Kent Paul was feeling pretty damn good. And why shouldn't he? His blood
alcohol level was probably through the roof, and he was still sipping out a
bottle vodka in intervals. He sat at the mixer board in front of a large
glass window that protected the tiny sound booth beyond it. He was tilted
back in his pseudo-wool computer chair, testing its spring to the limit.
His feet were casually propped up on the board, the sliders moving ever so
slightly as his moved to grab the liquor bottle again. The control remained
strangely steady, even with the extra disturbance.
Paul smiled, watching Jezz, the Scottish lead singer of the band Love Fist, shout rhythmically into a microphone behind the wide windowpane of the sound booth. Jezz's voice was momentarily drowned out by the hard core beat of the music, and Paul put his vodka bottle back on the floor, reaching over to turn the background noise down. Jezz continued to "sing," unaware that he had ever been cut off. Love Fist was huge in the music industry now, even if they were just a bunch of "Scottish bisexuals," as Vercetti had once called them, and they were still climbing steadily in the ranks. Paul, as the man who was seen with them at all points of the day whether they wanted him there or not, was beginning to look good as well, if only in reputation.
Paul toppled backwards out of his seat, taking the chair with him, as the studio door slammed open behind him. The Jezz's music ceased, and the rest of the band members, who were sprawled out on the couches situated near the entrance to the room, started as well. The door hit the wall with a loud, resonate bang. Paul picked himself off the floor, stumbling back as the floor spun beneath him due to his alcohol intake. He hauled the chair back into the upright position and looked around slowly, searching for the source of the rather rude disturbance.
"Kent Paul," a man in a dark gray suit with a deep green tie stood in the door way. He stepped into the room and was followed by another man in nearly the same attire, however this man's tie was maroon. They looked professional, albeit a little roughed up. One of them had a bandage taped over one eye. Paul sized them up carefully, noticing that the second man looked beyond surly. He frowned.
"Yeah, what can I do for you boys," Paul asked, smiling stupidly, listening to his voice slur to a almost recognizable point with a combination between the alcohol and his thick English accent.
The two men flashed FBI identification badges at him, their movement practiced and nearly exactly together. Paul's smile faded as he watched him. How did they do that? That was a little creepy. Maybe he could get these fine gentlemen to teach him that trick. He was always looking for new ways to impress the ladies. And there were always plenty of ladies to be impressed.
"We need information from you concerning a man by the name of Thomas Vercetti," the man with the bandage over his eye said. For an alarming moment, Paul forgot that he had seen the FBI badges offered by these two men, and he had a sinking feeling, believing that they were from the Mafia or some such nonsense. He took a tiny step backward, and that was enough to sit him back down in his chair. The last thing he ever wanted was some huge organized crime syndicate on his ass. Vercetti breathing down his neck all the time was just about all of that kind of thing he could take. Then he shook his head, remembering that the two men in front of him weren't crime lords, they were federal agents. Oh great. Even better. Not.
"What makes you boys think I would know anything about a guy named Thomas Vercetti? Ya know, just because I know some stuff about this town, people are always running up to me expecting me to rip out some giant secret," Paul said, agitation seeping into his voice.
Ford raised an eyebrow. "Just because you're drunk off your ass, Paul, doesn't mean we're going to tolerate you pretending you have no idea what we are talking about," he said.
"The Federal Bureau of Investigation's computers rarely lie, Mister Paul," Creed added blandly. He looked around the studio. Jezz was peering out of the sound booth, watching them through unnaturally black eyes. The other band members were all sitting up on the couches, attempting unsuccessfully to hide the series of drugs that they had had all spread out on the table before the agents had made their startling entrance. Creed narrowed his eyes, but he said nothing.
"Well, maybe they did just this one time," Paul was saying to Ford defiantly, "because I don't know anything, and for your information, I'm not drunk off my ass. I happen to be sitting on my ass right now."
"Cute," Ford said with a false smile. "I advise you not to play stupid with us, Paul." Creed recognized Ford's tone as the same one he had used in the beginning of this whole mess with Vercetti when they had him at the top of the stairs in the Coke Baron's Mansion, unarmed. He knew the Paul did not have the resources to escape them like Vercetti had, but still, the tone was uncomfortable. Ford didn't seem notice.
"I'm not," Paul insisted, his brow furrowing. One of the band members mumbled something and Ford turned his attention around, but the band member said nothing more, pretending he had never said anything the first place.
"Did you say something," Creed asked.
"Yeah," the band member muttered. "I said he's not playing stupid. He's always like that." He grinned. Paul looked at him, looking almost hurt for a moment before Ford whirled on him again. There was a stunned yelp as Ford grasped the front of Paul's shirt and pulled him forward out of the chair. Ford stepped back, taking Paul with him so that they remained face-to-face.
Paul, scared into betrayal, began to babble. "Tommy's a big wig in this town, you know? He came down here some five months ago looking about twenty kilograms, right? And someone told him about me, so I helped him out a little, gave him a path to follow, you know? I swear it wasn't more than that! Then he starts buying up all the dying businesses on the islands, and now he's huge! I'll bet his biggest business is probably that old printing shop down in Little Haiti. Yeah. That's it! You want him, you could go there and check it out," he said without taking a breath. "Now put me down, please."
Paul knew all of what he had said was not entirely true, at least not in his mind. The way he saw it, he had started Vercetti out in Vice City. Vercetti owed him a lot, but he didn't think Vercetti recognized that. Well, at least he hadn't seen it fit to kill Paul off, and he still let him hang around in the Malibu Club all the time, so Paul supposed it wasn't so bad.
Ford put Paul down, smiling that false smile again, showing his teeth. "Thank you," he said. The he turned on his heel and practically marched out the door with Creed in tow. Creed paused to close to the door, shooting a suspicious glance at the band members "hiding" their drugs for a moment before following Ford out of the building.
Paul dusted himself off. "Yeah, that's right, get out of here before I cause you more trouble than you can handle," he muttered to himself angrily. Then something very alarming hit him. "Oh shit, if Tommy finds that I ratted him out I'm a dead man! He'll kill me without even looking back! He'll walk in my blood!" His eyes grew very large in horror as he imagined his own death.
Jezz walked out of the booth, picking up Paul's bottle of vodka and taking a long swig. "Good luck with that, Paul old buddy. I'm glad I'm not the one Tommy's going to be mad at," he chuckled. The other band members nodded their agreement, their faces painted with comically huge smiles.
Outside, Creed and Ford climbed into their black bureau car. Creed started the engine as Ford buckled his seat belt and pulled his door closed. He situated himself in the seat and turned around to monitor his blind spots as he backed up and them moved forward again to escape from where he had parallel parked outside the recording studio. "Well," he commented sarcastically, "that went well."
Ford shrugged. "Hey, we got the information didn't we? It's no skin off my nose if Kent Paul pisses his pants. Man, that guy reeked of booze. How can he a guy so little drink so much?" He peered out the window, watching the car behind them to make sure Creed wasn't doing to make more problems for them to deal with. Creed pulled out onto the street without hitting anything. "Let's just go to Little Haiti," Ford said. "Maybe we can pick up some tracks there, if God wills."
*****************************
The print shop Kent Paul had spoken about happened to be Print Works, a huge warehouse situated in such a way that it was easy to pass it without noticing. Creed did so. When Ford pointed it out, he grumbled something and turned the car around. They pulled into the large, empty parking lot outside the shop and Creed turned off the car. It must have been his law enforcer's instincts, because he parked the car perfectly in between two of the white lines in the lot, because it didn't really matter. There were not other cars in the place anyway. He could have parked backwards and diagonal if he had wanted to.
The two agents got out the car, straightening their jackets and closing their doors all in the same fluid movement. Ford pulled at the knot in his tie for a moment, looking around the abandoned lot. Creed shielded his eyes with his hand and looked against the sun at a sign that was protruding out of the building's roof. It was a huge rectangle piece of sheet metal that said "Print Works" on it, only the "Print" in the name had been crossed out with red spray paint and replaced with "Vercetti." Well, wasn't that just a kick in the teeth. Ford wondered how America's wonderful legal system had missed Vercetti's presence here of all other places in the world. Creed shoved his hands into his pockets and followed Ford has he walked forward, pulling the blue metal door that allowed entrance into the building. The shop, though it looked like it was various different rooms from the outside, was actually one big room full of fax machines, printing presses, copiers, and stacks upon stacks up stacks of paper. Upon their arrival inside, the door swung shut behind them with a loud bang. Ford sucked in a deep breath, for reason unknown, suddenly worried that someone would hear them. Not that they didn't want someone to hear them, but oh well.
A man looked up from what he was doing as they came in, his eyes narrowing. He made his way around on of the monstrous, cumbersome piles of paper and straightened his brown vest. "Can I help you fellas," he asked, grabbing a rag off the top of one of the copiers as he moved. He wiped his hands on it, however, it was strange to think that it could have cleaned his hands in any way due to the fact that it was blotted generously with black ink. He tossed it aside.
"Nice establishment you have here," Creed commented, but he didn't look around. He and Ford showed the man their badges in that way they had of doing so precisely together. The man raised an eyebrow. Then they put the identifications wallets back into their pockets.
"We need to ask you some questions, ah, Mister," Ford trailed off, once again prompting someone to complete his sentence with his or her name. Unlike Creed, Ford took the time to look around the shop, noticing that several of the printing presses were running green paper that look suspiciously like money.
The print shop employee (it looked as if he was the only one) looked at them, eying them up and down dubiously. He noticed Ford looking at the printing presses, but he said nothing and made no move to block the view of them in any way. That would make him look rather suspicious, wouldn't it?
"Kelly," he said, "Simon T. Look, I know my rights, and you can't just walk up in here and start spouting off questions for me to answer without some kind of probable cause." The words were started bitterly as he looked at them from under a green visor and from behind triple thick glasses. He tugged at his vest again.
"Ah, but we do have reason, Mister Kelly," Creed assured him with a cold grin. "We are here following a lead as to the whereabouts of a wanted killer known as Thomas J. Vercetti."
Kelly smiled back at Creed, equally as coldly. Of course he knew Vercetti. After all, he was the man that owned this place. He had come in some time ago, smiling a little whimsically as he surveyed the printing machines. He had told Kelly about his father and had asked about maybe printing a magazine or something. Kelly had suggested something a little more profitable, hence the green papers on the machines now. Vercetti had gathered up all they had needed and the business began. It was running well now. Kelly admired Vercetti to an infinite extent. He didn't, of course, tell Creed and Ford about that.
"Vercetti, huh," he said pretending to think about it. "I know of him, but I don't know him personally."
Creed moved his hand up into the air, motioning toward the roof of the establishment. "Your sign says 'Vercetti' works," he pointed out placidly.
"So? That don't mean nothing, Mister FBI. Just because the sign says something doesn't mean I know everything all of a sudden. If you hadn't noticed, the sign isn't exactly professionally etched. We have a lot of vandals around here," Kelly countered coolly.
"Thomas Vercetti ain't no vandal!," Ford said forcefully, and a little too loudly. His concept of grammar also seemed to fly out the window. "He's wanted for drug trafficking, weapon possession, property damage, grand theft auto, and bank robbery, not to mention the hundred and fifty accounts of indirect and direct murder with malicious intent that are tacked onto his name." Kelly didn't even blink. He continued to gaze at the agents calmly. "Are you sure you should be telling me that? I mean, that seems like something that should say within your little bureau circle. I don't even know the guy, and all that information is pretty personal. It has nothing to do with me," he said.
"You said that you didn't know him 'personally'," Creed said, finding another hole in Kelly's story.
"Yeah, I did," Kelly replied. "But everyone knows who Tommy 'the Butcher' Vercetti is. At least they do around here, because if they don't, they're in for some real trouble when he comes walking down their streets in the middle of the night. People should always be aware of the dangers life presents them with."
Ford was about to say something when Kelly began to pull away and walk the other direction, picking up a hefty stack of paper as he headed toward the office at the very back of the compound. "Now," he said. "If you boys will excuse me, I have work to do."
"We need to get this guy off the streets, Mister Kelly," Ford stated.
Kelly shrugged. "Sounds like a personal problem to me."
Creed cleared his throat. "We know all about Vercetti owning this complex, Mister Kelly, or are you going to tell me that you've worked here for as long as you have, but you have never met him? Come now, we know that you're lying."
This time, Kelly stopped short and he looked down.
"So talk to us, Mister Kelly, please," Ford said with a wan smile.
***************************
Vincent Vercetti was bored. He was sitting on the couch next to Mercedes in front of the television in the back room of the Malibu Club, shuffling and reshuffling a deck of cards. Half the deck was spread out in front of him in a slightly chaotic game of solitaire. The other half flipped between his hands expertly, never once falling to the ground. Vince's mind was not on the cards though; it was far away on a distant plane, thinking and working for itself. On the television screen, a politician babbled about taxes and the country's revenue. No one was listening.
Vercetti, Lance, and Rosenberg sat around the card table, examining their respective hands of five cards. The jackpot in the center of the table had reached nearly a thousand dollars, making the stakes on the game extremely high. Rosenberg wiped sweat away from his brow, glancing nervously at his wallet, which was now strangely empty. Vercetti was hunched over the edge of the table, looking at his cards seriously, as if he expected them to jump out of his hands and dance around on the table.
Suddenly, a phone rang. Vercetti started as the shrill ring shattered the tense silence like beautiful pieces of iridescent glass. Lance looked at Vercetti, as did Rosenberg, Maria, and Mercedes. The only one who didn't seem at all phased was Vince, who continued to stare off into space, the cards flashing between his hands quickly. The phone rang again, sounding impatient. Vercetti dropped his cards down onto the table face down and moved so that he could access his front pocket. He fished around for a moment before pulling his cell phone out right as it rang again. He turned it on and put it up to his ear.
"Speak," he said tersely. He didn't much like phones. He thought they were impersonal and trivial, but at least they made it so he didn't have to run around like a buffoon trying to meet everyone he had to face-to-face. That would be a pain, considering Vercetti had many important acquaintances. Plus, if he didn't have his phone, how would have met Lance in the alley where he beat up that chef to get it in the first place? No doubt Lance would have found him somehow in some other way, but Vercetti liked to think that meeting Lance there helped him launch part of his career in Vice City. He wasn't sure how, but then again, he never did.
"Tommy! It's me Paulo. Tom! Thank God you're still alive," Kent Paul's voice screeched out of the earpiece, forcing Vercetti to pull the device away from his ear to avoid the immediate risk of going deaf. He made a face and rubbed at his ear, annoyed. He cautiously put the phone back to where he could hear the speaker.
"What the hell are you talking about, Paul? Of course I'm alive. Why wouldn't I be," he asked, making sure to incorporate the annoyance he felt into his voice so that Paul would be sure to hear it. Vercetti didn't like to be yelled at. He preferred speaking in normal tones. There was no point to screaming if the point could be conveyed without the risk of one loosing one's voice. He had to admit, however, that when he found himself losing his temper, he often raised his voice, but at least he didn't start straining his vocal chords when he became frantic. Kent Paul was obviously very panicked.
"The Feds, Tom, you didn't hear? They stopped by here a little while ago looking for you, and I tried to tell them that I didn't know what they were talking about, but they grabbed me and I --"
Vercetti raised one eyebrow, his countenance suddenly becoming slightly annoyed. "Paul, you didn't tell them where they could find me, did you," he asked in a carefully flat tone. He didn't want Paul to know that he was angry just yet, but oh was he ever. He clenched one fist and rapped on the edge of the table with his knuckles impatiently, listening to Paul's labored breathing on the other side of the line.
"Well you see Tom, the thing with that was --"
Vercetti cut him off by slamming the phone against the table with all the strength he could muster. He wasn't interested in hearing any more of Paul's story. That was entirely too time consuming. He was content to simply assume things and get things over with as quickly as possible. The phone, needless to say, disconnected after Vercetti's little bout of violence, and he looked at it for a moment before slipping it back into his pocket.
He looked up to find everyone in the room staring at him, even Vince, who had snapped back into reality sometime between Vercetti answering the phone and Vercetti pounding the phone against the table. Vercetti chuckled sheepishly, releasing a long-winded sigh. Everyone continued to stare at him, waiting for an explanation for his sudden outburst. He waved his hand in the air.
"I think we have to move base now," he said. "I know a music buff with a big mouth."
Vince went back to staring blankly off into space, the cards slipping from his hand and scattering onto the floor. Mercedes looked at him for a moment before sighing and bending down to pick all the stray cards back up. Vince didn't take notice to her.
The phone rang again and Vercetti raised his eyes skyward in annoyance before pulling the phone back out of his pocket and switching it on. "Paul, if this is you again, I swear to God, oh, Simon. What's up?"
"They came by Print Works here, Tommy. I'm sure you can guess who I'm talking about; you're a smart kid. Look, I sent them over to you boatyard in the harbor. I'm sure those two boys over there will make them question heads and tails on the coin, but we can't keep them running around in circles forever, you know what I mean? Something needs to be done," Kelly's voice informed him.
Vercetti's anger built up again. "Yeah, I understand, Simon. Thank you. I have it under control. I'll talk to you later," he said as calmly as he could through tightly gritted teeth. He knew the FBI agents that had been chasing them around since the night on the bridge were not idiots, not by a long shot. They would find the Malibu Club eventually, and when they did, Vercetti wanted to be long gone. He hung up the phone, not waiting for Kelly to finish speaking. He pushed the phone back into this pocket and rested his head on his elbow, trying to think. Sooner or later, the government would know about all of the Vercetti assets, and that was liable to put Vercetti into deep bankruptcy. His businesses would be ruined if his patrons found out that the Feds were on his ass. He sighed, rubbing at his sinuses.
"We shouldn't run away from this anymore. This will get too big if we do," he grumbled. "I think it's time we take some action, you know? The 'good guys' have had the offensive thus far into the game, and I think it's time we took a few potshots back. It's time to switch sides. I'm tired of this."
"Well, what do you suggest," asked Lance, who was still sitting across the table with his five cards fanned out in front of him. He wore a grin that rivaled that of the Cheshire Cat, so it was obvious that he felt he had a winning hand. That was big accomplishment, because since Vercetti had entered the game, Rosenberg and Lance hadn't even stood a chance.
Vercetti thought for a moment, perusing Lance's features carefully, looking for anything that would call a bluff. "I'm not sure just yet, but I'm sure I'll think of something," he said. He picked up his cards again, shot a glance at Lance once more before opening his wallet and taking out two crisp bills. "I see your two-hundred from before me entourage of phone calls, and I raise you four thousand. He threw a thick roll of money into the center. Rosenberg's eyes grew very wide.
"I fold," he stammered immediately. He wasn't about to deal with money like that.
Lance scoffed. "Wuss," he muttered. He met the four thousand and called, perfectly sure that he was going to beat whatever Vercetti had in his hand with what he had in his. After all, that's what happened in the movies, wasn't it?
"All right, let's see them," Vercetti said.
Lance spread his cards out on the table quickly, smirking proudly. "Full house with Jacks and Queens, Tommy. Read them and weep."
Vercetti sniffed. "Boo-hoo," he said flatly. "Little lesson in poker Lance. Never get into too much of a hurry. Take your time, and never let anyone rush you," he began to place his cards face up in front of him one at a time, making sure to go slowly to convey his point. "And never, ever show all your cards at once." The fifth card was at last shown, and Vercetti leaned over the table to collect the cash. "Straight flush." He grinned.
"Goddamn it," Lance exclaimed, jumping up out of his chair in utter shock. "How the hell did you do that? What, is it written in Vercetti family scripture that you people always have to win?"
"Could be," Vercetti said with a nonchalant shrug. "Anyway, Lance, I've figured out what we're going to do. It's time to go."
Paul smiled, watching Jezz, the Scottish lead singer of the band Love Fist, shout rhythmically into a microphone behind the wide windowpane of the sound booth. Jezz's voice was momentarily drowned out by the hard core beat of the music, and Paul put his vodka bottle back on the floor, reaching over to turn the background noise down. Jezz continued to "sing," unaware that he had ever been cut off. Love Fist was huge in the music industry now, even if they were just a bunch of "Scottish bisexuals," as Vercetti had once called them, and they were still climbing steadily in the ranks. Paul, as the man who was seen with them at all points of the day whether they wanted him there or not, was beginning to look good as well, if only in reputation.
Paul toppled backwards out of his seat, taking the chair with him, as the studio door slammed open behind him. The Jezz's music ceased, and the rest of the band members, who were sprawled out on the couches situated near the entrance to the room, started as well. The door hit the wall with a loud, resonate bang. Paul picked himself off the floor, stumbling back as the floor spun beneath him due to his alcohol intake. He hauled the chair back into the upright position and looked around slowly, searching for the source of the rather rude disturbance.
"Kent Paul," a man in a dark gray suit with a deep green tie stood in the door way. He stepped into the room and was followed by another man in nearly the same attire, however this man's tie was maroon. They looked professional, albeit a little roughed up. One of them had a bandage taped over one eye. Paul sized them up carefully, noticing that the second man looked beyond surly. He frowned.
"Yeah, what can I do for you boys," Paul asked, smiling stupidly, listening to his voice slur to a almost recognizable point with a combination between the alcohol and his thick English accent.
The two men flashed FBI identification badges at him, their movement practiced and nearly exactly together. Paul's smile faded as he watched him. How did they do that? That was a little creepy. Maybe he could get these fine gentlemen to teach him that trick. He was always looking for new ways to impress the ladies. And there were always plenty of ladies to be impressed.
"We need information from you concerning a man by the name of Thomas Vercetti," the man with the bandage over his eye said. For an alarming moment, Paul forgot that he had seen the FBI badges offered by these two men, and he had a sinking feeling, believing that they were from the Mafia or some such nonsense. He took a tiny step backward, and that was enough to sit him back down in his chair. The last thing he ever wanted was some huge organized crime syndicate on his ass. Vercetti breathing down his neck all the time was just about all of that kind of thing he could take. Then he shook his head, remembering that the two men in front of him weren't crime lords, they were federal agents. Oh great. Even better. Not.
"What makes you boys think I would know anything about a guy named Thomas Vercetti? Ya know, just because I know some stuff about this town, people are always running up to me expecting me to rip out some giant secret," Paul said, agitation seeping into his voice.
Ford raised an eyebrow. "Just because you're drunk off your ass, Paul, doesn't mean we're going to tolerate you pretending you have no idea what we are talking about," he said.
"The Federal Bureau of Investigation's computers rarely lie, Mister Paul," Creed added blandly. He looked around the studio. Jezz was peering out of the sound booth, watching them through unnaturally black eyes. The other band members were all sitting up on the couches, attempting unsuccessfully to hide the series of drugs that they had had all spread out on the table before the agents had made their startling entrance. Creed narrowed his eyes, but he said nothing.
"Well, maybe they did just this one time," Paul was saying to Ford defiantly, "because I don't know anything, and for your information, I'm not drunk off my ass. I happen to be sitting on my ass right now."
"Cute," Ford said with a false smile. "I advise you not to play stupid with us, Paul." Creed recognized Ford's tone as the same one he had used in the beginning of this whole mess with Vercetti when they had him at the top of the stairs in the Coke Baron's Mansion, unarmed. He knew the Paul did not have the resources to escape them like Vercetti had, but still, the tone was uncomfortable. Ford didn't seem notice.
"I'm not," Paul insisted, his brow furrowing. One of the band members mumbled something and Ford turned his attention around, but the band member said nothing more, pretending he had never said anything the first place.
"Did you say something," Creed asked.
"Yeah," the band member muttered. "I said he's not playing stupid. He's always like that." He grinned. Paul looked at him, looking almost hurt for a moment before Ford whirled on him again. There was a stunned yelp as Ford grasped the front of Paul's shirt and pulled him forward out of the chair. Ford stepped back, taking Paul with him so that they remained face-to-face.
Paul, scared into betrayal, began to babble. "Tommy's a big wig in this town, you know? He came down here some five months ago looking about twenty kilograms, right? And someone told him about me, so I helped him out a little, gave him a path to follow, you know? I swear it wasn't more than that! Then he starts buying up all the dying businesses on the islands, and now he's huge! I'll bet his biggest business is probably that old printing shop down in Little Haiti. Yeah. That's it! You want him, you could go there and check it out," he said without taking a breath. "Now put me down, please."
Paul knew all of what he had said was not entirely true, at least not in his mind. The way he saw it, he had started Vercetti out in Vice City. Vercetti owed him a lot, but he didn't think Vercetti recognized that. Well, at least he hadn't seen it fit to kill Paul off, and he still let him hang around in the Malibu Club all the time, so Paul supposed it wasn't so bad.
Ford put Paul down, smiling that false smile again, showing his teeth. "Thank you," he said. The he turned on his heel and practically marched out the door with Creed in tow. Creed paused to close to the door, shooting a suspicious glance at the band members "hiding" their drugs for a moment before following Ford out of the building.
Paul dusted himself off. "Yeah, that's right, get out of here before I cause you more trouble than you can handle," he muttered to himself angrily. Then something very alarming hit him. "Oh shit, if Tommy finds that I ratted him out I'm a dead man! He'll kill me without even looking back! He'll walk in my blood!" His eyes grew very large in horror as he imagined his own death.
Jezz walked out of the booth, picking up Paul's bottle of vodka and taking a long swig. "Good luck with that, Paul old buddy. I'm glad I'm not the one Tommy's going to be mad at," he chuckled. The other band members nodded their agreement, their faces painted with comically huge smiles.
Outside, Creed and Ford climbed into their black bureau car. Creed started the engine as Ford buckled his seat belt and pulled his door closed. He situated himself in the seat and turned around to monitor his blind spots as he backed up and them moved forward again to escape from where he had parallel parked outside the recording studio. "Well," he commented sarcastically, "that went well."
Ford shrugged. "Hey, we got the information didn't we? It's no skin off my nose if Kent Paul pisses his pants. Man, that guy reeked of booze. How can he a guy so little drink so much?" He peered out the window, watching the car behind them to make sure Creed wasn't doing to make more problems for them to deal with. Creed pulled out onto the street without hitting anything. "Let's just go to Little Haiti," Ford said. "Maybe we can pick up some tracks there, if God wills."
*****************************
The print shop Kent Paul had spoken about happened to be Print Works, a huge warehouse situated in such a way that it was easy to pass it without noticing. Creed did so. When Ford pointed it out, he grumbled something and turned the car around. They pulled into the large, empty parking lot outside the shop and Creed turned off the car. It must have been his law enforcer's instincts, because he parked the car perfectly in between two of the white lines in the lot, because it didn't really matter. There were not other cars in the place anyway. He could have parked backwards and diagonal if he had wanted to.
The two agents got out the car, straightening their jackets and closing their doors all in the same fluid movement. Ford pulled at the knot in his tie for a moment, looking around the abandoned lot. Creed shielded his eyes with his hand and looked against the sun at a sign that was protruding out of the building's roof. It was a huge rectangle piece of sheet metal that said "Print Works" on it, only the "Print" in the name had been crossed out with red spray paint and replaced with "Vercetti." Well, wasn't that just a kick in the teeth. Ford wondered how America's wonderful legal system had missed Vercetti's presence here of all other places in the world. Creed shoved his hands into his pockets and followed Ford has he walked forward, pulling the blue metal door that allowed entrance into the building. The shop, though it looked like it was various different rooms from the outside, was actually one big room full of fax machines, printing presses, copiers, and stacks upon stacks up stacks of paper. Upon their arrival inside, the door swung shut behind them with a loud bang. Ford sucked in a deep breath, for reason unknown, suddenly worried that someone would hear them. Not that they didn't want someone to hear them, but oh well.
A man looked up from what he was doing as they came in, his eyes narrowing. He made his way around on of the monstrous, cumbersome piles of paper and straightened his brown vest. "Can I help you fellas," he asked, grabbing a rag off the top of one of the copiers as he moved. He wiped his hands on it, however, it was strange to think that it could have cleaned his hands in any way due to the fact that it was blotted generously with black ink. He tossed it aside.
"Nice establishment you have here," Creed commented, but he didn't look around. He and Ford showed the man their badges in that way they had of doing so precisely together. The man raised an eyebrow. Then they put the identifications wallets back into their pockets.
"We need to ask you some questions, ah, Mister," Ford trailed off, once again prompting someone to complete his sentence with his or her name. Unlike Creed, Ford took the time to look around the shop, noticing that several of the printing presses were running green paper that look suspiciously like money.
The print shop employee (it looked as if he was the only one) looked at them, eying them up and down dubiously. He noticed Ford looking at the printing presses, but he said nothing and made no move to block the view of them in any way. That would make him look rather suspicious, wouldn't it?
"Kelly," he said, "Simon T. Look, I know my rights, and you can't just walk up in here and start spouting off questions for me to answer without some kind of probable cause." The words were started bitterly as he looked at them from under a green visor and from behind triple thick glasses. He tugged at his vest again.
"Ah, but we do have reason, Mister Kelly," Creed assured him with a cold grin. "We are here following a lead as to the whereabouts of a wanted killer known as Thomas J. Vercetti."
Kelly smiled back at Creed, equally as coldly. Of course he knew Vercetti. After all, he was the man that owned this place. He had come in some time ago, smiling a little whimsically as he surveyed the printing machines. He had told Kelly about his father and had asked about maybe printing a magazine or something. Kelly had suggested something a little more profitable, hence the green papers on the machines now. Vercetti had gathered up all they had needed and the business began. It was running well now. Kelly admired Vercetti to an infinite extent. He didn't, of course, tell Creed and Ford about that.
"Vercetti, huh," he said pretending to think about it. "I know of him, but I don't know him personally."
Creed moved his hand up into the air, motioning toward the roof of the establishment. "Your sign says 'Vercetti' works," he pointed out placidly.
"So? That don't mean nothing, Mister FBI. Just because the sign says something doesn't mean I know everything all of a sudden. If you hadn't noticed, the sign isn't exactly professionally etched. We have a lot of vandals around here," Kelly countered coolly.
"Thomas Vercetti ain't no vandal!," Ford said forcefully, and a little too loudly. His concept of grammar also seemed to fly out the window. "He's wanted for drug trafficking, weapon possession, property damage, grand theft auto, and bank robbery, not to mention the hundred and fifty accounts of indirect and direct murder with malicious intent that are tacked onto his name." Kelly didn't even blink. He continued to gaze at the agents calmly. "Are you sure you should be telling me that? I mean, that seems like something that should say within your little bureau circle. I don't even know the guy, and all that information is pretty personal. It has nothing to do with me," he said.
"You said that you didn't know him 'personally'," Creed said, finding another hole in Kelly's story.
"Yeah, I did," Kelly replied. "But everyone knows who Tommy 'the Butcher' Vercetti is. At least they do around here, because if they don't, they're in for some real trouble when he comes walking down their streets in the middle of the night. People should always be aware of the dangers life presents them with."
Ford was about to say something when Kelly began to pull away and walk the other direction, picking up a hefty stack of paper as he headed toward the office at the very back of the compound. "Now," he said. "If you boys will excuse me, I have work to do."
"We need to get this guy off the streets, Mister Kelly," Ford stated.
Kelly shrugged. "Sounds like a personal problem to me."
Creed cleared his throat. "We know all about Vercetti owning this complex, Mister Kelly, or are you going to tell me that you've worked here for as long as you have, but you have never met him? Come now, we know that you're lying."
This time, Kelly stopped short and he looked down.
"So talk to us, Mister Kelly, please," Ford said with a wan smile.
***************************
Vincent Vercetti was bored. He was sitting on the couch next to Mercedes in front of the television in the back room of the Malibu Club, shuffling and reshuffling a deck of cards. Half the deck was spread out in front of him in a slightly chaotic game of solitaire. The other half flipped between his hands expertly, never once falling to the ground. Vince's mind was not on the cards though; it was far away on a distant plane, thinking and working for itself. On the television screen, a politician babbled about taxes and the country's revenue. No one was listening.
Vercetti, Lance, and Rosenberg sat around the card table, examining their respective hands of five cards. The jackpot in the center of the table had reached nearly a thousand dollars, making the stakes on the game extremely high. Rosenberg wiped sweat away from his brow, glancing nervously at his wallet, which was now strangely empty. Vercetti was hunched over the edge of the table, looking at his cards seriously, as if he expected them to jump out of his hands and dance around on the table.
Suddenly, a phone rang. Vercetti started as the shrill ring shattered the tense silence like beautiful pieces of iridescent glass. Lance looked at Vercetti, as did Rosenberg, Maria, and Mercedes. The only one who didn't seem at all phased was Vince, who continued to stare off into space, the cards flashing between his hands quickly. The phone rang again, sounding impatient. Vercetti dropped his cards down onto the table face down and moved so that he could access his front pocket. He fished around for a moment before pulling his cell phone out right as it rang again. He turned it on and put it up to his ear.
"Speak," he said tersely. He didn't much like phones. He thought they were impersonal and trivial, but at least they made it so he didn't have to run around like a buffoon trying to meet everyone he had to face-to-face. That would be a pain, considering Vercetti had many important acquaintances. Plus, if he didn't have his phone, how would have met Lance in the alley where he beat up that chef to get it in the first place? No doubt Lance would have found him somehow in some other way, but Vercetti liked to think that meeting Lance there helped him launch part of his career in Vice City. He wasn't sure how, but then again, he never did.
"Tommy! It's me Paulo. Tom! Thank God you're still alive," Kent Paul's voice screeched out of the earpiece, forcing Vercetti to pull the device away from his ear to avoid the immediate risk of going deaf. He made a face and rubbed at his ear, annoyed. He cautiously put the phone back to where he could hear the speaker.
"What the hell are you talking about, Paul? Of course I'm alive. Why wouldn't I be," he asked, making sure to incorporate the annoyance he felt into his voice so that Paul would be sure to hear it. Vercetti didn't like to be yelled at. He preferred speaking in normal tones. There was no point to screaming if the point could be conveyed without the risk of one loosing one's voice. He had to admit, however, that when he found himself losing his temper, he often raised his voice, but at least he didn't start straining his vocal chords when he became frantic. Kent Paul was obviously very panicked.
"The Feds, Tom, you didn't hear? They stopped by here a little while ago looking for you, and I tried to tell them that I didn't know what they were talking about, but they grabbed me and I --"
Vercetti raised one eyebrow, his countenance suddenly becoming slightly annoyed. "Paul, you didn't tell them where they could find me, did you," he asked in a carefully flat tone. He didn't want Paul to know that he was angry just yet, but oh was he ever. He clenched one fist and rapped on the edge of the table with his knuckles impatiently, listening to Paul's labored breathing on the other side of the line.
"Well you see Tom, the thing with that was --"
Vercetti cut him off by slamming the phone against the table with all the strength he could muster. He wasn't interested in hearing any more of Paul's story. That was entirely too time consuming. He was content to simply assume things and get things over with as quickly as possible. The phone, needless to say, disconnected after Vercetti's little bout of violence, and he looked at it for a moment before slipping it back into his pocket.
He looked up to find everyone in the room staring at him, even Vince, who had snapped back into reality sometime between Vercetti answering the phone and Vercetti pounding the phone against the table. Vercetti chuckled sheepishly, releasing a long-winded sigh. Everyone continued to stare at him, waiting for an explanation for his sudden outburst. He waved his hand in the air.
"I think we have to move base now," he said. "I know a music buff with a big mouth."
Vince went back to staring blankly off into space, the cards slipping from his hand and scattering onto the floor. Mercedes looked at him for a moment before sighing and bending down to pick all the stray cards back up. Vince didn't take notice to her.
The phone rang again and Vercetti raised his eyes skyward in annoyance before pulling the phone back out of his pocket and switching it on. "Paul, if this is you again, I swear to God, oh, Simon. What's up?"
"They came by Print Works here, Tommy. I'm sure you can guess who I'm talking about; you're a smart kid. Look, I sent them over to you boatyard in the harbor. I'm sure those two boys over there will make them question heads and tails on the coin, but we can't keep them running around in circles forever, you know what I mean? Something needs to be done," Kelly's voice informed him.
Vercetti's anger built up again. "Yeah, I understand, Simon. Thank you. I have it under control. I'll talk to you later," he said as calmly as he could through tightly gritted teeth. He knew the FBI agents that had been chasing them around since the night on the bridge were not idiots, not by a long shot. They would find the Malibu Club eventually, and when they did, Vercetti wanted to be long gone. He hung up the phone, not waiting for Kelly to finish speaking. He pushed the phone back into this pocket and rested his head on his elbow, trying to think. Sooner or later, the government would know about all of the Vercetti assets, and that was liable to put Vercetti into deep bankruptcy. His businesses would be ruined if his patrons found out that the Feds were on his ass. He sighed, rubbing at his sinuses.
"We shouldn't run away from this anymore. This will get too big if we do," he grumbled. "I think it's time we take some action, you know? The 'good guys' have had the offensive thus far into the game, and I think it's time we took a few potshots back. It's time to switch sides. I'm tired of this."
"Well, what do you suggest," asked Lance, who was still sitting across the table with his five cards fanned out in front of him. He wore a grin that rivaled that of the Cheshire Cat, so it was obvious that he felt he had a winning hand. That was big accomplishment, because since Vercetti had entered the game, Rosenberg and Lance hadn't even stood a chance.
Vercetti thought for a moment, perusing Lance's features carefully, looking for anything that would call a bluff. "I'm not sure just yet, but I'm sure I'll think of something," he said. He picked up his cards again, shot a glance at Lance once more before opening his wallet and taking out two crisp bills. "I see your two-hundred from before me entourage of phone calls, and I raise you four thousand. He threw a thick roll of money into the center. Rosenberg's eyes grew very wide.
"I fold," he stammered immediately. He wasn't about to deal with money like that.
Lance scoffed. "Wuss," he muttered. He met the four thousand and called, perfectly sure that he was going to beat whatever Vercetti had in his hand with what he had in his. After all, that's what happened in the movies, wasn't it?
"All right, let's see them," Vercetti said.
Lance spread his cards out on the table quickly, smirking proudly. "Full house with Jacks and Queens, Tommy. Read them and weep."
Vercetti sniffed. "Boo-hoo," he said flatly. "Little lesson in poker Lance. Never get into too much of a hurry. Take your time, and never let anyone rush you," he began to place his cards face up in front of him one at a time, making sure to go slowly to convey his point. "And never, ever show all your cards at once." The fifth card was at last shown, and Vercetti leaned over the table to collect the cash. "Straight flush." He grinned.
"Goddamn it," Lance exclaimed, jumping up out of his chair in utter shock. "How the hell did you do that? What, is it written in Vercetti family scripture that you people always have to win?"
"Could be," Vercetti said with a nonchalant shrug. "Anyway, Lance, I've figured out what we're going to do. It's time to go."