A/N: Wow, people actually seem to maybe like this! I like it, but I know it's nothing intellectual like I usually write. I'm moving today, and we have some problems with internet in the new house, so I thought I'd post this real quick while my parents are out. Thanks heaps to reviewers!
X X X X
Darry glanced down at his watch. It was time – well, two minutes early, but Steve was not one of those strange people who took "punctuality" to the level of the Japanese public transport system. Where was he?
He knew he was not simply missing Steve amongst the crowds in the lounge, because there were no crowds. This place was empty – well, almost, he thought as he took another sip of the bourbon that had been served to him by one of the busty barmaids. There were no more than five or six people around, and these five or six people were watched intently by the intelligent man at the corner table. Darry was good at what he did. He glanced occasionally up from his newspaper, and then back down so as not to attract suspicion. He turned a page of the paper.
He spotted an article that caught his attention. A Las Vegas casino had been sold, sold and now pending demolition. The article was accompanied by two small photos, both faces he knew very well. The first was a man who was confident, cocky almost, one who got everything he asked for. This was the man who had bought the casino, Bob Sheldon. Old, almost dormant feelings rose in Darry's being, but he quashed them with practiced ease and moved on to the second photo.
This man was also extremely wealthy, now more so with the selling of his casino. However, Darry knew him personally, and he knew that Randy Adderson also got everything he asked for – unless Sheldon wanted it more. Randy had loved that casino like Soda loved his old convertible. The rich Vegas Soc certainly looked put out in this picture.
"Catching up on current events?"
Darry looked up to see Steve sitting down across from him, out of uniform and now dressed in those inconspicuous jeans he had always loved. In fact, Darry would wager they were still the same pair he had had as a young, arrogant car thief. "Ramon?" he asked cautiously, unsure just yet if Steve thought it was a safe place.
"Glad to meet you. Steve Randle wouldn't get by the gaming board," he said, by way of explanation. "You just out?"
"This afternoon."
Steve cracked a sarcastic grin and glanced meaningfully at the glass in Darry's hand. "And already turning over a new leaf."
Darry ignored the jibe and leaned forward. "You seen him?"
Steve's grin faded, replaced by a look of thoughtfulness. "Last I heard he was in LA. Teaching movie stars how to play cards." His gaze suddenly became suspicious. "Why? You don't have something planned already?"
"You kidding?" Darry almost laughed. "I just became a citizen again!" Steve stared at him, and Darry grinned.
"Jesus…" the car thief muttered, looking skyward. "It's tough now, our line of work. Everybody's so serious. Too many guns, too many computers… What are you going to do? Steal from ordinary people?"
Darry put on an expression of mock hurt. "That would be criminal."
"So what's left? Banks?" Steve rolled his eyes. "Banks have no money. It's all electronic. Only place that still takes cash is –"
"Casinos," said Darry.
Steve frowned at him in confusion for a brief moment before his eyes opened wide in realization and he began shaking his head. "Oh, no," he muttered.
"Oh, yes." Darry took another sip from his glass.
"When?"
"Soon. Interested?"
A slow smile spread across Steve's face. Darry recognized that look in his old friend's eyes. He had his answer.
X X X X
The cars were roaring past, their lights the only things piercing the blackness of the night. Darry's jacket flapped in the wind created by the speeding vehicles as he picked up the phone and inserted a quarter, typing in a number copied from a business card in his pocket. It only rang a couple of times before the line was picked up. "Yes, is that Officer Brooks? My name's Darrel Ocean, I'm just out, I'm supposed to check back within twenty four hours… No sir, I haven't gotten into any trouble." He drained the last of the bourbon he had managed to smuggle out of the lounge and put the glass on top of the phone. "No sir, no drinking… No, I wouldn't even think of leaving the state… Yes, I can do that, sir… Have a good night."
He hung up the phone and looked in his wallet. Was there enough? Yes, definitely. He saw a cab passing and stuck out a hand to flag it down.
"Where're you headed?" the overweight driver asked as Darry sat in the back seat. This man, thought Darry privately, was clearly unsophisticated.
"Airport," he said after quickly checking his suit pockets. Stupid prison guards did not take the passport that gave his name as Fred Tyson, though it certainly worked for him.
He smiled, sitting back in his chair and watching the buildings fly by. He had an old friend to visit.
X X X X
Soda Curtis was thinking. If one who was merely passing by saw him standing there, they would think the straight face, the deep eyes staring straight ahead, and the way he leaned back against that old car he loved so much indicated he was thinking on something deep and meaningful. He was by no means shallow, but right now his mind was more caught up with the more superficial issues. He wanted the new car stereo he had seen in a shop window that morning. His own didn't make elderly ladies cry about that "awful young man who damages people's ears".
Sure, he could steal it, and he had mulled that thought over for a while, but he had a reputation, and that rep said he didn't steal items. Only money. Then he spent that money on extravagant suits or car upgrades, and he'd leave, knowing the shopkeeper would think highly of him. Pointless? Yes. But when you grew up with parents who had gone with two meals a day to pay for your private schooling, you acquired a taste for the finer things in life.
He saw someone strolling up towards him. Ah, Topher Grace… another not-quite-yet A-list celebrity with money to throw around. Topher began to put a hand out to lean on the car, but Soda hit his arm out of the way. He didn't know where that guy's hands had been, no way was he touching Mickey Mouse.
"Hey, Patrick," said Topher.
Soda's eyebrows flew upwards. Nobody called him by his birth name, not if they knew what was good for them. "Pardon?" he said, his voice almost icy.
"Er, I meant Soda." Topher was trying to cover over his mistake. Well, supposed Soda, he had money. Yes, he could be forgiven. "Hey, I don't know if you're, er, you know, incorporated or anything, like Pat-Soda Curtis and, er, incorporated… but I reckon you should think about it, really. 'Cause I was talking to my manager yesterday –"
"Bernie?" Soda interrupted.
"No, not Bernie," continued Topher. "I mean, not – not that Bernie, my business manager, he's also Bernie."
Soda raised his eyebrows again, though only slightly this time. How many people in the world were called Bernie?"
"Anyway, he was telling me that this – what we do – could be considered research for… you know, a future gig, that I should be able to write it off as a business expenditure. So he suggested that it'd be better if I wrote you a check –"
Soda scoffed. He wasn't stupid. He wouldn't have gotten this suit, his apartment, or Mickey Mouse if he accepted checks, and he sure wouldn't get that new stereo if he started now. "Are you stoned?"
Topher was wringing his hands now; clearly he wanted Soda's services very, very badly. "Or – or we could keep it cash, whatever works best…"
Soda smiled. He was good at his job.
X X X X
"Alright," said Soda, surveying the nightclub interior. His pocket was now rather heavy with the combined weight of his car keys and recently fattened wallet, which he was actually immensely grateful for. Not only did he need that stereo, his fridge was down to the last half eaten block of cheese. He needed to work more often. And perhaps spend less money. No, he decided firmly, just work more. Lots more. "Who's here?"
"Er… Josh is here, Seth is here. David couldn't make it. He's got two weeks of reshoots on Lusitania because somebody just figured out forty per cent of the budget is coming from Germany."
"That's a problem," remarked Soda.
"Barry is here," said Topher as he led Soda over towards a back room.
"I thought they let him out to do that HBO thing in Vancouver." Very good, Soda. Very observant. It was always best to act observant to the client; less chance they would try and steal your wallet, or, God forbid, your car.
"Couldn't work out the dates," said Topher. Soda nodded. The movie industry was terrible at keeping a schedule. He could probably do it better, and Soda had trouble reading simply a bus schedule. Then again, Soda Curtis on a bus… No. He couldn't envision it. Maybe the younger him, the Soda before he wised up, but not now. "Oh, and he brought his girlfriend."
"Not the one from –"
"Uh-huh."
Soda raised his eyebrows slightly; he had forgotten about that show. "I quit watching when Kate left Don after his accident." He would never admit it to anyone but himself, but he had always kind of liked Don.
Topher led Soda into the back room, shutting the door behind them. Soda surveyed the gathering seated around the table. Amateurs, fucking amateurs, the lot of them. No matter how much he taught them, a real card player would spot them a mile off. Still, good money in amateurs paying you to verse them, especially when the bets were for real… "All right, everyone," he said, taking the seat at the head of the table. "Let's play some cards."
X X X X
A/N: You may have noticed, the brothers aren't brothers. It wouldn't work. For one thing, Darry and Soda have a love/hate relationship; we all know they just loved each other in the book; for another they don't exactly know Pony. (He's coming soon.) Lol! They're so OOC! Reviews are welcomed, feel free to tell me exactly what you think.