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Escobar International Airport, Vice City. August 11, 1986
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While normally a jittery man, the nature of his new business partner injected a new level of nervousness into Ken Rosenberg, Attorney at Law. Perched in the driver's seat of his white Admiral, Rosenberg checked himself in the mirror, and adjusted his glasses. If he was going to play host to a homicidal mobster, he would at least do it looking as little like the pushover he was as possible. Of course, he was used to being kicked around like a football, mob connections or not.
"T-Tommy Vercetti?" he stammered at a man who had just let the terminal. The man gave him a funny look and passed him by. He had been doing this to everyone for the past hour, ever since Flight 69 had arrived from Francis International. Cursing the airline industry, he reached into the glove compartment for some reading material when he heard a tap on the window. The man staring amusedly at him could only be Tommy Vercetti. He was younger than Rosenberg had expected, perhaps in his mid-30s to early-40s. He must have been very young when he slaughtered all those people in Harwood. Clashing violently with his square-jawed frame and tough demeanor, his outfit consisted of a pair of worn-out jeans and a bright blue tropical palm-tree pattern shirt. The effect was almost comical, but if anything it intimidated Rosenberg more.
"Relax," said Tommy. "I'm not going to shoot you. How the hell am I supposed to sneak a weapon past customs? And besides," he added with a grin, "There's one of you, not eleven." He held out his hand and shook Rosenberg's. "Tommy Vercetti, and this is Harry, and this is Lee," he said, gesturing to the two men behind him. "And you must be-"
"Oh, Ken Rosenberg! Pleased to meet you!" Privately Rosenberg was anything but pleased. Apart from being a psychotic killer, the guy was a smartass as well. He submitted to attempting to make friends, however; at least he knew now that Tommy wasn't going to murder him… yet. "I'll be driving you to the meet," he went on as the three men got in the car. "Now I've talked to the suppliers and they are very keen on starting a business relationship, so hopefully we should be doing pretty well for ourselves, which is, y'know, good!"
Tommy cast an "oh-brother" look out his window. Rosenberg frowned. "Is something wrong?"
"No, nothing," Tommy sighed. "I just get the feeling this is going to be a long day."
"Right," said Rosenberg, ignoring the obvious insult. "Okay, so they're brothers. Victor and Lance. Vic operates the business, Lance does the flying. We'll be meeting out by the docks, so it should be, oh, only about fifteen minutes or so."
Tommy reached over and switched on the radio. The last thing he wanted was to listen to a quarter hour of this stuttering loudmouth. He settled on the local rock station, V-Rock, which was playing the latest hit from…
"Love Fist!" shrieked Rosenberg excitedly, turning the volume down so they could chat some more. "You like them?"
"They're one of my favorites," Tommy reluctantly answered.
"They're in town, you know! Doing a concert tour! They're here the next month or so, so maybe if this deal goes off, we can snag tickets and see them live."
"Great," said Tommy half-heartedly. He'd take going back to prison over attending a concert with this twerp. For the rest of the ride Tommy continued to blow off Rosenberg's feeble attempts at conversation, trying to keep his mind on the music. Harry and Lee just talked among each other. The song ended, followed by the idiot DJ rambling about how he flunked out of school because he's hardcore ("Who let this moron on the air?" thought Tommy) followed by a couple commercials for overpriced SUVs and the latest slasher flick. More music followed, and Tommy was beginning to doze off… he never could sleep on planes. He cranked the seat back and put his head back.
"All right, we're here!" sang out Rosenburg, interrupting a daydream Tommy was having about the sleep he could be getting at the five-star, Rosenberg-free hotel. "Okay, here's the deal. they want a nice exchange on open ground. No weapons, nothing fancy. And don't worry, these guys know better than to fuck with the mob."
Not after long, a helicopter hovered into view. It touched down nearby the car, and a burly black man hopped out, carrying two metal briefcases. He didn't seem very pleased with himself. Tommy could sympathize, but probably for different reasons. He preferred doing drug deals on a full night's sleep.
"That's Victor," explained Rosenberg unnecessarily. "Remember, straight exchange-"
"On open ground," Tommy finished, annoyance etched into every aspect of his voice. "I have more experience with this then you'll ever have."
Harry and Lee grabbed the briefcases full of cash and the three left the car. Victor had adopted a shit-eating, and very fake, grin. He obviously was not in the drug trade by choice. They at last met at the midpoint between helicopter and car. "Got it?" asked Tommy.
"One hundred percent pure grade-A Colombian, my friend!" Victor's voice was as full of the fake cheerfulness as his face. Tommy had no time for this.
"Let me see it."
Victor set down his briefcases, but did not open them. "The greens?"
"Tens and twenties. Used." Harry and Lee opened the cases and showed Victor.
"I think we have a deal, my friend," droned Victor in his insipid faux-cheeriness. "Ha ha ha-"
BANG!
Before he could finish his third forced "Ha," Victor crumbled to the ground, dead, a fresh hole in his temple. Without pause, several more shots rang out.
"Shit!" cried Tommy as he dove for cover. Harry and Lee weren't so lucky. They fell as the gunfire proceeded to convert them to Swiss cheese. Tommy raced for Rosenberg's car and dove through the open window. "Drive!!" he shrieked.
Rosenberg didn't need to be told. He stamped his foot on the accelerator, and made a sharp swerve out of the docks.
"Oh shit! Oh shit! Ohshitohshitohshit!" breathed Rosenberg.
"Yes," Tommy snapped, "Because you were the one being shot at."
"You're used to it!" Rosenberg protested. "I'm a lawyer, not a drug dealer! Bullets and me don't mix, you know!"
"They don't mix with anyone," said Tommy. "If either of us should be having a breakdown it's me, but you don't see me losing my goddamn mind."
"I shouldn't even be involved with this!" Rosenberg continued as if Tommy hadn't interrupted him. "Should have stayed where I was, whether it's in the gutter or not! Know why? Because when I poke my head out of the gutter, even for one freaking second, fate shovels shit in my face!"
Tommy's hand shot for the radio dial, and Judas Priest did what Tommy just couldn't manage to do: shut Ken Rosenberg up.
They passed through the southern bridge connecting the mainland with Vice Beach, the only part of Vice City most people knew or cared about. With such attractions as the North Point Mall, the Malibu Club, the Pole Position Strip Club, and, of course, the beach, it was one of the nation's most popular vacation spots. If whoever it was hadn't fucked the deal, Tommy thought bitterly, this might have been the start of my vacation. Tommy had packed swimwear, a change of clothes, the essentials basically. But as for the rest he'd been counting on the deal to go without a hitch, followed by a nice week on the beach, getting a tan, haunting the nightclubs, and driving sports cars to celebrate the end of his 15-year stint in prison. Now his vacation would have to be cut short. Just his luck…
Rosenberg pulled the Admiral into the alley beside his office. He cut the engine off, abruptly ending DJ Lazlow's unintentionally self-effacing lecture on the importance of being hardcore.
"You coming up?" offered Rosenberg. "I need a drink."
"No, just get some sleep. I'll drop by your office tomorrow and we can start sorting this mess out."
"Okay," mumbled Rosenberg. "Well, if you want you can take my car. Just don't crash it or anything."
"I'll try to keep that in mind."
Rosenberg jumped out of the Admiral and made a beeline for his front door, ducking and zigzagging as though the streets were full of snipers hungry for his blood.
"Moron," Tommy finally voiced his opinion aloud to himself, before taking to the driver's seat. Finally he could devote some time to his thoughts…
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Private Back Room, Marco's Bistro, Liberty City
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"So how's our southern contact, Sonny?" Mike forced through a mouthful of alfredo.
"Let's just say we've already got a huge foothold and it's only day one." Sonny cut a slice of veal, chewed it slowly and thoughtfully before proceeding. "I tell ya, that lawyer might not be as dumb as he looks. Man's connected. He got us in touch with a pair of brothers who in turn have connections to the big coke baron. I'm kinda sketchy on the details, but they should be done by now. I'm expecting a call any minute."
As if on cue, Sonny's cellular phone went off. "Speaking of which, here we go!" Sonny said as he picked up the phone. "Tommy!" he greeted jovially. "It's been too long! ….I know, you're just overwhelmed with emotion. Fifteen years… seems like only yesterday….. Hey, doin' time for the family's no piece of cake, but the family look after its own, all right? Now tell me. Are you sittin' on a pile of white gold? ….You'd better be kiddin' me, Tommy! Tell me you still got the money! ….That was MY MONEY, Tommy! MY! MONEY! ….You'd better not be screwing me Tommy, because you know I'm not a man to be screwed with!"
Sonny grabbed the platter of ribs and heaved it directly at a waiter as he came to refill their drinks. It shattered over his arm as he held it up to protect his face. Without bothering to pick up the broken plate, the waiter fled the room.
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Ocean View Hotel, Vice City
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"Wait, Sonny," said Tommy into the cordless handset. "You have my personal assurance that I'm gonna get your money back. And the drugs. And I'm going to mail you the dicks of those responsible."
"I already know that," came the icy voice of Sonny Forelli on the other end of the phone. "If it was anyone else you'd be dead already. But since it's you – since we have history – I'm gonna let you handle this. I'll be in touch."
The line went dead. Tommy threw the handset across the room as hard as he could. The casing flew apart, leaving the circuitry exposed. It would be added to the hotel bill, but he didn't really care at the moment. How could Sonny have the nerve not to foresee the possibility that the deal would be an ambush, and worse, to blame him? This was bullshit on a level he couldn't even begin to fathom.
Latin jazz blared from the radio in the corner. Tommy walked over and switched it off. Now was not the time for music. Now was the time to think things over, and then get to sleep – a sleep which Tommy would not have minded not to wake up from.