"That son of a bitch! That fucking asshole! That little piece of shit!"
Patrick Ford sat on the steel bench just inside the back of a Vice City
ambulance, shouting profanities, much to the annoyance to the poor sap of
an EMT who was working hurriedly to close a large cut above Ford's eye. The
now enraged agent had been struck down by a large piece of wreckage as one
of the police cruisers blew into oblivion. He couldn't remember anything
after that. He assumed he had completely blacked out. But he did remember
exactly what had occurred before the explosions began, and that, made him
very, very angry.
"Sir, please, I need you to hold still so I can finish this," the EMT said, irritation seeping into his voice. He steadied Ford's head and carefully pulled the rift back together with a few strategically placed butterfly bandages. With that done, he released Ford and sat back a little, examining his work to makes sure that he had not missed anything blaringly important.
"Who's an asshole, a son of a bitch, a piece of shit," Creed asked from his position leaning on the side of the ambulance. He was out of Ford's line of vision, his arms folded across his chest. He had shed his suit jacket as soon as it had caught fire due to Vince's fabulous pyrotechnics. He stood in his shirttails, looking weary, his tie skewed. His shoulder hostlers crossed his back in a large leather "X." Not many people can wear guns like he did. They always looked so natural, as if they belonged. "Vercetti or Vercetti?"
He said it almost like a joke, chuckling softly to himself. Ford's eyes darkened, and he scowled. "Both of them goddamn it," he roared loudly, knocking the EMT's hand away from his face. "Get the hell away from me!" He jumped from the back of ambulance, stumbling some as he hit the ground. Ah, what good were concussions? No good at all. "What could have ever possessed me to trust a Vercetti? You can never, ever trust a Vercetti." He fell back into the sitting position on the edge of the ambulance's floor.
"Well, the file said that the younger of the two had a huge grudge against the other. They had a squabble over something or other years ago. It was not exactly illogical to think that maybe we could use Vince as a weapon. He seemed willing to help back in New York, especially after we told him it would eliminate some of his criminal record," Creed said, sorting out things in his head thoughtfully. "I guess it was all a revenge thing coming through. I'm also guessing that Vincent is the only man alive that can take on Thomas without doubling his weight in lead. I wonder what changed, because it could have worked."
Ford made a face. "You shouldn't have to wonder about assholes," he said in a low voice. "They're assholes. They don't need reasons to be assholes. They just are!" His face was flushed a violent red due to his anger, and the EMT, who was watching from a small distance away had to battle laughter after getting the strange mental image of the federal agent's head exploding.
"Hey," Creed snapped sharply, "calm the hell down, Pat. That's not going to help anything. The only thing rage like that will get you is a heart attack. You don't want other one of those do you?" Ford had suffered heart problems late last year, landing himself in the hospital three times.
Ford seethed, but he remained quiet. Creed continued. "So, the plan didn't work out. There's no need to blow up. All we need to do is figure something new out. Maybe we should take the conventional route and ask for information of the streets instead of hiring a deeply disturbed, gang- running, New Yorker psychopath to ---"
"Shut up, Gray," Ford growled, cutting his partner off in mid-sentence.
"Okay," Creed said slowly, drawing the syllable out unnecessarily. There was a long moment of silence. Well, not silence, but there was a lack of dialogue. Sirens screamed all over the streets, audible from even the most distant parts of the city as rescue workers scurried about trying to put out fires and save dying lives. Creed rubbed the back of his neck. "Can I make a suggestion here?" He peered around the corner of the ambulance to look at Ford, who was busy sulking.
"What." Ford said the world dully, not meeting Creed's gaze. Creed returned to his previous position, turning his eyes skyward. It seemed strange to him that the sky could remain so blue and still, even with thick black smoke from the chaos below billowing into its face.
"Let's go speak with Kent Paul. He's that stupid guy that hangs around in bars and recording studios all the time. I've heard he's done some particular business with Thomas Vercetti before, not to mention the fact that he has his nose in damn near everyone's business around here. I'm sure if we got him to talk he could tell us of a few place Vincent might have taken our man," he said.
"Who is this now?" Ford's interest sparked, and he snapped out of his gloominess long enough to gather more information. He looked at Creed by leaning forward where he sat so he could see the side of the ambulance.
"Paul comma Kent," Creed said almost proudly. "He's the manager of the rock band Love Fist." It came out like a question, with the traditional lift at the end, but it's intent was not one of inquiry. It was stated like that as a way of belittling the person on the other side of the conversation. After all, who didn't know everything about Love Fist? Kent Paul naturally came along with that knowledge.
Ford rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. How did you know he did stuff with Vercetti?" That's something Ford didn't think he could ever miss. He had been studying Vercetti for nearly a year now. He knew everything about him, everything from the Forelli gang, to prison, to Vice City. Something like that shouldn't have been able to worm its way through his fingers.
"I looked it up," Creed said tersely.
"What? When did you do that?"
"I did it as soon as the AD gave us the Vercetti case."
"Well, why didn't you tell me that a long time ago?"
"You never asked."
**********************
Tommy Vercetti could not remember falling asleep, but apparently he had, because he woke up. The room swam before his eyes for a moment before clearing itself up. He took in his surroundings. He was laying across a dark blue couch next to a door in a dark room. The only light was a single suspended lamp above a small, round table in the corner of the space. He recognized the area as the room he had built behind the Malibu's main office. He had knocked out a few walls, making sure he always had a place to go if the police were ever on his tail. He assumed it had been a rather good decision. The doorway was in the wall just behind the office's desk, virtually invisible to the untrained eye.
Vercetti looked around the room, squinting through the murky darkness. He could see that the entire party from before had made it into the Malibu's secret compartment. There was a television in the far corner, and Mercedes and Maria were seated in front of it, their heads tilted in toward each other, whispering. Vercetti raised an eyebrow. He had a theory that all women in the entire world, not matter how close-minded they thought they were, would inevitably fall into a pit of gossip sometime in their lives. He shook his head, smiling to himself silently.
Vince, Rosenberg, and Lance were sitting around the card table where the light was, playing poker with a deck of cards Vince always seemed to have in his pocket. They were using cash instead of chips, and that's the way Vince liked it because he had always thought playing with chips was a stupid idea anyway. Didn't wasn't money the exact same thing? Why not cut out the middle man? Vince was leaned back in his chair, looking at his five cards intently, occasionally glancing up to look at the table, where over five hundred dollars had accumulated in a haphazard pile. He had won the last few hands, and Lance had grumbled angrily about mopping floors and cheating.
Vercetti sat up, realizing that he was lacking his shirt. His upper body was wrapped in a white bandages, covering Vince's inflicted knife wound. Vercetti nodded to himself. He remembered Mercedes doing that before he evidently lost all consciousness. He searched the immediate area for his shirt. Someone had a clean, intact one sitting neatly folded one waiting for him on the arm of the couch. He slipped it on, but it remained unbuttoned as he stood up.
"Hey Tommy," Lance said, not looking up from the fan of cards he held as Vercetti approached the card table. "We weren't sure if you were ever going to wake up. You've been asleep for the past three hours." Vercetti shrugged and went about the task of fastening his shirt.
Rosenberg suddenly let out an annoyed snort and threw his cards down on the table violently. Vince started and rocked his chair forward so that all four legs were resting firmly on the ground. He looked at Rosenberg suspiciously before returning his eyes to his hand. "
"I give up," Rosenberg proclaimed a little too loudly. He gestured to Vince. "This man has too good of a poker face. I can't tell up from down! He could tell me the sky was falling at I would believe him because he looks so damn serious!"
Lance chuckled. "Well Chicken Little, I'm pretty sure with all the shit you're on right now, you'd believe that the sky was falling anyway," he said with a wan smile.
Rosenberg gave him the finger while Vercetti nodded. "Yeah, I know," he said. "He used to piss the hell out of my like that when we played as kids. I admit. He's pretty good." He placed a hand on Vince's shoulder and Vince immediately shrugged it off. He leaned forward and tossed a hundred dollar bill into the pile of money.
"Can I speak with you, Vincent?" Vercetti clasped his hands behind his back, moving away from the table, expecting his brother to follow him. Vince looked at his cards. Then he shrugged and spread them out on the table before him, face up. It was a royal flush, all in the suit of clubs. Lance nearly jumped onto the table, his eyes bulging in absolute disbelief.
"You have got to have an ace up your sleeve," he cried, stunned and then suddenly angry. He leaned over the table, dropping his own cards. "You're cheating."
Vince raised his eyebrows at the accusation and then pointed at his cards, holding up his hands innocently. He made a show of shaking out his sleeves. Nope, he seemed to say, no cards up there. He smiled a little, shaking his head. He got to his feet and gathered the money into a neat pile, folded it once, and pocketed it. He mock saluted Rosenberg and Lance. He turned and followed Vercetti away from the table, leaving to them to recover.
Vercetti turned around to face Vince as soon as he was sure that they were out of direct earshot of any of the others. "I want to know your motives," he said forcefully. "Why the hell did you help me back there when you could have just as easily slit my throat?" He expression was grave, not the usual easy-going visage that usually fit his bill nicely. It was easy to mistake the seriousness for anger, but Vince knew Vercetti well enough to know that's not what it was.
Vince tilted his head, his eyes narrowing a bit, in inquiry. Wasn't it a good thing that he hadn't slit Vercetti's throat? He supposed the question was justified, because the last time the they had seen each other they had parted with bullets flying between them. The hatred had been thick back then. It still was. But Vince liked to think he had honor, and he didn't want to be working for the police if he didn't have to. That was no fun at all. He simply shrugged.
"I want to make sure you're aren't going to turn around and stab me in the back. We aren't on the best of terms you know. You know how I feel about traitors, and so help me Vince, if you're setting me up, I'll kill you," Vercetti said darkly, taking a small step forward.
Rage flashed across Vince's dark eyes. He hands formed tight fists at his sides. Now Vercetti was angry, and his threat made Vince angry as well. He stepped forward, so close to Vercetti that their noses were practically touching. He jabbed him in the chest and then pointed to himself. He stepped back and made a slashing motion with hand, cutting through the air. Then he turned around with a hard shake of his head and stood there, back facing Vercetti.
Vercetti resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Why did Vince have to be so melodramatic about everything? He sighed, exasperated. "Look kid, I didn't call you a traitor. I'm just imploring you not to become one," he said in way of an explanation. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.
Vince whirled around without warning, drawing his Colt .45 in the same movement. He pushed Vercetti back against the wall angrily, his eyes flashing with some unknown emotion. Vercetti taken completely by surprise, nearly toppled over. Vince shook his head from side to side, holding the gun' barrel against his stunned brother's chest.
"Listen," Vercetti growled, regaining his composure. He paid no mind to the gun so near his heart. "If you refuse to speak, I don't know what the fuck you are trying to say!"
All heads in the room snapped around at the sound of the disturbance. Maria, who was now peering at the pair from over the back over her overstuffed armchair in front of the television, figured her expertise would be useful right about then. "He says you have no right to talk about traitors," she said. "He's telling you to shut your mouth before he does it for you. And he will Tommy. He'll silence you forever."
"How the hell do you know that," Lance demanded to know.
Maria looked at him. "You live with a guy for a long enough, and it's a trait you pick up. You just know," she replied. Vince shifted behind her, cocking back the hammer on the gun. His eyes became unreadable. His hand was shaking. Vercetti looked at the barrel of the gun a little nervously.
"But the guy doesn't talk," Lance countered, his voice raising in a crescendo.
"So, what the fuck does that have to do with anything?"
"So how the hell do you know ANYTHING about the guy? I'm surprised you even know his name!"
"Shut the hell up, all of you!" Vercetti reentered the conversation roughly, still looking at the shaking gun barrel. Vince was looking at it too. Vercetti watched him for a moment. "What do you mean I 'don't have the right to talk about traitors,' Vince?"
Vince pulled the gun away from Vercetti, releasing the hammer slowly. He turned away, slipping the weapon back into his jacket pocket as if to say never mind. Vercetti caught his sleeve, turning him around again. "Wait. Answer me, Vincent."
Vince broke his brother's grip and straightened his jacket, moving away, backward to the card table. He stood there for a moment, shaking with suppressed anger. He clenched his firsts, a scowl taking over his features. After a moment he pushed his way out the door and slammed it behind him. There were a few moments of motionless silence. Maria frowned, listening to it hang there before getting up and following Vince out of the room. She found him sitting at the bar in the main club, sitting on a stool, listlessly spinning a shot glass around in circles on the bar's surface. She sat down next to him.
"What do you want to do now?" She had to shout to be heard over the pulsing club music.
He made the shape of a gun with his thumb and forefinger and pretended to shoot himself in the head. He looked at her sullenly before leaning forward and tapping the bartender on the shoulder. The man turned around and filled up Vince's shot glass with whiskey. Vince downed the drink and shook his head.
"Sir, please, I need you to hold still so I can finish this," the EMT said, irritation seeping into his voice. He steadied Ford's head and carefully pulled the rift back together with a few strategically placed butterfly bandages. With that done, he released Ford and sat back a little, examining his work to makes sure that he had not missed anything blaringly important.
"Who's an asshole, a son of a bitch, a piece of shit," Creed asked from his position leaning on the side of the ambulance. He was out of Ford's line of vision, his arms folded across his chest. He had shed his suit jacket as soon as it had caught fire due to Vince's fabulous pyrotechnics. He stood in his shirttails, looking weary, his tie skewed. His shoulder hostlers crossed his back in a large leather "X." Not many people can wear guns like he did. They always looked so natural, as if they belonged. "Vercetti or Vercetti?"
He said it almost like a joke, chuckling softly to himself. Ford's eyes darkened, and he scowled. "Both of them goddamn it," he roared loudly, knocking the EMT's hand away from his face. "Get the hell away from me!" He jumped from the back of ambulance, stumbling some as he hit the ground. Ah, what good were concussions? No good at all. "What could have ever possessed me to trust a Vercetti? You can never, ever trust a Vercetti." He fell back into the sitting position on the edge of the ambulance's floor.
"Well, the file said that the younger of the two had a huge grudge against the other. They had a squabble over something or other years ago. It was not exactly illogical to think that maybe we could use Vince as a weapon. He seemed willing to help back in New York, especially after we told him it would eliminate some of his criminal record," Creed said, sorting out things in his head thoughtfully. "I guess it was all a revenge thing coming through. I'm also guessing that Vincent is the only man alive that can take on Thomas without doubling his weight in lead. I wonder what changed, because it could have worked."
Ford made a face. "You shouldn't have to wonder about assholes," he said in a low voice. "They're assholes. They don't need reasons to be assholes. They just are!" His face was flushed a violent red due to his anger, and the EMT, who was watching from a small distance away had to battle laughter after getting the strange mental image of the federal agent's head exploding.
"Hey," Creed snapped sharply, "calm the hell down, Pat. That's not going to help anything. The only thing rage like that will get you is a heart attack. You don't want other one of those do you?" Ford had suffered heart problems late last year, landing himself in the hospital three times.
Ford seethed, but he remained quiet. Creed continued. "So, the plan didn't work out. There's no need to blow up. All we need to do is figure something new out. Maybe we should take the conventional route and ask for information of the streets instead of hiring a deeply disturbed, gang- running, New Yorker psychopath to ---"
"Shut up, Gray," Ford growled, cutting his partner off in mid-sentence.
"Okay," Creed said slowly, drawing the syllable out unnecessarily. There was a long moment of silence. Well, not silence, but there was a lack of dialogue. Sirens screamed all over the streets, audible from even the most distant parts of the city as rescue workers scurried about trying to put out fires and save dying lives. Creed rubbed the back of his neck. "Can I make a suggestion here?" He peered around the corner of the ambulance to look at Ford, who was busy sulking.
"What." Ford said the world dully, not meeting Creed's gaze. Creed returned to his previous position, turning his eyes skyward. It seemed strange to him that the sky could remain so blue and still, even with thick black smoke from the chaos below billowing into its face.
"Let's go speak with Kent Paul. He's that stupid guy that hangs around in bars and recording studios all the time. I've heard he's done some particular business with Thomas Vercetti before, not to mention the fact that he has his nose in damn near everyone's business around here. I'm sure if we got him to talk he could tell us of a few place Vincent might have taken our man," he said.
"Who is this now?" Ford's interest sparked, and he snapped out of his gloominess long enough to gather more information. He looked at Creed by leaning forward where he sat so he could see the side of the ambulance.
"Paul comma Kent," Creed said almost proudly. "He's the manager of the rock band Love Fist." It came out like a question, with the traditional lift at the end, but it's intent was not one of inquiry. It was stated like that as a way of belittling the person on the other side of the conversation. After all, who didn't know everything about Love Fist? Kent Paul naturally came along with that knowledge.
Ford rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. How did you know he did stuff with Vercetti?" That's something Ford didn't think he could ever miss. He had been studying Vercetti for nearly a year now. He knew everything about him, everything from the Forelli gang, to prison, to Vice City. Something like that shouldn't have been able to worm its way through his fingers.
"I looked it up," Creed said tersely.
"What? When did you do that?"
"I did it as soon as the AD gave us the Vercetti case."
"Well, why didn't you tell me that a long time ago?"
"You never asked."
**********************
Tommy Vercetti could not remember falling asleep, but apparently he had, because he woke up. The room swam before his eyes for a moment before clearing itself up. He took in his surroundings. He was laying across a dark blue couch next to a door in a dark room. The only light was a single suspended lamp above a small, round table in the corner of the space. He recognized the area as the room he had built behind the Malibu's main office. He had knocked out a few walls, making sure he always had a place to go if the police were ever on his tail. He assumed it had been a rather good decision. The doorway was in the wall just behind the office's desk, virtually invisible to the untrained eye.
Vercetti looked around the room, squinting through the murky darkness. He could see that the entire party from before had made it into the Malibu's secret compartment. There was a television in the far corner, and Mercedes and Maria were seated in front of it, their heads tilted in toward each other, whispering. Vercetti raised an eyebrow. He had a theory that all women in the entire world, not matter how close-minded they thought they were, would inevitably fall into a pit of gossip sometime in their lives. He shook his head, smiling to himself silently.
Vince, Rosenberg, and Lance were sitting around the card table where the light was, playing poker with a deck of cards Vince always seemed to have in his pocket. They were using cash instead of chips, and that's the way Vince liked it because he had always thought playing with chips was a stupid idea anyway. Didn't wasn't money the exact same thing? Why not cut out the middle man? Vince was leaned back in his chair, looking at his five cards intently, occasionally glancing up to look at the table, where over five hundred dollars had accumulated in a haphazard pile. He had won the last few hands, and Lance had grumbled angrily about mopping floors and cheating.
Vercetti sat up, realizing that he was lacking his shirt. His upper body was wrapped in a white bandages, covering Vince's inflicted knife wound. Vercetti nodded to himself. He remembered Mercedes doing that before he evidently lost all consciousness. He searched the immediate area for his shirt. Someone had a clean, intact one sitting neatly folded one waiting for him on the arm of the couch. He slipped it on, but it remained unbuttoned as he stood up.
"Hey Tommy," Lance said, not looking up from the fan of cards he held as Vercetti approached the card table. "We weren't sure if you were ever going to wake up. You've been asleep for the past three hours." Vercetti shrugged and went about the task of fastening his shirt.
Rosenberg suddenly let out an annoyed snort and threw his cards down on the table violently. Vince started and rocked his chair forward so that all four legs were resting firmly on the ground. He looked at Rosenberg suspiciously before returning his eyes to his hand. "
"I give up," Rosenberg proclaimed a little too loudly. He gestured to Vince. "This man has too good of a poker face. I can't tell up from down! He could tell me the sky was falling at I would believe him because he looks so damn serious!"
Lance chuckled. "Well Chicken Little, I'm pretty sure with all the shit you're on right now, you'd believe that the sky was falling anyway," he said with a wan smile.
Rosenberg gave him the finger while Vercetti nodded. "Yeah, I know," he said. "He used to piss the hell out of my like that when we played as kids. I admit. He's pretty good." He placed a hand on Vince's shoulder and Vince immediately shrugged it off. He leaned forward and tossed a hundred dollar bill into the pile of money.
"Can I speak with you, Vincent?" Vercetti clasped his hands behind his back, moving away from the table, expecting his brother to follow him. Vince looked at his cards. Then he shrugged and spread them out on the table before him, face up. It was a royal flush, all in the suit of clubs. Lance nearly jumped onto the table, his eyes bulging in absolute disbelief.
"You have got to have an ace up your sleeve," he cried, stunned and then suddenly angry. He leaned over the table, dropping his own cards. "You're cheating."
Vince raised his eyebrows at the accusation and then pointed at his cards, holding up his hands innocently. He made a show of shaking out his sleeves. Nope, he seemed to say, no cards up there. He smiled a little, shaking his head. He got to his feet and gathered the money into a neat pile, folded it once, and pocketed it. He mock saluted Rosenberg and Lance. He turned and followed Vercetti away from the table, leaving to them to recover.
Vercetti turned around to face Vince as soon as he was sure that they were out of direct earshot of any of the others. "I want to know your motives," he said forcefully. "Why the hell did you help me back there when you could have just as easily slit my throat?" He expression was grave, not the usual easy-going visage that usually fit his bill nicely. It was easy to mistake the seriousness for anger, but Vince knew Vercetti well enough to know that's not what it was.
Vince tilted his head, his eyes narrowing a bit, in inquiry. Wasn't it a good thing that he hadn't slit Vercetti's throat? He supposed the question was justified, because the last time the they had seen each other they had parted with bullets flying between them. The hatred had been thick back then. It still was. But Vince liked to think he had honor, and he didn't want to be working for the police if he didn't have to. That was no fun at all. He simply shrugged.
"I want to make sure you're aren't going to turn around and stab me in the back. We aren't on the best of terms you know. You know how I feel about traitors, and so help me Vince, if you're setting me up, I'll kill you," Vercetti said darkly, taking a small step forward.
Rage flashed across Vince's dark eyes. He hands formed tight fists at his sides. Now Vercetti was angry, and his threat made Vince angry as well. He stepped forward, so close to Vercetti that their noses were practically touching. He jabbed him in the chest and then pointed to himself. He stepped back and made a slashing motion with hand, cutting through the air. Then he turned around with a hard shake of his head and stood there, back facing Vercetti.
Vercetti resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Why did Vince have to be so melodramatic about everything? He sighed, exasperated. "Look kid, I didn't call you a traitor. I'm just imploring you not to become one," he said in way of an explanation. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.
Vince whirled around without warning, drawing his Colt .45 in the same movement. He pushed Vercetti back against the wall angrily, his eyes flashing with some unknown emotion. Vercetti taken completely by surprise, nearly toppled over. Vince shook his head from side to side, holding the gun' barrel against his stunned brother's chest.
"Listen," Vercetti growled, regaining his composure. He paid no mind to the gun so near his heart. "If you refuse to speak, I don't know what the fuck you are trying to say!"
All heads in the room snapped around at the sound of the disturbance. Maria, who was now peering at the pair from over the back over her overstuffed armchair in front of the television, figured her expertise would be useful right about then. "He says you have no right to talk about traitors," she said. "He's telling you to shut your mouth before he does it for you. And he will Tommy. He'll silence you forever."
"How the hell do you know that," Lance demanded to know.
Maria looked at him. "You live with a guy for a long enough, and it's a trait you pick up. You just know," she replied. Vince shifted behind her, cocking back the hammer on the gun. His eyes became unreadable. His hand was shaking. Vercetti looked at the barrel of the gun a little nervously.
"But the guy doesn't talk," Lance countered, his voice raising in a crescendo.
"So, what the fuck does that have to do with anything?"
"So how the hell do you know ANYTHING about the guy? I'm surprised you even know his name!"
"Shut the hell up, all of you!" Vercetti reentered the conversation roughly, still looking at the shaking gun barrel. Vince was looking at it too. Vercetti watched him for a moment. "What do you mean I 'don't have the right to talk about traitors,' Vince?"
Vince pulled the gun away from Vercetti, releasing the hammer slowly. He turned away, slipping the weapon back into his jacket pocket as if to say never mind. Vercetti caught his sleeve, turning him around again. "Wait. Answer me, Vincent."
Vince broke his brother's grip and straightened his jacket, moving away, backward to the card table. He stood there for a moment, shaking with suppressed anger. He clenched his firsts, a scowl taking over his features. After a moment he pushed his way out the door and slammed it behind him. There were a few moments of motionless silence. Maria frowned, listening to it hang there before getting up and following Vince out of the room. She found him sitting at the bar in the main club, sitting on a stool, listlessly spinning a shot glass around in circles on the bar's surface. She sat down next to him.
"What do you want to do now?" She had to shout to be heard over the pulsing club music.
He made the shape of a gun with his thumb and forefinger and pretended to shoot himself in the head. He looked at her sullenly before leaning forward and tapping the bartender on the shoulder. The man turned around and filled up Vince's shot glass with whiskey. Vince downed the drink and shook his head.