We Were Hoping for More Porky's than Shoot to Kill. Sorry!
Shawn sat quietly for all of 4 minutes before interrupting their argument.
"To be fair, it was genius Howie. Oscar was right." At this point, their animosity for each other had been set aside so they could listen to Shawn. He seemed to have that effect on people. "You deceived the police for months. Hell, even I couldn't tell you were some sort of gang-boss! You got to sit back and watch your pawns get all the action, doing everything you wanted, exactly as planned. Course... you weren't perfect. A whole lot of shit hit the fan, eh man? But what I can't figure out: how did you manage all that money? You guys couldn't have kept all that cash lying around, you'd be found out in a minute. How'd you do it, Howie?" He let out a breath, resigned to tell the story.
"Antiques." Shawn raised his eyebrows. That was a new one. "We poured our money into shady but rare antique items. This way we could split the cut evenly and be able to carry them across borders and people would just think we had weird tastes in furnishing. It was brilliant. Until I sent a rookie to kill Cammo, my late right hand man. Of course the idiot forgot to take his share of the loot. It was a Ming vase, 1.4 million dollars!" He rubbed a hand over his redding face to calm himself. "Obviously I had him deposed after that."
"Yeah, of course." Shawn snarked tugging at his cuffs but the pipe held firm.
"Before we could get it back his landlord had sold all his stuff at a garage sale. We questioned him," Shawn had a really bad idea what that entailed, "And he said an antique collector had taken the vase, someone he'd sold several things to. After that it was just tracking him down. Planting myself firmly into the community. You know how many people in a person's life are virtually invisible to them? No one even thought there was a chance I was involved. If it wasn't for your chick, O'Hara, we'd be 1 and a half million bucks richer and outta that town 'fore you could ask 'When d'you think he'll get back from lunch?'" He smirked, but it soon faded after hearing Shawn's next input.
"So... you're saying it took you 4 months to figure out how to snatch that ugly blue vase, and then you botched the job? Some gang!" Shawn scoffed, enjoying the pink blotches appearing on his captor's face. "You're about as efficient as Gus is textspeak savvy! I keep telling him 'lolz' does not mean 'laughing out loud zebras' but does he listen? No!"
"Do you ever say anything better than this... this crap?" Howie asked incredulously.
"Not your jug of moonshine? OK, I'll stick to the hard stuff, with big words and... other intelligent things. Where'd you get the grenade to blow Jules' place to smithereens? That can't be easy to come by for a deli-man?"
"I had millions of dollars at my disposal." He answered, that taut muscle in his jaw getting a through workout. "What'd you expect me to spend it on, spam and provolone?"
"You didn't actually use spam, did you?" Shawn countered, sounding genuinely concerned. "'Cause you know that stuff is disgusting, there's more fat and whatever than meat, and the way it plops out of the can in that block, it's just so... ick! How could you stand being a millionaire gangster serving that shit to the Academy's finest, it must have been—"
"Shut—"
"—absolutely revolt—"
"—Up!" Howie fired a shot (complete with silencer) at the concrete floor a few inches from Shawn's feet. The storekeeper was an excellent shot, steering clear of harming him while still sending Shawn into an adrenaline fueled panic. He skittered away from the ricochet bullet, but was surprised when he wasn't the only one to jump. King looked terrified at both the sound and the action from his superior. As Shawn drew calming breaths, he filed this new information for later. Howie was utterly blank, having no other motive in his assault than expecting Shawn to obey. The two stared at each other for an exceptionally long minute, eyes boring holes in the other's until it was a battle of souls.
"Alright." Shawn conceded, with the air of a feral cat slinking away to lick his wounds in preparation for the next fight. "I guess I can put my love of my own voice aside a while in light of my love of breathing." The hint of a sneer flitted across the older man's features.
"Glad we understand each other psychic." He spat out. Howie stalked away, still fuming, and slammed the door to a back room, disappearing from sight. There was silence as King and Shawn stared at each other, and Gus listened desperately for signs everyone was OK as he lay face down on the concrete. Shawn pondered how to best take advantage of the alone time with the lesser villain. He probably could have chosen a better tactic if he wasn't so petrified.
"What did the lightbulb say to the switch?" He paused, while King tried to make his glare more menacing. "You turn me on!" No laughter, though Gus' lips probably twitched.
"You're the idiot." King grumbled, slumping back into the backwards chair, trying to look tough. As if the gun didn't take care of that enough.
"Hey man, I get it, I get you." King, once again nearly forgetting to keep his .45 towards Gus, pointed his free hand at Shawn testily.
"No no, I do!" He insisted, somehow intuitively knowing that relating to him would work the best. "My old man, nothing I ever did was good enough for him. He wanted a cop for a son, I become the free-spirited psychic you see before you. Course the handcuffs sort of counter act the effect, if you undid them I could demonstrate—"
"No."
"Worth a shot." Shawn retorted airily. Eying the man— sizing him up was more accurate— he decided to gently guide him to the point of their heart-to-heart. "How long have you known Howie, there Oscar?" King blinked in surprise.
"Since I was ten. My dad went to the can—"
"—Prison or the John?" One pissed off glare confirmed it. "Prison, got it. Go on."
"Howie pretty much raised me from then on. It was... nice." He shifted uncomfortably, making Shawn unconsciously tug at his wrists in turn. He delivered his next words gently.
"And how many people have you seen him kill?" The fidgeting continued, the hand with the pistol beginning to shake more violently.
"You have to understand, we're not like those big gangsta types. No drugs, no gun-trafficking, no hits, nothing like that at all! We just robbed banks— small ones, never hurting anybody, just making off with the money, y'know?" Oscar pleaded. Shawn nodded slowly.
"But that was in the past. Pretty soon, Howie started writing off his own men, keeping the spoils for himself, racking up a higher and higher body count." King's trigger finger convulsed and panic tightened in his gut. When nothing went off, he continued more softly. "You're not like him, you don't enjoy murder. But you know, the F.B.I. thinks you're responsible for all the crap he's pulled. You're a loose end, Oscar." A horrified understanding was beginning to show on his face. "And you've seen how good he is at tying those up." There was barely a minute for King to soak in his impending doom before Howie was reentering the room.
"A car just pulled up, it's gotta be the blonde." He announced authoritatively. Gus groaned as if he was only now waking up. Howie gestured his gun towards his prone figure to Oscar, who covered his broken expression by pulling Gus to his feet and pressing the muzzle to his temple. His eyes, which were lightly coated in unshed tears, begged Shawn to obey. He half-pulled Gus, because he was dragging his feet like a smart hostage, to hide by the side of the door, where the two would be unseen by whoever (as if there was any doubt?) was on the other side.
Howie took out his handcuff key, which Shawn perked up at despite knowing it wouldn't help much, and released him from his uncomfortable position. He instantly sprang to his feet with false joviality. Howie steadied his pistol's aim on his heart.
"Remember Spencer, and I'm sure you've heard this one before, don't do anything stupid. We've got one on you, and one on your friend."
"Course pretty soon it wont matter much when we were killed exactly," Shawn pointed out, managing to keep his rage out of the quip. More yellow teeth peeked at him.
"Details." He gave him a gentle shove, more like you'd give a puppy you're trying to teach to walk. Biting the inside of his cheek, to keep from verbally accosting them or warning his last hope, Shawn fell into position. He would be barely visible to Jules, while everyone else was waiting out of sight.
Much as he usually loved seeing Jules go all 'Kathryn Erbe' as Gus put it, on this occasion... he'd rather have fallen for a 'Mary Lou Bombgardner'.