray.
It had actually been the capofamiglia who'd pointed him toward buttermilk; an early gaff on Ray's behalf, but which he'd covered for quickly enough. It had been a week after he'd started augmenting his coping ability with drugs that he'd been brought the glass of buttermilk by instruction. He'd waved it away, and gotten a dirty look for doing so. Look, if it's between your buttermilk habit and another year long battle with bronchitis, I know which I'd prefer, the boss had snapped, and Ray had hightailed it into drinking buttermilk whenever possible. At the very least it kept him away from alcohol for the aforementioned reasons.
As habits went, it wasn't the worst one he'd picked up. It sharpened his mind when he had to turn it to all the maths. Maths; nobody had told him that filing his tax returns was all the practice he was going to get before the FBI made him the bookman for the mob. Then it had been his job to make those numbers vanish, but vanish legitimately. Hell, without the cocaine he'd be dead already. They'd have sussed out he was fraud months ago.
But here he was, alive and well, and maybe a little raw around the edges, but he'd very quickly picked up the mantra that he'd do whatever it took to live through this experience. The deeper he got, the more he betrayed of his own moral values, the more important it became that something come of it.
It was part of why he'd been so pissed off when Fraser showed up here. Here he was risking his life... ]
What's it matter to you, this friend of yours? He owe you money or something? [ Please explain it, Ray, because he had no idea how to. Fraser was infuriating, and this was a big risk to take, and Ray knew sure enough that he'd be doing the same thing were he in this guy's place.
As he had been, in fact, several times before.
So why the hell did they do it? ]
[ He liked him better cooperating, with his hand cuffed to the rail and his ass in the opposite seat. Politely he leaned forward, picking up the second glass and offering it to Ray.
It had actually been the capofamiglia who'd pointed him toward buttermilk; an early gaff on Ray's behalf, but which he'd covered for quickly enough. It had been a week after he'd started augmenting his coping ability with drugs that he'd been brought the glass of buttermilk by instruction. He'd waved it away, and gotten a dirty look for doing so. Look, if it's between your buttermilk habit and another year long battle with bronchitis, I know which I'd prefer, the boss had snapped, and Ray had hightailed it into drinking buttermilk whenever possible. At the very least it kept him away from alcohol for the aforementioned reasons.
As habits went, it wasn't the worst one he'd picked up. It sharpened his mind when he had to turn it to all the maths. Maths; nobody had told him that filing his tax returns was all the practice he was going to get before the FBI made him the bookman for the mob. Then it had been his job to make those numbers vanish, but vanish legitimately. Hell, without the cocaine he'd be dead already. They'd have sussed out he was fraud months ago.
But here he was, alive and well, and maybe a little raw around the edges, but he'd very quickly picked up the mantra that he'd do whatever it took to live through this experience. The deeper he got, the more he betrayed of his own moral values, the more important it became that something come of it.
It was part of why he'd been so pissed off when Fraser showed up here. Here he was risking his life... ]
What's it matter to you, this friend of yours? He owe you money or something? [ Please explain it, Ray, because he had no idea how to. Fraser was infuriating, and this was a big risk to take, and Ray knew sure enough that he'd be doing the same thing were he in this guy's place.
As he had been, in fact, several times before.
So why the hell did they do it? ]
[Ray didn't know this guy's story and he was pretty sure he didn't want to. It was always the same with mob guys anyway, some Goodfella bullshit story about a climb to the top and constant threats to their authority. Armando had already confirmed some of that with his little lecture about respect and fear. They were all the same and most of them ended up the same way too; dead, and Ray could at least take some comfort in that, even if this guy might be one of the better ones. Might. He knows there's plenty who play the good guy just long enough to stab you in the back. No honour among thieves.
So maybe he had learned a lot of that stuff from mafia films, but he'd also witnessed and heard enough about it on the streets of Chicago to get the general idea of how these interactions went down. And interactions that involved one guy ushered into a limo with a higher up? They didn't usually end well.
And there was Ray, sat with a hand willingly cuffed to the car with little hope of swift movement, sipping at buttermilk while chatting to some guy named Armando who was supposedly some big name in Vegas. Chatting about cocaine and lost Mounties, no less.]
He's my partner.
[No lies there, but at the moment Kowalski doesn't see much point in lying. What good is it going to do him when they already know he's a cop? And a cop looking for another sort-of cop can only bring up so many results.]
He's not from around here- America, I mean. He don't know how our world works, so I guess you could say I'm kinda like his babysitter. Maybe a mob guy like you knows what its like to have a guy by your side through it all, I dunno, but it's hard to give up on a pal that'd take a bullet for ya. Y'know, a real pal, not some goon who's paid big bucks to keep you safe.
[And still the truth, heartfelt, even. Ray's not afraid to show how much he needs to find this Mountie of his.]
You show me where he is and we got no problems. I take him back to Chicago and everyone forgets this ever happened. It's a fair deal all around.
So maybe he had learned a lot of that stuff from mafia films, but he'd also witnessed and heard enough about it on the streets of Chicago to get the general idea of how these interactions went down. And interactions that involved one guy ushered into a limo with a higher up? They didn't usually end well.
And there was Ray, sat with a hand willingly cuffed to the car with little hope of swift movement, sipping at buttermilk while chatting to some guy named Armando who was supposedly some big name in Vegas. Chatting about cocaine and lost Mounties, no less.]
He's my partner.
[No lies there, but at the moment Kowalski doesn't see much point in lying. What good is it going to do him when they already know he's a cop? And a cop looking for another sort-of cop can only bring up so many results.]
He's not from around here- America, I mean. He don't know how our world works, so I guess you could say I'm kinda like his babysitter. Maybe a mob guy like you knows what its like to have a guy by your side through it all, I dunno, but it's hard to give up on a pal that'd take a bullet for ya. Y'know, a real pal, not some goon who's paid big bucks to keep you safe.
[And still the truth, heartfelt, even. Ray's not afraid to show how much he needs to find this Mountie of his.]
You show me where he is and we got no problems. I take him back to Chicago and everyone forgets this ever happened. It's a fair deal all around.
[ Maybe this guy had sussed out the real reason why they couldn't do anything to escape Fraser. He depended on them; he'd die without them, die a thousand times over. But he was their friend; he'd take a bullet for them, and Ray had a still healing wound in his shoulder that said that he'd take one too. God, he missed Fraser. He missed feeling this way about him. This guy still had that. This imposter, who'd come in and stolen his life, and his name, and his Mountie, stolen even the way he felt about him.
And Ray had to sit there and listen to it, get insulted and dismissed, because he was just some mob guy with a bunch of goons who would shoot him dead if they thought it'd get them his job and his money.
Now he wanted to hit Ray. Or cry, maybe. This assignment sucked. He missed Fraser, missed Chicago, missed being a cop more than he could stand, and here was Ray Vecchio to remind him just how much. ]
You're right, I wouldn't know anything about any of that. I haven't had a real friend since I was nine, unless you count dead Presidents.
[ He made it sound like he counted those dead Presidents, but the truth was he didn't. Money was great, but Ray didn't rate it. The job was lonely. Mostly it was lonely because coming out of Vegas with an addiction to coke was a lot kinder to his body than coming out of Vegas with venereal diseases. He'd made his choice.
He tilted his head toward the window as they turned and changed speed and direction. They were pulling out of the worst of the traffic now, heading down through the long, winding roads that led down to the oasis where the millionaires lived. They turned again, drove into darkness, and came to a halt in the cool underground garage of his home. There was a grind of electrics as the gate doors came rolling down, and when they stopped with a clunk, Armando finally moved, shifting forward and patting Ray on the knee. ]
Let's continue this conversation inside, shall we?
[ He left him where he was, stepping out of the door when it was opened for him and tossing his key to the driver. A second car had pulled in beside them, full of curious men, and Armando stopped to pat one of the younger ones on the shoulder before speaking to a man closer to his age. ]
I need three hours. Then send Nicci back to pick him up, and Si--bounce me in a couple of clean up guys. He's a cop, I'm not going to kill him, but you know how it is, things might get out of hand. It's been a while since I got to have any real fun, and with all this stress going around recently... Well, you know how it is. I figure I may at least enjoy myself.
[ He tilted his head back over his shoulder, smirked dangerously back through the doorway into the car. His driver had climbed in to unlock Ray's handcuffs, and Armando took a step away as space was made for his replacement to get out of the limousine. ]
Come on then, Raymondo. Let's take a walk. See you later, Si. Right this way.
And Ray had to sit there and listen to it, get insulted and dismissed, because he was just some mob guy with a bunch of goons who would shoot him dead if they thought it'd get them his job and his money.
Now he wanted to hit Ray. Or cry, maybe. This assignment sucked. He missed Fraser, missed Chicago, missed being a cop more than he could stand, and here was Ray Vecchio to remind him just how much. ]
You're right, I wouldn't know anything about any of that. I haven't had a real friend since I was nine, unless you count dead Presidents.
[ He made it sound like he counted those dead Presidents, but the truth was he didn't. Money was great, but Ray didn't rate it. The job was lonely. Mostly it was lonely because coming out of Vegas with an addiction to coke was a lot kinder to his body than coming out of Vegas with venereal diseases. He'd made his choice.
He tilted his head toward the window as they turned and changed speed and direction. They were pulling out of the worst of the traffic now, heading down through the long, winding roads that led down to the oasis where the millionaires lived. They turned again, drove into darkness, and came to a halt in the cool underground garage of his home. There was a grind of electrics as the gate doors came rolling down, and when they stopped with a clunk, Armando finally moved, shifting forward and patting Ray on the knee. ]
Let's continue this conversation inside, shall we?
[ He left him where he was, stepping out of the door when it was opened for him and tossing his key to the driver. A second car had pulled in beside them, full of curious men, and Armando stopped to pat one of the younger ones on the shoulder before speaking to a man closer to his age. ]
I need three hours. Then send Nicci back to pick him up, and Si--bounce me in a couple of clean up guys. He's a cop, I'm not going to kill him, but you know how it is, things might get out of hand. It's been a while since I got to have any real fun, and with all this stress going around recently... Well, you know how it is. I figure I may at least enjoy myself.
[ He tilted his head back over his shoulder, smirked dangerously back through the doorway into the car. His driver had climbed in to unlock Ray's handcuffs, and Armando took a step away as space was made for his replacement to get out of the limousine. ]
Come on then, Raymondo. Let's take a walk. See you later, Si. Right this way.
[Go figure, the mob guy's only friend is money. To be honest, Ray wishes he could say the same. Before Fraser, his only friend had been a turtle, so maybe he won't go judging gangsters on a lonely life. At least this guy had a limo, probably a big house, lots of goons and maybe even a few maids or butlers or something, that's more than Ray's ever had. Sure, he wouldn't replace his Mountie for that, not now that he has such a friend, but before Fraser a life like this might have been real tempting, were it not for the moral issues. Kowalski was a cop for a reason; he had a basic understanding of right and wrong, and maybe he blurred the lines a little from time to time, but it was always for the greater good.
He feels the change in speed and direction and vaguely realises he has absolutely no clue where they're going. Fraser could probably pinpoint their location just by the car's speed and distance travelled and turns made, but Ray wasn't any good at that. He couldn't even say if they were going north or south, and if he somehow manages to get a call into the police, he won't even be able to tell him his location. Yet more proof that he's just a little fucked right now, but he's still keeping his cool other than the usual jitter that vibrates from him.
He only bothers with half of that buttermilk before shoving it aside in the nearest cup holder, back to chewing the gum he's still preserved. And then they're stopped and Armando's leaning forward to address him. Ray stares right back, offering up a forced smile that has all the obvious bitterness behind it that one would expect from a guy cuffed inside a car, at the whim of a bunch of mobsters. He put himself in this situation, he had to remind himself of that, and just maybe he'd do it again if it meant saving Fraser at the end of it all.
He waited for his release, listening in on the conversation that happened outside the car for any warning clues. He hears mention of clean up, but also that he's not likely to be killed which is... reassuring. But his 'pick up' after this could result in a bullet to the head anyway. Really, there's nothing extra he can garner from that that he'd not already worked out for himself.
At least he's getting released, not even bothering to do anything stupid as the cuff comes free, even if punching the driver would be amusing. However a few seconds of entertainment isn't worth whatever he'd get from the small group standing by, and so he keeps his movements obvious, hopping out of the car while rubbing his wrist and heading towards Armando despite the guy looking like a fucking psycho with a smile like that.]
You gonna give me a tour of your house?
[That's totally why there here, right?]
He feels the change in speed and direction and vaguely realises he has absolutely no clue where they're going. Fraser could probably pinpoint their location just by the car's speed and distance travelled and turns made, but Ray wasn't any good at that. He couldn't even say if they were going north or south, and if he somehow manages to get a call into the police, he won't even be able to tell him his location. Yet more proof that he's just a little fucked right now, but he's still keeping his cool other than the usual jitter that vibrates from him.
He only bothers with half of that buttermilk before shoving it aside in the nearest cup holder, back to chewing the gum he's still preserved. And then they're stopped and Armando's leaning forward to address him. Ray stares right back, offering up a forced smile that has all the obvious bitterness behind it that one would expect from a guy cuffed inside a car, at the whim of a bunch of mobsters. He put himself in this situation, he had to remind himself of that, and just maybe he'd do it again if it meant saving Fraser at the end of it all.
He waited for his release, listening in on the conversation that happened outside the car for any warning clues. He hears mention of clean up, but also that he's not likely to be killed which is... reassuring. But his 'pick up' after this could result in a bullet to the head anyway. Really, there's nothing extra he can garner from that that he'd not already worked out for himself.
At least he's getting released, not even bothering to do anything stupid as the cuff comes free, even if punching the driver would be amusing. However a few seconds of entertainment isn't worth whatever he'd get from the small group standing by, and so he keeps his movements obvious, hopping out of the car while rubbing his wrist and heading towards Armando despite the guy looking like a fucking psycho with a smile like that.]
You gonna give me a tour of your house?
[That's totally why there here, right?]
Why not? We should all get to see how the other half lives, right?
[ So maybe Ray thought that he was telling a good joke, haha, getting out of having his fingernails peeled off or whatever, but life was never so simple, and Armando, content in his own environment once again, dropped an arm across Ray's shoulder and steered him up the ramp toward open sunlight. They were underneath a veranda overgrowing with climbing roses and butterfly bushes. Night blooming primrose hung low, intertwined with the other plants, creating a sort of green shade that stretched along the side of the single story whitewashed building to their left. The building arched around, growing from one floor to two as it circled the vast blue pool. Its roof slanted inward, and most of the inward facing walls were windows, showing finely designed white walls with rich, dark brown furniture, Italian leather couches and glossy white marble surfaces. This wasn't a family home; it was a show home, a hotel, or the ultimate bachelor's pad, so pristine that it was impossible to believe that anyone lived there. The most expensive looking pool table in the world dominated one of the rooms; it was felted in white, trimmed in gold with inlaid marble sides. It looked like the kind of pool table God would own.
But it was just one part of the entire effect. Armando patted Ray on the shoulder. ]
Don't worry, huh? If you scrimp and save enough for the next thirty years, and if you manage to get yourself nearly killed in the line of duty, and if you don't get married or waste your time on kids, you might be able to afford--oh, two nights in a place like this?
Sucks, doesn't it?
[ He stepped away, clearly not caring whether Ray came with him or not, but since he hadn't told him where Fraser was yet, and since he'd followed him this far, and quite possibly since he didn't know which way was the way out, he would just have to follow him. Armando led the way carefully around the outside of the pool, opened the seamless wall of windows, which apparently included secret french doors, and held them wide for the other man to enter after him. Once again a blast of cool air erupted from the well air conditioned home, like they'd both just stepped into the refrigerated section of a grocery store rather than a house in the Mohave desert.
But as he closed the door behind him, he at last removed a gun - Kowalski's, actually - turning it thoughtfully in his hand. If he traced this weapon, would he find that it was registered to Ray Vecchio? Had the FBI managed to transfer over even that? Or would he find out what this guy's name really was?
Well, there wasn't time for that now. He'd get to the bottom of it, maybe jot the serial number down and call up his snitch in Vegas PD after he'd sent the cop on his way. In the meantime he lowered the firearm to his side, and decided to see just how far Ray's cooperation went. ]
Strip. Right down to your underwear, take it all off. It's not a fantastic suit but it's gonna look better if it's not covered in blood when you walk outta here. So take it off, fold it up, and put it over there, on the top of the piano.
How do you feel about classical music, Ray?
[ So maybe Ray thought that he was telling a good joke, haha, getting out of having his fingernails peeled off or whatever, but life was never so simple, and Armando, content in his own environment once again, dropped an arm across Ray's shoulder and steered him up the ramp toward open sunlight. They were underneath a veranda overgrowing with climbing roses and butterfly bushes. Night blooming primrose hung low, intertwined with the other plants, creating a sort of green shade that stretched along the side of the single story whitewashed building to their left. The building arched around, growing from one floor to two as it circled the vast blue pool. Its roof slanted inward, and most of the inward facing walls were windows, showing finely designed white walls with rich, dark brown furniture, Italian leather couches and glossy white marble surfaces. This wasn't a family home; it was a show home, a hotel, or the ultimate bachelor's pad, so pristine that it was impossible to believe that anyone lived there. The most expensive looking pool table in the world dominated one of the rooms; it was felted in white, trimmed in gold with inlaid marble sides. It looked like the kind of pool table God would own.
But it was just one part of the entire effect. Armando patted Ray on the shoulder. ]
Don't worry, huh? If you scrimp and save enough for the next thirty years, and if you manage to get yourself nearly killed in the line of duty, and if you don't get married or waste your time on kids, you might be able to afford--oh, two nights in a place like this?
Sucks, doesn't it?
[ He stepped away, clearly not caring whether Ray came with him or not, but since he hadn't told him where Fraser was yet, and since he'd followed him this far, and quite possibly since he didn't know which way was the way out, he would just have to follow him. Armando led the way carefully around the outside of the pool, opened the seamless wall of windows, which apparently included secret french doors, and held them wide for the other man to enter after him. Once again a blast of cool air erupted from the well air conditioned home, like they'd both just stepped into the refrigerated section of a grocery store rather than a house in the Mohave desert.
But as he closed the door behind him, he at last removed a gun - Kowalski's, actually - turning it thoughtfully in his hand. If he traced this weapon, would he find that it was registered to Ray Vecchio? Had the FBI managed to transfer over even that? Or would he find out what this guy's name really was?
Well, there wasn't time for that now. He'd get to the bottom of it, maybe jot the serial number down and call up his snitch in Vegas PD after he'd sent the cop on his way. In the meantime he lowered the firearm to his side, and decided to see just how far Ray's cooperation went. ]
Strip. Right down to your underwear, take it all off. It's not a fantastic suit but it's gonna look better if it's not covered in blood when you walk outta here. So take it off, fold it up, and put it over there, on the top of the piano.
How do you feel about classical music, Ray?
[He takes the arm at his shoulder without argument, letting Armando steer him towards the outside world. Sure, let's pretend to be fake buddies for a few minutes longer, why the fuck not? Maybe it'll soften the blow of whatever's to come, because right now Ray's not liking his chances too much with this all just being happy fun times at some guy's mansion.
And it is a fucking mansion. The second they're out in the open Ray's smacked in the face with a million different things to look at, and every bit of it like a slice of pure perfection. The plants were full of life, the pool spotless, the architecture amazing, everything was clean and in it's place, and every inch of the home and the garden and the furniture and whatever else was made from the finest materials. Ray's no expert in interior design, but even from this distance he knows good leather when he sees it, he even knows real marble and real gold. The pool table alone is probably worth more than he pays for a years rent at his apartment. It's probably more than he earns in a year.
Armando isn't wrong about it sucking, even gets a vague nod of agreement. A guy like Ray couldn't save this sort of money in a hundred lifetimes, not on his salary. No wonder there's so many cops bitter about being in 'the wrong business' when they see what the other side are getting. Live a life of justice and servitude and all you get is shit pay and long hours. Live a life of crime and you get mansions, whores and spare time to play pool. Fuckers.
He doesn't even hide the slack jawed stare at it all. This was so out of his league that he's not even sure he should be allowed to step inside. He might make the place dirty just by being near it, but then Armando's moving away, heading off inside and Ray decides it's best to follow. Where would he go if he didn't? Maybe he'd get off the property before they picked him off, but that's really a best case scenario, more than likely he'd be shot the second he started bolting for it, or at the very least caught by a few thugs and dragged back to face harsher consequences or risk his partner getting injured.
And so Ray steps inside, standing like he's not quite sure what to do with himself as he watches the other shut the doors behind them and then man handle his gun. His gun in the hands of a mobster. Never a good sign.
When he first gets the order he can't help but exhale a sharp noise of amusement, although almost immediately realising that maybe it wasn't a joke.]
It's uh, it's alright. Yeah.
[His chewing quickens, jittering just slightly on the spot as he thinks, staring from Armando to the gun and then the rest of the room. He doesn't want blood on his suit. He doesn't want blood anywhere, not unless it's the mobster's blood. Hey, maybe they can just brawl, he's cool with that, and he can do that in his suit just fine. He does, however, shift to remove his jacket, sliding it off his shoulders and then holding it by his side because it's getting a little too warm with his heart beating a million times a minute.]
Y'know, I think I'll keep the suit on. It's a little cold in here. I wouldn't wanna catch a chill.
And it is a fucking mansion. The second they're out in the open Ray's smacked in the face with a million different things to look at, and every bit of it like a slice of pure perfection. The plants were full of life, the pool spotless, the architecture amazing, everything was clean and in it's place, and every inch of the home and the garden and the furniture and whatever else was made from the finest materials. Ray's no expert in interior design, but even from this distance he knows good leather when he sees it, he even knows real marble and real gold. The pool table alone is probably worth more than he pays for a years rent at his apartment. It's probably more than he earns in a year.
Armando isn't wrong about it sucking, even gets a vague nod of agreement. A guy like Ray couldn't save this sort of money in a hundred lifetimes, not on his salary. No wonder there's so many cops bitter about being in 'the wrong business' when they see what the other side are getting. Live a life of justice and servitude and all you get is shit pay and long hours. Live a life of crime and you get mansions, whores and spare time to play pool. Fuckers.
He doesn't even hide the slack jawed stare at it all. This was so out of his league that he's not even sure he should be allowed to step inside. He might make the place dirty just by being near it, but then Armando's moving away, heading off inside and Ray decides it's best to follow. Where would he go if he didn't? Maybe he'd get off the property before they picked him off, but that's really a best case scenario, more than likely he'd be shot the second he started bolting for it, or at the very least caught by a few thugs and dragged back to face harsher consequences or risk his partner getting injured.
And so Ray steps inside, standing like he's not quite sure what to do with himself as he watches the other shut the doors behind them and then man handle his gun. His gun in the hands of a mobster. Never a good sign.
When he first gets the order he can't help but exhale a sharp noise of amusement, although almost immediately realising that maybe it wasn't a joke.]
It's uh, it's alright. Yeah.
[His chewing quickens, jittering just slightly on the spot as he thinks, staring from Armando to the gun and then the rest of the room. He doesn't want blood on his suit. He doesn't want blood anywhere, not unless it's the mobster's blood. Hey, maybe they can just brawl, he's cool with that, and he can do that in his suit just fine. He does, however, shift to remove his jacket, sliding it off his shoulders and then holding it by his side because it's getting a little too warm with his heart beating a million times a minute.]
Y'know, I think I'll keep the suit on. It's a little cold in here. I wouldn't wanna catch a chill.
[ It wouldn't be the first time he'd given the order. Beaten or killed, it was easier to keep the work clean if it happened without clothes. If they stayed on, they'd need to be burned or otherwise disposed of, there'd be fragments of gun oil and gunpowder on the burned fabric threads in the wound, and anything that could be traced back would be. Not that they could convict just on that kind of evidence, but it slowed down trials and cost tens of thousands of dollars a day in lawyers, and a good trial could cause a lot of financial pain to the criminal element even if it didn't get them put away.
It was always about money and staying out of jail.
He reached up with his free hand, pinching at the bridge of his nose. Armando had probably seen it all in his time, but Ray had been through this a half dozen times himself. Usually it took a gun pointed at them for the guy to jump into action. One had said "You're not gonna shoot me in here," and Ray had buried a bullet in his shin and had the crippled thug pay for the redecoration himself. Twenty-six thousand dollars of it, on top of the two hundred thou debt he'd already run up. He'd sold his house, lost his wife and kids, but hey--that was the business Armando was in, which meant it was the business Ray was in. It disgusted him, but as undercover gigs went this was the ultimate test of nerve, and if he didn't have it...
He wasn't going to shoot Ray in the knee. He wasn't going to shoot him at all, but he had to make Ray think he was capable of it. When he left, he had to think: Armando Langoustini is a scary ass piece of shit, and I hope I never cross paths with him again. ]
Sure, I bet your Ma wouldn't like it if you came down with something, eh? But then she probably wants her son back in the city in one piece, too, so why don't we do what's best for her, and you, and move things along a little bit, shall we?
[ He strode forward. They both knew that the best way for this to not become a struggle, wrestling for a weapon, where one of them ended up accidentally shot in the head, was for him to keep his distance; but Armando was pure confidence, and besides, Ray had demonstrated a hell of a lot of common sense so far. He'd come all this way, and he hadn't done it to get his face shot off trying to get his gun back now.
He brought the muzzle up to Ray's jaw, standing almost in his space, and raised his other hand to Ray's throat, loosening his tie directly, showing absolutely no hesitation or second-guessing about it as he moved, business like, from there to the buttons, working open Ray's shirt. ]
Usually when I shoot a guy I like to bring the music up, you know. It's not really my thing, but it drowns out the sobbing. I can't stand the sobbing--Mammy, mammy, sweet Mary Mother of Christ it hurts etcetera. And I like to call in the doctor in advance. I mean, you shoot a guy and you mean to kill him, you just get it done. One in the head, no fuss. You shoot him to hurt him and it really helps if he doesn't bleed to death, or lose it from the shock. He can't learn anything from the experience if he's delirious, or dead. [ He flattened his hand on Ray's bare chest, just over his sternum, and tilted the gun over slightly, nudging his chin a little higher as he did so. ] So you tell me, Ray. Do I need to get my doctor in here? Am I gonna have to shoot you to get you to pay attention to me?
What do you say? You think you can take it from here?
It was always about money and staying out of jail.
He reached up with his free hand, pinching at the bridge of his nose. Armando had probably seen it all in his time, but Ray had been through this a half dozen times himself. Usually it took a gun pointed at them for the guy to jump into action. One had said "You're not gonna shoot me in here," and Ray had buried a bullet in his shin and had the crippled thug pay for the redecoration himself. Twenty-six thousand dollars of it, on top of the two hundred thou debt he'd already run up. He'd sold his house, lost his wife and kids, but hey--that was the business Armando was in, which meant it was the business Ray was in. It disgusted him, but as undercover gigs went this was the ultimate test of nerve, and if he didn't have it...
He wasn't going to shoot Ray in the knee. He wasn't going to shoot him at all, but he had to make Ray think he was capable of it. When he left, he had to think: Armando Langoustini is a scary ass piece of shit, and I hope I never cross paths with him again. ]
Sure, I bet your Ma wouldn't like it if you came down with something, eh? But then she probably wants her son back in the city in one piece, too, so why don't we do what's best for her, and you, and move things along a little bit, shall we?
[ He strode forward. They both knew that the best way for this to not become a struggle, wrestling for a weapon, where one of them ended up accidentally shot in the head, was for him to keep his distance; but Armando was pure confidence, and besides, Ray had demonstrated a hell of a lot of common sense so far. He'd come all this way, and he hadn't done it to get his face shot off trying to get his gun back now.
He brought the muzzle up to Ray's jaw, standing almost in his space, and raised his other hand to Ray's throat, loosening his tie directly, showing absolutely no hesitation or second-guessing about it as he moved, business like, from there to the buttons, working open Ray's shirt. ]
Usually when I shoot a guy I like to bring the music up, you know. It's not really my thing, but it drowns out the sobbing. I can't stand the sobbing--Mammy, mammy, sweet Mary Mother of Christ it hurts etcetera. And I like to call in the doctor in advance. I mean, you shoot a guy and you mean to kill him, you just get it done. One in the head, no fuss. You shoot him to hurt him and it really helps if he doesn't bleed to death, or lose it from the shock. He can't learn anything from the experience if he's delirious, or dead. [ He flattened his hand on Ray's bare chest, just over his sternum, and tilted the gun over slightly, nudging his chin a little higher as he did so. ] So you tell me, Ray. Do I need to get my doctor in here? Am I gonna have to shoot you to get you to pay attention to me?
What do you say? You think you can take it from here?
[He hadn't expected to get away with it, not really, but testing the waters was worth it, even if it did result in Armando approaching far too closely. Ray wasn't going to push it more, he didn't need the hassle of being 'punished' for being a smart ass, he liked his fingers unbroken and his body relatively bullet free, but the occasional experimenting poke and prod got him to test the mettle of this guy in front of him. He needed to see how much of a push over he was, how much of his bark would be backed up by bite, and how much he can get away with in the long run.
As Armando approaches, Ray doesn't move beyond a slight lean back, instincts and self preservation telling him to get away from the gun muzzle pushing up towards his jaw or fight back and wrestle the gun back, but he grits his teeth and bears it. Nothing will be achieved by trying to grapple for that gun, nothing that wouldn't result in risking getting himself shot. His chin lifts, forced to by the solid metal pressing against him, sight strained down to keep watch on the whatever the fuck the mobster is attempting to do.
Looks like the suit has to come off, and he sees the logic in it. No point in letting a guy get covered in evidence, not when it's evidence that can get people convicted. No point in letting the suit owner cover it in their own blood either. Ray realised that doesn't bode well for himself, all things considered. Once he gets that suit off anything could follow, and he doubts any of it is going to be happy fun times for himself.
Right now he's just got to weigh out his options (which are limited) and decide whether he'll preserve himself more by cooperating fully or fighting back. At the moment it's the former, but that doesn't mean the tables won't turn. It's the hope of that, and that he'll be getting Fraser back at the end of it, that drives him on. Ray doesn't have the fear that plenty of the thugs that have been here have, he's not there to beg forgiveness or receive consequences for a screw up, he's there as a cop looking for information, and sure he may not be in the best situation right now, but his confidence stays.]
I got this.
[A low mutter than has a slight edge of reluctant obedience. For now.
His hand movements are slow, learning long ago not to make any jerky or sudden shifts around someone holding a gun to you, but he does as he's told, fingers finishing off the work on his shirt and carefully rolling the shirt off his shoulders. His belt comes next, loosened with ease and then working at the fastening of his suit pants, everything getting dropped by his feet to reveal a pale and lithe body beneath, anxiety getting him shuddering just slightly.]
On the uh, on the piano?
[He'll get the shoes and socks wrestled off the second he can bend over without the fear of being shot for it, and while his folding isn't exactly skilled, he'll still do a vague attempt at it.]
As Armando approaches, Ray doesn't move beyond a slight lean back, instincts and self preservation telling him to get away from the gun muzzle pushing up towards his jaw or fight back and wrestle the gun back, but he grits his teeth and bears it. Nothing will be achieved by trying to grapple for that gun, nothing that wouldn't result in risking getting himself shot. His chin lifts, forced to by the solid metal pressing against him, sight strained down to keep watch on the whatever the fuck the mobster is attempting to do.
Looks like the suit has to come off, and he sees the logic in it. No point in letting a guy get covered in evidence, not when it's evidence that can get people convicted. No point in letting the suit owner cover it in their own blood either. Ray realised that doesn't bode well for himself, all things considered. Once he gets that suit off anything could follow, and he doubts any of it is going to be happy fun times for himself.
Right now he's just got to weigh out his options (which are limited) and decide whether he'll preserve himself more by cooperating fully or fighting back. At the moment it's the former, but that doesn't mean the tables won't turn. It's the hope of that, and that he'll be getting Fraser back at the end of it, that drives him on. Ray doesn't have the fear that plenty of the thugs that have been here have, he's not there to beg forgiveness or receive consequences for a screw up, he's there as a cop looking for information, and sure he may not be in the best situation right now, but his confidence stays.]
I got this.
[A low mutter than has a slight edge of reluctant obedience. For now.
His hand movements are slow, learning long ago not to make any jerky or sudden shifts around someone holding a gun to you, but he does as he's told, fingers finishing off the work on his shirt and carefully rolling the shirt off his shoulders. His belt comes next, loosened with ease and then working at the fastening of his suit pants, everything getting dropped by his feet to reveal a pale and lithe body beneath, anxiety getting him shuddering just slightly.]
On the uh, on the piano?
[He'll get the shoes and socks wrestled off the second he can bend over without the fear of being shot for it, and while his folding isn't exactly skilled, he'll still do a vague attempt at it.]
[ The problem that Ray was still working over - he wasn't as quick to the draw as some people - was that he had to develop a way by which to keep Fraser away from Vegas when this was all said and done. He could convince this guy for sure, that would be easy. A whole bunch of bruises and cuts and a couple of burns would turn him away from the Strip for a decade so long as it got him the Mountie back, but keeping Fraser out of this was going to be harder.
No, he needed Ray to be so traumatized by the experience that he would beg Fraser not to go, and if Ray knew his friend - which he did - if he implored him desperately enough then he would back off. For his partner's sake.
He had an idea where this was leading him, but honestly, he felt fucking awful about it. This guy hadn't asked to be dropped into his life, hadn't asked to have a wanderlust driven Mountie who couldn't let anything go as a partner. He hadn't asked to become Ray Vecchio--or hell, maybe he had? He might feel better if that were the case, maybe he could convince himself of it. Maybe he'd done something so awful that the only way he could escape it was to spend so long undercover he forgot who he was.
Armando drew away, putting the gun away inside his jacket. He gave Ray all the room he could need, and a little bit of space too, mostly keeping his eyes off him as he scrabbled out of his socks and shoes and head over toward the piano. It paid to give people space when they had their trousers around their ankles. In the meantime Armando kept hold of Ray's tie, holding it in both hands and rolling it back and forth through his fingers. Cheap processed silk and polyester--he almost missed ties like this. All his were silk with die motifs on them and playing cards, and the occasional unicolored black or white or red. He missed his old suits, and his car, and eating pizza with Fraser while they chatted about hockey, and he missed Dief stealing half of that pizza when he wasn't looking.
Fuck this guy for bringing it all back. And fuck Fraser; this was all his fault. It was his fault he had to push this guy so hard toward that edge that he'd swear blind to Fraser, no matter how persistent he was, that Armando Langoustini couldn't possibly be his former partner; he was a dirty scumbag mafioso and that was the end of it. Finished.
He put the tie in his pocket, then finally raised his eyes to Ray, looking him over thoughtfully. Real pale, but that wasn't a surprise, it wasn't like he'd spent the summer in Nevada. Chicago summers were stuffy rather than hot, sticky, but only ever uncomfortable briefly before just as quickly they were gone again. It wasn't exactly the place you went to rack up a tan. There was muscle there too. Ray had the arms and back of a boxer, and he looked like he could kick a guy in the head from ground level, neither of which surprised him given the way he'd come across that table. He punched straight, right down the length of his arm - smack - and that probably helped around Fraser. It probably helped a whole lot. So stay away from that right hook, check. Something that'd become more important soon enough. ]
You're alright. So long as you keep it up you're gonna be fine. Keep your eyes on the prize, Ray. Three hours, and all this is going to be a painful memory.
[ He crossed the room, opening a recessed door and holding it wide. There was no cool air emerging through this door, and in fact a heat rolled up the descending staircase, dark within. It was lit only by red runners underneath the steps, by a red glow and the purple of blacklights in the basement level below, the walls all painted black, and Armando held the door wide.
God knew when he'd seen this room for the first time he hadn't known what to do with it. He still didn't. Mostly it was for show, but there were signs of use that made it clear that the former man to hold the name had made more use of it. It'd rattle Ray, sure enough. It had made the FBI guy who had mentioned it to him in his briefing shudder, and had never come up in conversation again or since. When he talked to his handlers, they called it The Red Room, and that suited its purpose just fine. It was the place people went to bleed. ]
Go ahead. [ He instructed, and waited to follow him down.
The full view wouldn't be visible until Ray had reached the bottom of the stairs, the room practically as hot as the desert outside - deliberately so - and as he emerged into the hot red spotlights that crisscrossed the room, he'd discover a ceiling-to-floor cage, such as they put dancers in; chains and poles and bars; a nasty looking chair covered in metal rings and leather straps; an actual full sized crucifix... Fragments of mirrors stabbed the wall in jagged shapes, but by far the most striking thing was the mirror that crossed the ceiling from one side of the room to the other, reflecting all the light and making the room seem twice as large as it already was.
If Ray stopped, which Vecchio expected him to, there'd be nowhere to go, no way back. Armando would be behind him waiting. ]
All I can say is this guy better be worth it, don't you think?
No, he needed Ray to be so traumatized by the experience that he would beg Fraser not to go, and if Ray knew his friend - which he did - if he implored him desperately enough then he would back off. For his partner's sake.
He had an idea where this was leading him, but honestly, he felt fucking awful about it. This guy hadn't asked to be dropped into his life, hadn't asked to have a wanderlust driven Mountie who couldn't let anything go as a partner. He hadn't asked to become Ray Vecchio--or hell, maybe he had? He might feel better if that were the case, maybe he could convince himself of it. Maybe he'd done something so awful that the only way he could escape it was to spend so long undercover he forgot who he was.
Armando drew away, putting the gun away inside his jacket. He gave Ray all the room he could need, and a little bit of space too, mostly keeping his eyes off him as he scrabbled out of his socks and shoes and head over toward the piano. It paid to give people space when they had their trousers around their ankles. In the meantime Armando kept hold of Ray's tie, holding it in both hands and rolling it back and forth through his fingers. Cheap processed silk and polyester--he almost missed ties like this. All his were silk with die motifs on them and playing cards, and the occasional unicolored black or white or red. He missed his old suits, and his car, and eating pizza with Fraser while they chatted about hockey, and he missed Dief stealing half of that pizza when he wasn't looking.
Fuck this guy for bringing it all back. And fuck Fraser; this was all his fault. It was his fault he had to push this guy so hard toward that edge that he'd swear blind to Fraser, no matter how persistent he was, that Armando Langoustini couldn't possibly be his former partner; he was a dirty scumbag mafioso and that was the end of it. Finished.
He put the tie in his pocket, then finally raised his eyes to Ray, looking him over thoughtfully. Real pale, but that wasn't a surprise, it wasn't like he'd spent the summer in Nevada. Chicago summers were stuffy rather than hot, sticky, but only ever uncomfortable briefly before just as quickly they were gone again. It wasn't exactly the place you went to rack up a tan. There was muscle there too. Ray had the arms and back of a boxer, and he looked like he could kick a guy in the head from ground level, neither of which surprised him given the way he'd come across that table. He punched straight, right down the length of his arm - smack - and that probably helped around Fraser. It probably helped a whole lot. So stay away from that right hook, check. Something that'd become more important soon enough. ]
You're alright. So long as you keep it up you're gonna be fine. Keep your eyes on the prize, Ray. Three hours, and all this is going to be a painful memory.
[ He crossed the room, opening a recessed door and holding it wide. There was no cool air emerging through this door, and in fact a heat rolled up the descending staircase, dark within. It was lit only by red runners underneath the steps, by a red glow and the purple of blacklights in the basement level below, the walls all painted black, and Armando held the door wide.
God knew when he'd seen this room for the first time he hadn't known what to do with it. He still didn't. Mostly it was for show, but there were signs of use that made it clear that the former man to hold the name had made more use of it. It'd rattle Ray, sure enough. It had made the FBI guy who had mentioned it to him in his briefing shudder, and had never come up in conversation again or since. When he talked to his handlers, they called it The Red Room, and that suited its purpose just fine. It was the place people went to bleed. ]
Go ahead. [ He instructed, and waited to follow him down.
The full view wouldn't be visible until Ray had reached the bottom of the stairs, the room practically as hot as the desert outside - deliberately so - and as he emerged into the hot red spotlights that crisscrossed the room, he'd discover a ceiling-to-floor cage, such as they put dancers in; chains and poles and bars; a nasty looking chair covered in metal rings and leather straps; an actual full sized crucifix... Fragments of mirrors stabbed the wall in jagged shapes, but by far the most striking thing was the mirror that crossed the ceiling from one side of the room to the other, reflecting all the light and making the room seem twice as large as it already was.
If Ray stopped, which Vecchio expected him to, there'd be nowhere to go, no way back. Armando would be behind him waiting. ]
All I can say is this guy better be worth it, don't you think?
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