Vice City, 1987

I stood on the street corner, in a pair of plain khaki pants and a white wife-beater, with tinted dark-orange sun-glasses across my eyes. The world looks funny when it's in orange, you know . . . Anyway, Frankie wanted to meet me over at the North Point Mall, so I flicked my stub cigarette off into the street, and wandered down the side-walk, towards the mall.

The mall was about a mile away – maybe a five, ten minute walk. But as I kept walking, I had that feeling. You know that feeling that you get when you know that, out of a giant crowd of Florida hicks, there's some-one that isn't just walking. That there's some-one stalking you.

I was right about that, too. Because, when I looked in the windshield of a passing car, I could see two guys tailing me. I didn't get a very good look at them, but I knew they were white. It was kinda' obvious, though; Haitians didn't straggle over to the east side of Vice, most times, unless they had serious business, and I didn't think the Haitians had serious business with me.

Deciding that I should lose my latest friends, or at least beat them down, I turned the corner into an alley-way. When the two blue-collar asses rounded the corner, they came face-to-face with a long, broken iron pipe which I'd swiped off the ground. I looked them over; they were Street Sharks. The Sharks were a gang mostly of greasy-haired white kids who grow up in poor back-grounds, and sort of form a group together, out of the necessity to survive, you know? I think they've been around since the late sixties – and they're all over. They just call them different names. I hear in Oklahoma, they're called something like Greasers.

"Whatta' you want, punks," I inquired in my thick South Boston voice. Both of them were taken aback; they didn't expect me to see them, I guess. They weren't very good sleuths, since I saw them so easy. When they didn't answer, I repeated myself – but no luck, they just shoved their hands in their pockets, and stared at me.

"C'mon, Dwayne," the more portly one said, "let's get outta' here." With that, the two boys backed off, one of them stepping forward, as if to scared me; it didn't work. So, they continued to leave, and I stood there grasping the pipe until I thought they were really gone. By now, the sun was setting in the corner of Vice City, and the sky was burned a pink, purple haze – I guess it's a result of the light pollution, and all that. Either way, it really looked beautiful.

The sound of ambulance sirens for someone I didn't know or care about brought me back to reality, and I remembered that Frank wanted me to meet him at the mall. My watch said it was eight oh-six, so I still had about ten minutes before I would be late enough for him to wonder.

I began to jog now, towards the mall. I could see it off in the distance, and slowed to a walk, keeping my eyes peeled in anything reflective for more of those greasy thugs following me. But none ever seemed to be visible, if they were there. I kept on going into the mall through the open entrance, until I spied the food court in the back – and there Frank was, sitting in a chair and eating a pizza.

"Connor!" Frank shouted out from about ten feet away, "Come on, come on, get over here." I did as he said, waltzing up and taking my seat in a chair across from him. I should explain Frank Bogart to you: Frank is one of the leading members of the Irish Mob in Vice City – or hell, even anywhere; he's a big-shot. He's massive, at six-foot two-inches, with at least two hundred fifty pounds on him, usually wearing an orange Hawaiian shirt and dirty jeans.

"What'd ya' want, Frank?" I inquired, taking a slice of pizza at his gesture. It really was kind of disgusting to watch him eat – he wasn't the best looking of guys out there, and dropping a pepperoni on his man-breasts sure didn't help him attract any women. Most of the women he hung out with were whores, anyway.

"Okay, here's the deal," Frank began to explain, "Mike and I have set up a deal, with the Haitians." I obviously had a look of something like stupor on my face, because of his reaction. "Yeah, I know, I don't like 'em either. But they're trading us some heavy drugs for some cheap artillery, in their little feud with the Colombians." "Cubans," I corrected him. "Whatever."

"Meet me at the hotel near Ocean Beach tomorrow, at nine PM, and we'll go to the meet." I nodded, and stood, scooting my chair in and leaving. As I rounded the corner, I could swear I heard hurried foot-steps, and caught a glimpse of denim.

Somehow, this seemed like trouble to me . . .