With the new season starting, I feel like I should probably be doing something pertaining to that. This is something different, though. It's an AU story that could end up being 14 to 16 chapters. We'll see how it goes . . . .
"So when I get home, Vera looks at me and says she wants me outta there and to take that ugly mutt of mine with me. Then she throws a change of clothes out on the front porch and expects me to just take off." Saul Levy snorted as he recounted his latest tale of marital woes. Occasionally, he'd stop talking to take a generous drag from his cigarette and look around the largely-empty warehouse they were babysitting while they waited for the Boss to show up.
"Sounds like you pushed her too far this time," Bobby Farrell suggested, affecting a bored expression as he listened to Levy's story and wondered why the guy's wife hadn't kicked him to the curb years before. As Levy smoothed a few lonely strands of hair over his shiny scalp, he tipped his chair back on two legs, causing Bobby to wonder how long the insubstantial-looking piece of furniture would be able to hold out against Levy's generous girth. Bobby could practically see the chair legs trembling underneath the guy.
"Nah," Levy said, dismissing Bobby's suggestion as he raised his cigarette to his lips and inhaled as if it were his last breath. "She knows which side her bread's buttered on. I'll stay at my nephew's place for a few nights. A few nights without me around and she'll be begging me to come back. I just wish she didn't always have to pick on Mickey. He may be a mutt, but he's never given her any reason to hate him."
"Look, man," Bobby began conversationally, "have you ever thought about just showing up at home on time? Maybe try not to get her going in the first place?"
"Sure. I thought about it. But Joe and me were at that bar down the street and time got away from us. Some guy came in and bought us a round and then we bought him a round . . . Who was that guy, Joe?"
"Mmmm . . . ." An unkempt mound of sandy-blond hair bobbed around as Joe Rinko struggled to pick up his head from the table, revealing red-rimmed eyes and a vacant expression. Looking around and seeing nothing more pressing than Bobby and Levy staring back at him, he let his head fall back onto the table with a thud. Bobby rolled his eyes and wondered if being in such close proximity to those two deadbeats could cause his brain to atrophy.
"He had a rough night," Levy chuckled.
"When does he not have a rough night?" Bobby had known Rinko for more than a year and it seemed like every night was a "rough night" for him. At the promising age of thirty-two, the guy was a burnout in every way. Whatever he'd been early in his life, he was now nothing more than a shell of a human being tethered to the rest of the world by the thinnest of threads.
Levy's phone rang, and he shoved a hand into his pants pocket, maneuvering around his ample midsection as he did so. Somehow, he managed to get to the phone before the caller hung up. Glancing at the screen, he grunted, "It's the Boss." Levy listened for several seconds before snapping the phone shut and returning his front chair legs to the ground. "He's on his way in. Pulling up now." Bobby watched with feigned indifference as Levy stood up and dropped the remains of his cigarette on the ground. He crushed it beneath his foot before walking briskly across the large industrial space and pressing a button on the wall. Instantly, an oversized garage door crawled to life. As soon as it was high enough to allow access, a black SUV drove in through the opening. No sooner had it cleared the entryway than Levy pressed the button and the door slid back down, echoing loudly around the building when it landed heavily against the concrete floor.
As the vehicle's front doors opened, Rinko pulled himself up off of the table and he and Bobby walked across the space to join Levy near the SUV. They waited as two men climbed out of the front seats and slammed their doors. Most likely chosen for their muscle, Carl and Theo were large enough to scare off all but the most serious threats to their boss Marco Davenport. And for the serious threats that weren't intimidated by their size, they made a nice shield for the Boss. While five pairs of eyes looked on expectantly, the SUV's back door opened and a pair of Italian leather loafers stepped down onto the smooth concrete. Davenport brushed a beefy, yet well-manicured hand down the front of his trench coat to smooth out any wrinkles. A flash of gold caught the light and Bobby noticed the intricately-carved signet ring that seemed to be a permanent fixture on Davenport's finger. Carl and Theo stood idly nearby, most likely judging the threat to their Boss' life to be minimal in his own warehouse with his own guys.
Before shutting his car door, Davenport turned back and murmured, "Stay inside, Sweetheart. I'll only be a few minutes."
Bobby briefly caught a glimpse inside the vehicle as the object of Davenport's affections, his long-time girlfriend Lorena Sparks, lent her tacit agreement to the directive. She wore a bland expression as she fluffed her fur coat and settled back in the seat to wait for Davenport.
"Place is secure, Boss," Levy spoke up as soon as Davenport shut the car door behind himself and turned his attention to the three men. In an example of extremely bad timing, Levy's body chose that moment to fall victim to a coughing fit. As Davenport looked him over, Levy hacked and wheezed and attempted to recover himself.
"Still smoking, I see. Haven't you heard that those things are bad for your health?" Davenport asked casually.
"I'm too far gone for that. Besides, I'll be dead long before the smoking gets me," Levy choked out.
Davenport's gaze traveled from Levy, who was still breathing heavily, to Rinko, who was making an unconvincing attempt to look alert and pulled together. Finally, he directed his attention to Bobby and seemed to derive some solace from the fact that one of the three men in front of him wasn't falling apart before his eyes. As far as Bobby was concerned, that was a good thing. He'd spent the past year working his way up in the organization, and if Levy and Rinko were making him look more competent in front of the Boss, he was willing to take advantage of it.
Davenport nodded his head toward an office off to the side and started walking as the three men trailed behind him.
Once inside, he flicked a light switch and a dim fluorescent fixture on the ceiling flickered, lending a small amount of poor-quality light to the room. Davenport leaned against a large metal desk in the middle of the space and the three men stood in a semi-circle around him. Bobby crossed his arms as he waited for the Boss to fill them in on their latest job.
Rubbing his hands together thoughtfully, Davenport said, "This next one's a big one. Shipment's in two weeks. We've got a new supplier on the chain, and if this goes well, there'll be a lot more of the same in the future. So no screw-ups. This thing needs to go off without a hitch."
"How many guys we gonna need?" Levy asked.
"Six, maybe seven," Davenport answered. "Any more than that and we'll draw attention. We don't want a lot of chatter going on out there about this deal. Keep the numbers down and it will look like everything is status quo."
Bobby nodded in understanding. "Do you want us to pull in anyone in particular?" he asked Davenport gruffly.
"We'll use you three. And I'm thinking maybe we should bring in Kenny, Russ and Tito. In a pinch, we can also use Carl and Theo if we need extra hands to move the stuff around quickly.
"We'll do the exchange at a place out of town. And I want to use the other warehouse to store the shipment. It's quieter over there—not much going on and we'll draw less attention."
"Which one's that, Boss?" Bobby spoke up. Since he'd hooked up with Davenport they'd never used another warehouse. The shipment had to be big if they were deviating from the usual pattern.
"Levy knows," Davenport responded dismissively. "It's been a while since we've done anything over there, though, so I want it checked out in advance. Make sure we don't have any uninvited guests taking advantage of the empty space. Be sure it's still locked up tight. You know the drill," he said, looking at Levy. To Bobby, it made sense that Davenport was deferring to Levy. Levy had been with the Boss for years, whereas Bobby was fairly new and Rinko was only useful in a situation with very specific orders and some degree of supervision.
"How many vans?" Rinko asked suddenly, surprising the other three men. It was the first intelligible thing he'd uttered all day.
"Probably three. We'll split the shipment between them." Looking at his watch, Davenport said, "Just get the guys lined up and check out the other warehouse to make sure we can use it. And get the vans ready to go. Levy, I'll call you in a few days to set up another meeting." He was already pushing off of the desk and heading to the door. As Bobby, Levy and Rinko followed Davenport back out into the warehouse Carl and Theo walked toward the SUV. Trained to anticipate Davenport's every move, they opened the front doors and started climbing in. The vehicle roared to life, sounding louder than it actually was in the large open space. Davenport opened his door quickly and pulled it shut with a smack as Levy walked purposefully over to the button and the garage door went up.
When they were gone and the door was back in place, Bobby said, "I'm taking off. I'll go over to the garage to check on the vans. It's been a few weeks since we had 'em out, so I'll find out if they're gonna need any work."
"I'll line up the guys. Rinko'll help," Levy told Bobby as he nodded toward Rinko. The guy was already loafing back over to the table where they'd been sitting before Davenport showed up, and Bobby wondered what help he could possibly offer. He didn't say anything, though. If Levy wanted to babysit Rinko, that was his business. "We can go over and check out the other warehouse tomorrow."
"See ya," Bobby said as he walked briskly toward a side door that led to the alley where he'd parked his car.
"I'll tell Vera you said hi," Levy laughed, displaying a cocky grin and some bad dental work.
"Don't do that," Bobby tossed back. "She actually likes me. I don't need her associating me with you. Bye Rinko," Bobby called absently, not expecting a response.
Later that afternoon, Bobby walked into a dimly-lit bar, allowing his eyes to adjust as the door shut heavily behind him. Locating Arnie Crapo wasn't such a difficult task, as it turned out. At three o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon, the place wasn't exactly teeming with patrons and Arnie happened to be one of only three people scattered around the room. Finding the guy face down at the end of the bar, Bobby marched over and whispered loudly, "Arnie, we need to talk."
Having assumed Arnie wasn't fully conscious, Bobby was surprised when his head snapped up quickly. "Sammy, what's going on?" Shoving Arnie's head back down against the bar, Bobby silenced him immediately. "Take it easy, man. I forgot, okay," Arnie whined, lifting his head up when Bobby let go of him.
"Don't forget," Bobby growled, looking around the room to make sure no one was within earshot. Letting out a slow breath, he was relieved that it was mid-afternoon. Other than one semi-conscious guy at a booth in the back and another sitting at a table watching the TV above the bar, there was no one else around. The bartender wasn't even out front. He slid onto the stool beside Arnie, looking over his shoulder one more time to assure himself that no one else was close enough to overhear their conversation.
"Been a while, Bobby," Arnie observed, taking a swig from the half-empty bottle in front of him.
Sam, or Bobby, as he had been known for the past fourteen months, rolled his eyes and shook his head in frustration. Normally, Sam preferred to go in with his real first name attached to a phony last name, but this time, the cover had already been established prior to his involvement. So he became Bobby Farrell, the fictitious cousin of a convict who'd been serving a ten-year sentence for weapons trafficking when he met his untimely demise at the end of a knife whittled by the prison "blacksmith." Bobby's "cousin" had been a prominent player in Davenport's organization before his arrest. So with some skillfully-obtained intel, the team was able to craft a convincing back story, and Sam Swarek slid into the lower rung of Marco Davenport's organization under the guise of a relative of the dearly-departed.
"How's it going, Arnie?"
"Been better," Arnie admitted pathetically. "I could really use some cash, man."
"Tell me what you've got for me, and then we'll talk about that," Sam insisted.
"Not much to tell . . . what do you want to know?" Arnie asked, barely able to hold his head up above the bar.
"Anything you think I might find interesting . . . the possibilities are endless."
Arnie swayed back and forth on his stool, causing Sam to wonder how often the guy ended up on the floor beneath the bar. "Well, I'm hearing you've got a new guy working Sookie's territory. Showed up a few weeks ago looking for some product and he's been around off and on since then. People are talking . . . ."
"Okay, that's good stuff. Not exactly what I was hoping for but still good," Sam assured him. "What else you got?"
"Not much," Arnie admitted. Then, seemingly struck with inspiration, he offered up, "Except there was a guy in here the other day. Driver for someone he kept calling Tate. Dropped off the guy—Tate—and some of his watch dogs at a restaurant a few doors down. Said they were meeting with Davenport. They told him to stick close and be ready when they called him. He was in here for a while, though, so it must've been some meeting. Just thought it was interesting . . . ." Arnie trailed off, taking another drink from his bottle and giving Sam a look that said he knew the information had more value than he was letting on.
"Anything else?" Sam prodded, wanting to squeeze Arnie for everything he could before he doled out any cash.
"Nah. Been pretty dry lately. I'll let you know if I hear anything else."
"Now listen," Sam said, leaning in closely as he slid some bills in Arnie's direction. "There's a little extra in there. I want you to lie low and keep your head down for the next few weeks. Stay off the radar and I'll be in touch."
"Got it. Thanks, man," Arnie responded appreciatively, watching Sam slide off of the adjacent stool and head for the door before dropping his head down on the bar and dozing off.
"Sammy, what's up?" Donovan Boyd came on the line, and his upbeat tone instantly made Sam cringe. The guy was a little too flippant for someone with so many balls up in the air—especially when some of those balls were human lives.
"Davenport's got a shipment of guns coming through in two weeks. He's hooking up with a new supplier, and it's supposed to be a big one. I think we need to be ready to take them all down at the exchange," Sam informed Boyd.
"You don't think we should let this one go through? Build more credibility within the organization?" Boyd questioned him.
"I want out, Boyd," Sam persisted. "When this deal goes down, I want to haul them all in and be done with it."
"Come on, Sammy. Are you sure?"
"I'm telling you I'm done. I just have a feeling . . . call it intuition or whatever. It's telling me that it's time to get out. And if this shipment's as big as Davenport claims, we can't risk that many guns hitting the streets," Sam warned Boyd. Not only should Boyd be sensitive to that fact, but Sam knew that as a handler, Boyd should also be concerned when one of his guys said he needed to come out. They both knew that an undercover operative who was losing his edge was a danger to himself and the whole operation. But Boyd was getting greedy—too worried that they might miss out on something even bigger if they acted too soon. Sam had seen enough UC ops go awry and had experienced enough of his own near-misses to know that getting too greedy could jeopardize an entire operation.
Silence on the other end of the line told Sam he needed to be more persuasive to get Boyd on board. "Look, everyone is involved in this thing. This is the one," he assured Boyd. "We have the chance to nail them all. I've been under for fourteen months, and I don't know when we'll get another opportunity like this. All of Davenport's main guys will be there."
"Joe Rinko . . . Saul Levy . . . those guys are small fish," Boyd reminded him. "We need Davenport himself."
"And we'll get him if we take them all down in two weeks. He's calling in some of his other guys, too, and one of them is Tito Sykes. That guy's deep into whatever product's out on the streets right now. If we can bury him on weapons charges, he'll be locked up in a cell for years," Sam insisted. Then, pulling another card he said, "We'll even have a shot at one of the major suppliers. What do you know about a guy named Tate?"
"Edmond Tate?" Boyd piped up with interest.
"Don't know, but I think he's the new supplier. Came into town the other day to meet with Davenport. Guy's not from around here."
"Gotta be Edmond Tate. He's a big weapons supplier out west. Could be he's trying to make a name for himself out here," Boyd posited, and Sam could practically hear the wheels turning as Boyd considered the possibility of bringing down Davenport and his associates, as well as Tate. "Okay, okay . . . let's say we do this. Is Tate gonna be at the buy?"
"I won't know anything else for a few days. Davenport wants to meet again, and I'll get as much information as I can."
"And how do you know Davenport will even be there?"
"He will. The guy's a micromanager with an overinflated ego. A shipment this large puts him on a whole different level; his reputation is on the line. He won't risk letting one of his guys screw it up."
"Too bad one of his guys is an undercover cop," Boyd joked.
"Listen," Sam said abruptly. "I'll get in touch with you when I know more. You'll have the team ready to go in two weeks if everything lines up, though, right?"
"Sure, Sammy. We'll be ready. Just keep me in the loop."
"Oh, and Boyd," Sam added offhandedly before hanging up. "Pull in the new guy you've got out there working Sookie D'Angelo's end of town. The guy might as well be walking around with a badge hanging around his neck."
Sinking down into the dingy mattress in his dive apartment, Sam allowed himself to consider what it was going to feel like to drop his alter ego and go back to being himself again after fourteen months. He'd been trying to keep his head in the game, keep his story straight and just keep himself alive for so long that he was starting to worry that he was losing himself to this Bobby character he'd created. When the opportunity to end the op on a high note presented itself and it happened to align with this feeling Sam had in his gut, he allowed himself to start picturing a return to his real life. This was the longest and deepest he'd ever been in, and he worried that he wouldn't be able to find Sam again when he got back to the other side if he didn't get out soon. So he'd pushed Boyd, knowing it was the right decision for himself and for the op.
It wasn't that he had that much to go back to in his old life—a handful of work colleagues who doubled as good friends, a sister he loved dearly but rarely saw, no parents (at least none he acknowledged) and no serious relationship. But it was his life and he wanted to get back to it. Fourteen months away from reality dealing with the likes of Levy and Rinko was too long, and Sam needed a reprieve.
And then there was this indescribable pull telling him that it was time to get out. He couldn't define it and didn't really understand it, but he actually felt hopeful about going back, as if something might be waiting for him. As inexplicable as it was, the feeling was there and it gave Sam the added incentive he needed to finish up his op and get out.
Smiling to himself as he folded his arms beneath his head on the too-soft mattress, Sam looked around at walls that were the color of pea soup and wondered why anyone would ever paint a room that shade of green. The dingy paint on the ceiling—probably once white—was riddled with tiny cracks that had only gotten worse since he started using the cover apartment. Two of the largest cracks in particular had been almost imperceptible fourteen months before. Now they zig-zagged across the ceiling, nearly intersecting above Sam's bed and making him wonder when the entire thing might come crashing down. As he sank into a deep sleep, he muttered, "I need to get out of here. Time to quit while you're ahead, Swarek."