"We are talking about anger here, Fraser, a human emotion. Are you human? Because if you are, human beings feel things. Okay? They feel anger. They feel love. They feel lust and fear. And sometimes, I know you don't want to hear this, sometimes they even cry."
[ Armando Langoustini was having an awful month, which meant that the FBI were having a good month, which meant that Ray Vecchio was having a horrible, godawful, put it in the ground it's done month. He was exhausted and it showed, and what little joy he'd managed to scrimp and save out of the entire scenario had died the moment Fraser had shown up. He'd smiled politely and sat himself down at the blackjack table dressed in a penguin suit, then proceeded to win, and by the time he'd shown up on the cameras he'd already drawn attention to himself.
But that crap was all at least behind him, and compared to the last few days the headache with Fraser had really been a nothing. Insignificant in the grand scheme of things - or at least that was what the FBI idiots that called himself his handlers insisted. God, he should have done more than break that one guy's nose. Fraser was his best friend, he'd only gotten into this mess because he'd come down here looking for him.
Okay, so his best friend was also an idiot, but that wasn't new, at least to Ray.
(And Fraser hadn't done so badly. He'd in fact been there three whole days before anyone noticed him, and he'd sent a postcard back to Ray Kowalski on the second day which said "Armando Langoustini", and the name of the casino where the consigliere had his office. More than enough information for his partner to follow up if something happened. Noone had caught that one on the way out of Vegas.)
But that was last week. This week, little Bobby Scargetti had gone and gotten himself shot in the face during a closed game in Little Paris. Since then nerves had been tight, a grenade had been thrown into the coffin at the funeral, and people on both sides were baying for blood. Ray was - not for the first time - scared for his life, but the Feebs were over the moon (despite having to sneak him out from under Vegas PDs noses) because they were anticipating a sit down to iron out the disagreement, and a sit down meant Ray getting in close enough to learn something really useful.
The whole thing made him more tense than he could stand. Sal's solution was alcohol, which made Ray too drowsy to pull off too jobs at once. Sex would be an option too, except that it would be better for his health rolling in rotting carcasses than sleeping with any of the women in this city. No, he'd been developing far worse habits since coming to Vegas, things he didn't even mention to his handlers, though he suspected they knew. God, he couldn't wait to get out of this, go home and put all this crap behind him. Withdrawal would feel like a holiday after the daily stresses of filling in for Langoustini.
So long as he didn't get clipped before the sit down, everything would be fine. Noone else on the Strip had the federal government on their side if shit really went south, but Ray knew he couldn't rely on them in the day to day. If he was figured for an interloper, or even raised as a potential scapegoat to settle this Scargetti thing... Who knew what would happen next. Criminals were unpredictable--or at least these ones were. They pretended to care about loyalty, but it was all about money, and who knew why it mattered so much to them? What was there to spend it on when you had everything? Langoustini had eleven classic cars, a pool, a masseuse - that he'd had to dismiss - a butler - that he couldn't without drawing unnecessary attention to himself - a part time maid, all the drugs and women and sharp suits he could afford, and a three story sprawling villa in the desert. What else did he need?
Enough money to pay for his lawyers when the Feds took them all down for good?
He ran his hand back across his head, then came up out of his seat, moving over to the front seat of the limousine and tapping the divider glass. The electric motor whirred, and it slid open to reveal his driver. ]
How long?
[ But he didn't need the answer to that question; they were pulling up now. Vecchio straightened his tie and stepped out onto the sidewalk and the throng and noise of the Strip in the middle of the day. Langoustini didn't have a body guard - he commanded too much respect - but after the week he'd had it felt like he ought to have one, moving through the crowd alone. It thinned as he entered the grand main space of the casino, weaving his way through slot machines and roulette tables. As soon as he hit the high roller games in the quieter VIP areas where the carpet was softer and the noise was the synthetic hum of the air conditioning, betting and conversation, people began to acknowledge him. He was greeted warmly by half a dozen people he barely knew, others that Langoustini knew well, one who didn't belong, and then a younger member of the family was murmuring in his ear, talking about a guy who kept trying to get back here, snooping around. Blonde, Polish, sunglasses.
And sure enough, there he was when he raised his head. Blonde, Polish, sunglasses. Cop, his instincts said. Detective. He had a shoulder holster, but it would be empty as per casino regulation. But if Ray knew cops like this one - and he liked to think he did - there'd be a second piece in an ankle holster, and his idiot doormen would have overlooked something like that.
Not that starting a gunfight in a mob owned casino was smart, but going into one unarmed was even less bright. He shook off the concern of his entourage. ]
I'll handle this.
[ By god would he handle this. He strode toward the Detective. ]
[ It had been two months. Two months while Canada and the FBI and Russian Intelligence and who the fuck knew who else had a big old fight about jurisdiction up in the frozen north. Apparently among the many weapons they'd seized had been an enormous nuclear submarine. No big deal, right, happens every day. Except it hadn't. This was a once in a lifetime sort of bust, and it had belonged to Fraser and Kowalski, while Ray was laid up in a hospital. That was fine. Sort of fine. For a little while there he'd been afraid Kowalski would bust through the door and put his pillow over his face, choke him to death on it. The guy had been giving him a homicidal look the whole time, and while they had functioned briefly as a unit, it had been sort of necessary: you did what you had to do when people were shooting at you; when they were shooting at your stupid, unarmed, mutual best friend.
He'd proven he was still a good cop, that he still loved his friend enough to take a bullet for him, but neither he nor 'Ray' had said a single word to each other about Vegas. They hadn't had the chance. Hadn't had the chance to hit each other, either, hadn't been left alone together since those few moments in the mall. And then Kowalski was gone off to Canada, and Ray had breathed a sigh of relief.
He healed up. There was a collection put together for him, and when he got out of the hospital he blew the lot of it on a brand new Riviera, even though he'd had to get the damn thing painted from khaki to green, and that much had come out of his own pocket. It was a better car than the one Kowalski had set on fire and driven into a lake. It drove smoother, and the engine ticked over nicely. And it hadn't been cut in half and welded back together.
The Riv made him feel more like himself, but those months were hard. After getting shot, he'd had to come off the cocaine sharply. Morphine had replaced it, but he'd shunned that quickly enough, afraid of replacing one drug with another. Somehow he'd made it through those first few days despite the pain, and then he was healing, getting his life back, seeing a therapist four times a week. He couldn't live with his family any more, so he moved out days after getting home. Without interference from Frannie, he wouldn't even have had a bed, but in the end he'd snapped at her to leave him the fuck alone while she was busy arranging his books, and later apologetically he'd given her a spare key, and told her it was probably safer for both of them if she moved his stuff in when he wasn't there.
Stella proved all the distraction he needed, in the end. She liked his car, and she didn't know him from Adam, so it was like getting to be a whole different person--which since Ray didn't feel like himself any more, kept even from going back to his previous job by his injury, was what he discovered he most desired. He didn't want to be himself (though he sort of did) no matter that he'd come to claim his life back; he didn't know who he was any more, but it wasn't the man he'd left behind. He wasn't Armando Langoustini any more, but he wasn't Ray Vecchio either, and it was killing him--still killing him.
God, he missed Fraser. He probably wasn't ever coming back to Chicago, though, and though they'd spoken three times on the phone... It wasn't the same, and nothing would ever be like it was. What was Benny doing now, anyway? What about his replacement? Two months away from Chicago--hey, maybe they were fucking. ]
Fuck.
[ He rolled off the couch, grabbed his keys off the coffee table and took the elevator down. This place had an underground parking garage, which meant no parking his lovely Riviera out under the onslaught of nature's various beatings. He relaxed the moment he saw it, slid into the driver's side, and reached across to crank the radio. He put both hands on the wheel. There. There. That was it. This was his fix. He closed his eyes, lay his head down on the steering wheel and just tried to breathe out the tension he was feeling.
He didn't need the drugs. He didn't need to call his stupid on-call therapist. All he needed was the sound of that V-8 and the feel of the leather steering wheel under his hand. He could pretend he really was Ray Vecchio again if he just had that. Hell, he could almost pretend Fraser was in the seat beside him, even if he never would be again. He sighed. ]
Life sucks, Benny. I really wish you were here.
[ He sat back again, just lay there and listened to the motor running. ]
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But that crap was all at least behind him, and compared to the last few days the headache with Fraser had really been a nothing. Insignificant in the grand scheme of things - or at least that was what the FBI idiots that called himself his handlers insisted. God, he should have done more than break that one guy's nose. Fraser was his best friend, he'd only gotten into this mess because he'd come down here looking for him.
Okay, so his best friend was also an idiot, but that wasn't new, at least to Ray.
(And Fraser hadn't done so badly. He'd in fact been there three whole days before anyone noticed him, and he'd sent a postcard back to Ray Kowalski on the second day which said "Armando Langoustini", and the name of the casino where the consigliere had his office. More than enough information for his partner to follow up if something happened. Noone had caught that one on the way out of Vegas.)
But that was last week. This week, little Bobby Scargetti had gone and gotten himself shot in the face during a closed game in Little Paris. Since then nerves had been tight, a grenade had been thrown into the coffin at the funeral, and people on both sides were baying for blood. Ray was - not for the first time - scared for his life, but the Feebs were over the moon (despite having to sneak him out from under Vegas PDs noses) because they were anticipating a sit down to iron out the disagreement, and a sit down meant Ray getting in close enough to learn something really useful.
The whole thing made him more tense than he could stand. Sal's solution was alcohol, which made Ray too drowsy to pull off too jobs at once. Sex would be an option too, except that it would be better for his health rolling in rotting carcasses than sleeping with any of the women in this city. No, he'd been developing far worse habits since coming to Vegas, things he didn't even mention to his handlers, though he suspected they knew. God, he couldn't wait to get out of this, go home and put all this crap behind him. Withdrawal would feel like a holiday after the daily stresses of filling in for Langoustini.
So long as he didn't get clipped before the sit down, everything would be fine. Noone else on the Strip had the federal government on their side if shit really went south, but Ray knew he couldn't rely on them in the day to day. If he was figured for an interloper, or even raised as a potential scapegoat to settle this Scargetti thing... Who knew what would happen next. Criminals were unpredictable--or at least these ones were. They pretended to care about loyalty, but it was all about money, and who knew why it mattered so much to them? What was there to spend it on when you had everything? Langoustini had eleven classic cars, a pool, a masseuse - that he'd had to dismiss - a butler - that he couldn't without drawing unnecessary attention to himself - a part time maid, all the drugs and women and sharp suits he could afford, and a three story sprawling villa in the desert. What else did he need?
Enough money to pay for his lawyers when the Feds took them all down for good?
He ran his hand back across his head, then came up out of his seat, moving over to the front seat of the limousine and tapping the divider glass. The electric motor whirred, and it slid open to reveal his driver. ]
How long?
[ But he didn't need the answer to that question; they were pulling up now. Vecchio straightened his tie and stepped out onto the sidewalk and the throng and noise of the Strip in the middle of the day. Langoustini didn't have a body guard - he commanded too much respect - but after the week he'd had it felt like he ought to have one, moving through the crowd alone. It thinned as he entered the grand main space of the casino, weaving his way through slot machines and roulette tables. As soon as he hit the high roller games in the quieter VIP areas where the carpet was softer and the noise was the synthetic hum of the air conditioning, betting and conversation, people began to acknowledge him. He was greeted warmly by half a dozen people he barely knew, others that Langoustini knew well, one who didn't belong, and then a younger member of the family was murmuring in his ear, talking about a guy who kept trying to get back here, snooping around. Blonde, Polish, sunglasses.
And sure enough, there he was when he raised his head. Blonde, Polish, sunglasses. Cop, his instincts said. Detective. He had a shoulder holster, but it would be empty as per casino regulation. But if Ray knew cops like this one - and he liked to think he did - there'd be a second piece in an ankle holster, and his idiot doormen would have overlooked something like that.
Not that starting a gunfight in a mob owned casino was smart, but going into one unarmed was even less bright. He shook off the concern of his entourage. ]
I'll handle this.
[ By god would he handle this. He strode toward the Detective. ]
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He'd proven he was still a good cop, that he still loved his friend enough to take a bullet for him, but neither he nor 'Ray' had said a single word to each other about Vegas. They hadn't had the chance. Hadn't had the chance to hit each other, either, hadn't been left alone together since those few moments in the mall. And then Kowalski was gone off to Canada, and Ray had breathed a sigh of relief.
He healed up. There was a collection put together for him, and when he got out of the hospital he blew the lot of it on a brand new Riviera, even though he'd had to get the damn thing painted from khaki to green, and that much had come out of his own pocket. It was a better car than the one Kowalski had set on fire and driven into a lake. It drove smoother, and the engine ticked over nicely. And it hadn't been cut in half and welded back together.
The Riv made him feel more like himself, but those months were hard. After getting shot, he'd had to come off the cocaine sharply. Morphine had replaced it, but he'd shunned that quickly enough, afraid of replacing one drug with another. Somehow he'd made it through those first few days despite the pain, and then he was healing, getting his life back, seeing a therapist four times a week. He couldn't live with his family any more, so he moved out days after getting home. Without interference from Frannie, he wouldn't even have had a bed, but in the end he'd snapped at her to leave him the fuck alone while she was busy arranging his books, and later apologetically he'd given her a spare key, and told her it was probably safer for both of them if she moved his stuff in when he wasn't there.
Stella proved all the distraction he needed, in the end. She liked his car, and she didn't know him from Adam, so it was like getting to be a whole different person--which since Ray didn't feel like himself any more, kept even from going back to his previous job by his injury, was what he discovered he most desired. He didn't want to be himself (though he sort of did) no matter that he'd come to claim his life back; he didn't know who he was any more, but it wasn't the man he'd left behind. He wasn't Armando Langoustini any more, but he wasn't Ray Vecchio either, and it was killing him--still killing him.
God, he missed Fraser. He probably wasn't ever coming back to Chicago, though, and though they'd spoken three times on the phone... It wasn't the same, and nothing would ever be like it was. What was Benny doing now, anyway? What about his replacement? Two months away from Chicago--hey, maybe they were fucking. ]
Fuck.
[ He rolled off the couch, grabbed his keys off the coffee table and took the elevator down. This place had an underground parking garage, which meant no parking his lovely Riviera out under the onslaught of nature's various beatings. He relaxed the moment he saw it, slid into the driver's side, and reached across to crank the radio. He put both hands on the wheel. There. There. That was it. This was his fix. He closed his eyes, lay his head down on the steering wheel and just tried to breathe out the tension he was feeling.
He didn't need the drugs. He didn't need to call his stupid on-call therapist. All he needed was the sound of that V-8 and the feel of the leather steering wheel under his hand. He could pretend he really was Ray Vecchio again if he just had that. Hell, he could almost pretend Fraser was in the seat beside him, even if he never would be again. He sighed. ]
Life sucks, Benny. I really wish you were here.
[ He sat back again, just lay there and listened to the motor running. ]
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If I had seen this before RVD 2015 I would have put it on my RayV rec list for the Day. Well, next year....
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