"Uh, hello? Is anyone here?" Creed ducked under a speed boat that was
hanging lowly from one of the parallel metal bars that ran just under the
wooden roof of the Vercetti owned boatyard, Folded Tactics. He gently ran a
hand along its hull. The tiny boat yard was really not much to look at. It
was just a small building, open in the back so that the sea breeze always
wafted through it, surrounded by wire grated fences. It sat at the edge of
the Vice City Docks, diminutive, inconspicuous and easy to pass up.
Ford moved along the inside way, inspecting all the different things pinned on the walls as he made his way to the large back door. He paused for a moment to inspect the engine of the hanging boat before walking outside. He narrowed his eyes. No boats rested in the lapping water there so he turned around back toward the building and squinted against the sun. He was beginning to get the feeling that he and Creed were being sent all over Vice City on a wild goose chase, but at least with the information about Vercetti coming out in this manner, they had the chance to see what Vercetti was doing in the city, where he had been, and what kinds of things he was gaining money from. Not to mention what he was spending money on in the first place. It certainly explained why he was such a big gun in the city.
A rustling above him caught Creed attention and he walked out from under the boat in order to look at the side of it. He turned around in time to see two teenage boys appear over the edge of the vehicle. Neither of them had let go of his seventeen year, that much was apparent. They were both similar in appearance, sporting brown hair and brown eyes. They also looked a little out of line. They were obviously not on the same plane of consciousness as the agents were. Creed ran a hand through his own sandy blond hair and raised an eyebrow.
Ford joined him inside just he said, "Um, hello." How intelligent, do you start conversations often, Mister Creed? He shook his head, a slight frown creasing his face. He decided to make up for his lack of intellectual dialogue before Ford thought he was incompetent. "Do you run this establishment?"
"No," one of the teens said with a drunken smile. "Jayson and me just hang around here, and sometimes, the dude lets us work on the boats and stuff. It's pretty cool. A lot cooler than school, you know?" His eyebrows jumped up and down and he suddenly looked very amused. "Boats."
The one named Jayson shoved his friend, who was now laughing hysterically for some unknown reason, and he fell sideways into the boat, out of sight. Creed frowned. What in the world was going on? These certainly didn't look like the type of employees a top notch gangster would get to work in one of this asset buildings. Assets were extremely important, and these boys didn't even look like they knew how to buckle their belts correctly. What possible value could Vercetti have seen in them?
Jayson leaned over the side of the boat, nearly toppling out of it. "Are you dudes looking for someone?"
"We're looking for the man who owns this place," Ford said, clearly irritated. What an idiot, couldn't this guy have gotten stoned on his own time? Did he really have go out and smoke that shit when Ford had so many important questions that need to be answered? Ford blinked at the absurdity of the thought.
"Hey," Jayson said, looking pensive. Well, as pensive as a boy in his line of mind could be without hurting himself. "Barry, has the dude been around lately?" He looked behind him into the open area of the speed boat, his eyes focusing and blearing at his friend who was still unseen to the agents.
Barry reappeared, leaning against the edge of the boat. "Yeah, probably, but I won't really know. He's probably out doing some of that business he always says he has to do. I mean, a guy like that is always pretty busy," he slurred. He rubbed the back of his head and his eyes went out of focus for a moment.
Creed raised an eyebrow. He wasn't sure that he and Ford were going to be able to extract any useful information from these two teens at all. They didn't look like they currently knew where they were themselves. How could they possibly know where Vercetti was? Creed and Ford didn't even know where the guy was, and they liked to think of themselves as particularly competent. "Thomas Vercetti owns this boat yard, does he not?"
"Who," Jayson wanted to know, looking at the agents for what seemed like the first time. Christ, thought Ford, these people have the attention spans of white flies. He rolled his eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh. Barry smiled again.
"Who," he echoed. Jayson looked at him for a long moment before chuckling a little, mindlessly.
"Dude," he observed. "I just said that."
"Goddamnit," Ford exploded suddenly. He had had enough of this nonsense. "We're looking for the man who owns this stupid, good-for-nothing boat yard. The one you both happen to be sitting in right at this very moment. Do you understand?"
"Oh," Barry said. He appeared to think about it. Suddenly his face brightened. "You mean 'Suit Man'," he exclaimed, clearly very excited. He was so excited in fact, that he lost what little balance he had and toppled over backwards into the lofted speed boat again.
"What," Creed inquired. "Did you just say 'Suit Man'?" What was this? Some kind of joke? Please God, Creed thought, don't tell me Vercetti is wandering around the city calling himself "Suit Man" like he's some kind of deranged and opposite super hero. He was obviously not in the business of saving people. Proof of that had been mopped up from outside his mansion on Starfish Island. There were going to be quite a few funerals this weekend.
"This dude," Jayson explained, holding his hands out in front of him like a picture frame, "comes in here to buy the old place wearing, get this, a pinstripe suit. It was real fashion statement like." He smiled and chuckled a little, amused by the anecdote. Ford merely raised his eyebrows.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Yeah," Barry said from his unseen perch, speaking as if he hadn't heard Ford speak at all. "He was a really nice guy. He's funny, likes to joke around and stuff." Creed nearly choked. Vercetti? Nice? That name and that word did not belong in the same document. What kind of drugs had these teenagers been taking? Were they delusional to the point that they didn't really know who they were talking about?
"Do you know where I could find this 'Suit Man'," Ford asked through carefully clenched teeth. Creed could tell that he was more than a little peeved at the whole idea of Vercetti being nice, but he was glad to see that his partner was able to keep his explosive temper in check. Sort of.
"You could try looking at the strip club down in Ocean Beach on the other island," Jayson replied with his voice heavy with sarcasm. Apparently, he was under the impression that everyone knew about Vercetti's involvement in some obscure strip club nestled far, far away. He sat back in the boat, leaning on the opposite side with his arms folded across his chest. His brown eyes hazed over again.
"Yeah, we get calls here all the time from that place. They're always looking for him. 'Suit Man' I mean. He's probably a good customer there or something, or maybe he owns that place too. Who knows. That's all I know about him anyway. He's kind of shady like that. He reminds me of some guy from the movie Reservoir Dogs or something. You ever see that flick? Man, Mister Pink is the shit," Barry said with a wide smile.
"I wish I were old enough to go to a strip club," Jayson muttered sotto voce.
"Um, yes, well that's nice. Thank you for you assistance," Creed said, inching away from the boat toward the exit. "We'll be going now. You take care of yourselves, all right?"
"Bye," Barry and Jayson cried in unison.
"Give 'Suit Man' my greetings when you see him, dude," Barry added rather too loudly.
"Yeah," Ford murmured as he followed Creed out the back door of the building. "I'll give him a greeting, right in his fucking face with a shotgun."
*************************
"Hey Junior, wait up a second."
Vince turned around to face his brother as the ragtag little group of anarchists exited through the back door of the Malibu Club. He impatiently shifted the weight of the shotgun he held from one shoulder to the other. He was in no mood to speak with Vercetti (not that he ever was), and he hoped whatever it was that Vercetti wanted would be vocalized tersely. All he really wanted to do was get this whole thing over with and go back to New York where it was safe for a guy like him. In Liberty City there weren't cops on his ass all the time.
Vercetti caught up with Vince, and they began walking again. Vince kept his gaze straight ahead as his brother shuffled along beside him. "All right Vince," Vercetti said, his eyes downcast. "I need to know you're with me on this. I can't afford to have you jumping back and forth across the line here. This is extremely important."
Vince shrugged, still not looking at him.
"That's not helping, kid. Please give me a straight answer. Tell me that you aren't going to turn around and stab me in the back." Vercetti knew Vince wasn't really one to commit to things. He wouldn't give it to you straight unless he really had to. He didn't like to sugarcoat things, and he didn't mess around with your head. He knew his intentions as clear as day and if you didn't, well, that's something you would have to deal with on your own time. All Vercetti wanted was to know those intentions so he could plan his day.
Vince sighed, looking at Vercetti through narrowed eyes. All right, he thought, what else am I going to do this week? Might as well give him the reassurance he needs. He nodded and took Vercetti's offered hand into a brief but firm handshake. Vercetti broke into a broad smile.
"Good, that's really good. Okay, let's go." He moved off to the car, a van with a large back cargo area. Lance appeared behind Vince as he watched Vercetti walk away. He was in the middle of wondering why Vercetti was wearing such an odd shirt when Lance tapped him on the shoulder. Vince looked at him.
"Did Tommy just call you 'Junior'?" Lance was smiling so wide that the expression looked as if it might split his entire face asunder. Vince blinked. He hadn't thought it was possible to smile so widely. He rolled eyes at the ploy to make fun of him and moved his shotgun from its position on his shoulder to down in front of him, his right hand on the hilt and trigger, his left catching the slide and racking it.
Lance's eyes widened, and his strange smile faded. He held up his hands. Staring down the barrel of a killer's shotgun was not exactly a place he wanted to be. "Okay, okay man, take it easy. My mouth is shut. How about lowering the fucking widow maker," he asked. "You're so damn touchy." He moved past Vince toward the van, muttering to himself.
Vince shook his head and put the gun back into position on his shoulder. He followed Lance to the back of the van and climbed inside as Maria held the door ajar for him. He nodded to her and sat down next to Rosenberg. Maria situated herself on his other side. Vercetti finished talking in a hushed voice to Mercedes and joined them. Vince gave Lance, who was seated on the other side of the cargo area, a sly look and reached into his jacket pocket. He produced two shotgun pellets and commenced loading his weapon, which was lying across his knees.
Lance started at him for a long moment. Suddenly his visage changed, and he leaned forward, annoyance flashing across his eyes. "You mean you were waving that stupid thing at me, and it wasn't even loaded? That's really mean, man. I mean, what the hell?"
Vince chuckled and nodded. He looked up as he locked the chamber back into place, his eyes shimmering with wild amusement. He made the shape of the gun with his fingers and pretended to shoot Lance. He shook his head again and turned his attention back to the gun, making sure it was ready to be used.
Wow, thought Rosenberg, the guy actually does have a sense of humor. That's the first time Tommy's little brother has actually shown that he's human, after all, everyone likes to make fun of Lance. Well, the first time if you don't count him becoming more-than-a-little outraged when Vercetti told him not to become a traitor anyway.
Maria looked at Lance. "I thought you were a hardcore gangster and you're out there stuttering for your life when the silent killer comes to claim your life. I thought you were better than that. Especially since Vince knows that he can't shoot you without getting shot himself. If you hadn't noticed, you're Tommy's friend, and shooting you would make Vince a traitor. Vince is not a traitor."
Lance frowned. "Well, then let him point that big ass mother fucker of a gun at you then and see how you like it," he retorted bitterly. Vince looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. It was clear he hadn't appreciated Lance's tone, but as expected, he said nothing. Lance crossed his arms and sat back against the wall against the wall of the van. "And anyway---"
"Everyone shut up and listen to me," Vercetti interrupted, pulling the van's back doors shut after a suspicious visual sweep of the general area. He turned around in the cramped cargo region to face them. He was crouched down against the doors, and he braced himself as Mercedes got into the driver's seat and started the engine. She swung the car out onto the street. "To pull this off we're all going to have to work together. Everyone is going to have a specified part to play in this, and no one can stray from the part they receive. Do you all understand? The FBI agent we're going to be encountering aren't stupid, well, maybe that one who cannot hold his temper is, but the other isn't. We have to assume that they'll both be able to see past all the cover stuff we'll have going on. The game will be like a puzzle. Every piece has to interlock. Got it?"
"Tommy," Rosenberg piped up, his eyebrows knitted together, and his hands continually wringing themselves out. "I know you explained this to me all ready back at the club, but I'm still not sure I know what it is that I am supposed to be doing."
Vercetti sighed, mildly annoyed. "Look Ken, we've been over this before, three times. All you have to for this sit in that chair behind the desk up in the club's office and pretend you have no fear of the Feds for a little while. I swear that's all you have to do. There's nothing more, nothing hidden, nothing unrevealed."
"But I am scared, Tommy. Don't you see? I'm terrified," Rosenberg exclaimed. He took hold of the collar of Vercetti's shirt for a moment in a desperate attempt to make him understand. He immediately let go when he realized what he was doing. Vercetti raised an eyebrow at him. He pulled at his shirt to straighten it out and cleared his throat.
"I understand that Ken. I know. That's precisely why I said you had to 'pretend' that you have no fear of the Feds. After all, what are they going to do, kill you?" Vercetti ran a weary hand through his brown hair. This was almost routine. Rosenberg really needed to be on medication for his chronic anxiety. It was beginning to bite at Vercetti's nerves. He wasn't a psychiatrist, why was it his job to calm Rosenberg down? It wasn't. So why was he always doing it?
"What if they arrest me?"
Vince rolled his eyes heavenward. He raised his hands and pretended to choke himself, strangling himself with the collar of his leather jacket. He dropped the act with a sigh and looked at Lance as if to say "to hell with you" and made the gun with his hand again, mock shooting Rosenberg between the eyes. Maria and Lance shared the laugh, and Vince went back to inspecting his gun.
Rosenberg, on the other hand, looked horribly offended. "Hey, just because you're mister scary psychotic killer man who's not afraid of anything doesn't mean that I am. I happen to be relatively normal. I'm scared to death over here. I'm scared of death over here!"
Vince chuckled soundlessly and shook his head.
"Gee," Maria said flatly. "I would have never guessed you were scared."
"Normal is all in perspective," Lance muttered. Rosenberg shot him a dirty look. Lance ignored it and started to laugh good-naturedly, finding the concept of Rosenberg, of all people, being normal quite hilarious. Vercetti, however, was less than amused. He caught himself against the left wall as Mercedes threw the van around a hard right turn.
"Are you people finished? This is important," he informed them solidly. They were nearing the Vercetti owned Pole Position strip club now, and the plan for this whole ordeal had not yet been formally laid out. True, Vercetti had told everyone what roles they were supposed to be carrying out back when they were still in the Malibu Club, but he was one to make sure that ideas for such an important project were retained securely in the minds of those participating. "Listen Ken, all you have to is keep those prick agents up in the office long enough for me and the others to set up downstairs, understand?"
"How do I do that," Rosenberg demanded.
"Talk to them," Vercetti answered without hesitation. He clapped the fidgeting lawyer on the shoulder in a brotherly sort of way and smiled. "Don't worry. You'll be just fine. It'll be over before you know it."
"Yeah," Rosenberg said gloomily. "I'll be dead. Dead and gone from this world like so many others."
Mercedes pulled the van into the tiny, square patch of asphalt that served as the Pole Position's back parking lot and shut off the engine. She turned around in her seat to look at her passengers between the two closely set front seats. "Ready?"
"Set," Lance responded, checking to see if all the straps on his Kevlar bulletproof vest were securely in place. Then he reached into his pocket and found his 9-millimeter Uzi. He was ready.
"Go," Vercetti said quietly. He popped the back doors of the van ajar. "And be careful damn it."
They went. The clamored out of the van one by one and stood together in a small knot in the center of the parking lot. Mercedes joined them from the front seat. Vince tapped the hilt of his shotgun and spun on his heel, walking away from them, getting ready to get into position.
"Everyone understand what's going to happen here," Vercetti asked, looking for final verification.
The others nodded and they branched off to go in their separate directions. It was time for the games to begin. There was no such thing as time outs in this game, so each of them could only pray that one wasn't needed. Dangerous type of Olympics this was. Only professionals were to walk through the doors to that strip club now. Vercetti hoped the group of people he had with him were up to the challenge. ----------------------------------------------
Hi, I'm sorry not much happened in this chapter, but I felt it important to update before people forgot about me. I'm paranoid like that. Anyway, something maybe a little interesting will happen in the next installment, so stay tuned if you wish. As always, constructive criticism is welcome, and thank you to all my reviewers, especially Tiffany, who seems to be with me all the way through so far. Your support is greatly appreciated.
-Maverick Point
Ford moved along the inside way, inspecting all the different things pinned on the walls as he made his way to the large back door. He paused for a moment to inspect the engine of the hanging boat before walking outside. He narrowed his eyes. No boats rested in the lapping water there so he turned around back toward the building and squinted against the sun. He was beginning to get the feeling that he and Creed were being sent all over Vice City on a wild goose chase, but at least with the information about Vercetti coming out in this manner, they had the chance to see what Vercetti was doing in the city, where he had been, and what kinds of things he was gaining money from. Not to mention what he was spending money on in the first place. It certainly explained why he was such a big gun in the city.
A rustling above him caught Creed attention and he walked out from under the boat in order to look at the side of it. He turned around in time to see two teenage boys appear over the edge of the vehicle. Neither of them had let go of his seventeen year, that much was apparent. They were both similar in appearance, sporting brown hair and brown eyes. They also looked a little out of line. They were obviously not on the same plane of consciousness as the agents were. Creed ran a hand through his own sandy blond hair and raised an eyebrow.
Ford joined him inside just he said, "Um, hello." How intelligent, do you start conversations often, Mister Creed? He shook his head, a slight frown creasing his face. He decided to make up for his lack of intellectual dialogue before Ford thought he was incompetent. "Do you run this establishment?"
"No," one of the teens said with a drunken smile. "Jayson and me just hang around here, and sometimes, the dude lets us work on the boats and stuff. It's pretty cool. A lot cooler than school, you know?" His eyebrows jumped up and down and he suddenly looked very amused. "Boats."
The one named Jayson shoved his friend, who was now laughing hysterically for some unknown reason, and he fell sideways into the boat, out of sight. Creed frowned. What in the world was going on? These certainly didn't look like the type of employees a top notch gangster would get to work in one of this asset buildings. Assets were extremely important, and these boys didn't even look like they knew how to buckle their belts correctly. What possible value could Vercetti have seen in them?
Jayson leaned over the side of the boat, nearly toppling out of it. "Are you dudes looking for someone?"
"We're looking for the man who owns this place," Ford said, clearly irritated. What an idiot, couldn't this guy have gotten stoned on his own time? Did he really have go out and smoke that shit when Ford had so many important questions that need to be answered? Ford blinked at the absurdity of the thought.
"Hey," Jayson said, looking pensive. Well, as pensive as a boy in his line of mind could be without hurting himself. "Barry, has the dude been around lately?" He looked behind him into the open area of the speed boat, his eyes focusing and blearing at his friend who was still unseen to the agents.
Barry reappeared, leaning against the edge of the boat. "Yeah, probably, but I won't really know. He's probably out doing some of that business he always says he has to do. I mean, a guy like that is always pretty busy," he slurred. He rubbed the back of his head and his eyes went out of focus for a moment.
Creed raised an eyebrow. He wasn't sure that he and Ford were going to be able to extract any useful information from these two teens at all. They didn't look like they currently knew where they were themselves. How could they possibly know where Vercetti was? Creed and Ford didn't even know where the guy was, and they liked to think of themselves as particularly competent. "Thomas Vercetti owns this boat yard, does he not?"
"Who," Jayson wanted to know, looking at the agents for what seemed like the first time. Christ, thought Ford, these people have the attention spans of white flies. He rolled his eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh. Barry smiled again.
"Who," he echoed. Jayson looked at him for a long moment before chuckling a little, mindlessly.
"Dude," he observed. "I just said that."
"Goddamnit," Ford exploded suddenly. He had had enough of this nonsense. "We're looking for the man who owns this stupid, good-for-nothing boat yard. The one you both happen to be sitting in right at this very moment. Do you understand?"
"Oh," Barry said. He appeared to think about it. Suddenly his face brightened. "You mean 'Suit Man'," he exclaimed, clearly very excited. He was so excited in fact, that he lost what little balance he had and toppled over backwards into the lofted speed boat again.
"What," Creed inquired. "Did you just say 'Suit Man'?" What was this? Some kind of joke? Please God, Creed thought, don't tell me Vercetti is wandering around the city calling himself "Suit Man" like he's some kind of deranged and opposite super hero. He was obviously not in the business of saving people. Proof of that had been mopped up from outside his mansion on Starfish Island. There were going to be quite a few funerals this weekend.
"This dude," Jayson explained, holding his hands out in front of him like a picture frame, "comes in here to buy the old place wearing, get this, a pinstripe suit. It was real fashion statement like." He smiled and chuckled a little, amused by the anecdote. Ford merely raised his eyebrows.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Yeah," Barry said from his unseen perch, speaking as if he hadn't heard Ford speak at all. "He was a really nice guy. He's funny, likes to joke around and stuff." Creed nearly choked. Vercetti? Nice? That name and that word did not belong in the same document. What kind of drugs had these teenagers been taking? Were they delusional to the point that they didn't really know who they were talking about?
"Do you know where I could find this 'Suit Man'," Ford asked through carefully clenched teeth. Creed could tell that he was more than a little peeved at the whole idea of Vercetti being nice, but he was glad to see that his partner was able to keep his explosive temper in check. Sort of.
"You could try looking at the strip club down in Ocean Beach on the other island," Jayson replied with his voice heavy with sarcasm. Apparently, he was under the impression that everyone knew about Vercetti's involvement in some obscure strip club nestled far, far away. He sat back in the boat, leaning on the opposite side with his arms folded across his chest. His brown eyes hazed over again.
"Yeah, we get calls here all the time from that place. They're always looking for him. 'Suit Man' I mean. He's probably a good customer there or something, or maybe he owns that place too. Who knows. That's all I know about him anyway. He's kind of shady like that. He reminds me of some guy from the movie Reservoir Dogs or something. You ever see that flick? Man, Mister Pink is the shit," Barry said with a wide smile.
"I wish I were old enough to go to a strip club," Jayson muttered sotto voce.
"Um, yes, well that's nice. Thank you for you assistance," Creed said, inching away from the boat toward the exit. "We'll be going now. You take care of yourselves, all right?"
"Bye," Barry and Jayson cried in unison.
"Give 'Suit Man' my greetings when you see him, dude," Barry added rather too loudly.
"Yeah," Ford murmured as he followed Creed out the back door of the building. "I'll give him a greeting, right in his fucking face with a shotgun."
*************************
"Hey Junior, wait up a second."
Vince turned around to face his brother as the ragtag little group of anarchists exited through the back door of the Malibu Club. He impatiently shifted the weight of the shotgun he held from one shoulder to the other. He was in no mood to speak with Vercetti (not that he ever was), and he hoped whatever it was that Vercetti wanted would be vocalized tersely. All he really wanted to do was get this whole thing over with and go back to New York where it was safe for a guy like him. In Liberty City there weren't cops on his ass all the time.
Vercetti caught up with Vince, and they began walking again. Vince kept his gaze straight ahead as his brother shuffled along beside him. "All right Vince," Vercetti said, his eyes downcast. "I need to know you're with me on this. I can't afford to have you jumping back and forth across the line here. This is extremely important."
Vince shrugged, still not looking at him.
"That's not helping, kid. Please give me a straight answer. Tell me that you aren't going to turn around and stab me in the back." Vercetti knew Vince wasn't really one to commit to things. He wouldn't give it to you straight unless he really had to. He didn't like to sugarcoat things, and he didn't mess around with your head. He knew his intentions as clear as day and if you didn't, well, that's something you would have to deal with on your own time. All Vercetti wanted was to know those intentions so he could plan his day.
Vince sighed, looking at Vercetti through narrowed eyes. All right, he thought, what else am I going to do this week? Might as well give him the reassurance he needs. He nodded and took Vercetti's offered hand into a brief but firm handshake. Vercetti broke into a broad smile.
"Good, that's really good. Okay, let's go." He moved off to the car, a van with a large back cargo area. Lance appeared behind Vince as he watched Vercetti walk away. He was in the middle of wondering why Vercetti was wearing such an odd shirt when Lance tapped him on the shoulder. Vince looked at him.
"Did Tommy just call you 'Junior'?" Lance was smiling so wide that the expression looked as if it might split his entire face asunder. Vince blinked. He hadn't thought it was possible to smile so widely. He rolled eyes at the ploy to make fun of him and moved his shotgun from its position on his shoulder to down in front of him, his right hand on the hilt and trigger, his left catching the slide and racking it.
Lance's eyes widened, and his strange smile faded. He held up his hands. Staring down the barrel of a killer's shotgun was not exactly a place he wanted to be. "Okay, okay man, take it easy. My mouth is shut. How about lowering the fucking widow maker," he asked. "You're so damn touchy." He moved past Vince toward the van, muttering to himself.
Vince shook his head and put the gun back into position on his shoulder. He followed Lance to the back of the van and climbed inside as Maria held the door ajar for him. He nodded to her and sat down next to Rosenberg. Maria situated herself on his other side. Vercetti finished talking in a hushed voice to Mercedes and joined them. Vince gave Lance, who was seated on the other side of the cargo area, a sly look and reached into his jacket pocket. He produced two shotgun pellets and commenced loading his weapon, which was lying across his knees.
Lance started at him for a long moment. Suddenly his visage changed, and he leaned forward, annoyance flashing across his eyes. "You mean you were waving that stupid thing at me, and it wasn't even loaded? That's really mean, man. I mean, what the hell?"
Vince chuckled and nodded. He looked up as he locked the chamber back into place, his eyes shimmering with wild amusement. He made the shape of the gun with his fingers and pretended to shoot Lance. He shook his head again and turned his attention back to the gun, making sure it was ready to be used.
Wow, thought Rosenberg, the guy actually does have a sense of humor. That's the first time Tommy's little brother has actually shown that he's human, after all, everyone likes to make fun of Lance. Well, the first time if you don't count him becoming more-than-a-little outraged when Vercetti told him not to become a traitor anyway.
Maria looked at Lance. "I thought you were a hardcore gangster and you're out there stuttering for your life when the silent killer comes to claim your life. I thought you were better than that. Especially since Vince knows that he can't shoot you without getting shot himself. If you hadn't noticed, you're Tommy's friend, and shooting you would make Vince a traitor. Vince is not a traitor."
Lance frowned. "Well, then let him point that big ass mother fucker of a gun at you then and see how you like it," he retorted bitterly. Vince looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. It was clear he hadn't appreciated Lance's tone, but as expected, he said nothing. Lance crossed his arms and sat back against the wall against the wall of the van. "And anyway---"
"Everyone shut up and listen to me," Vercetti interrupted, pulling the van's back doors shut after a suspicious visual sweep of the general area. He turned around in the cramped cargo region to face them. He was crouched down against the doors, and he braced himself as Mercedes got into the driver's seat and started the engine. She swung the car out onto the street. "To pull this off we're all going to have to work together. Everyone is going to have a specified part to play in this, and no one can stray from the part they receive. Do you all understand? The FBI agent we're going to be encountering aren't stupid, well, maybe that one who cannot hold his temper is, but the other isn't. We have to assume that they'll both be able to see past all the cover stuff we'll have going on. The game will be like a puzzle. Every piece has to interlock. Got it?"
"Tommy," Rosenberg piped up, his eyebrows knitted together, and his hands continually wringing themselves out. "I know you explained this to me all ready back at the club, but I'm still not sure I know what it is that I am supposed to be doing."
Vercetti sighed, mildly annoyed. "Look Ken, we've been over this before, three times. All you have to for this sit in that chair behind the desk up in the club's office and pretend you have no fear of the Feds for a little while. I swear that's all you have to do. There's nothing more, nothing hidden, nothing unrevealed."
"But I am scared, Tommy. Don't you see? I'm terrified," Rosenberg exclaimed. He took hold of the collar of Vercetti's shirt for a moment in a desperate attempt to make him understand. He immediately let go when he realized what he was doing. Vercetti raised an eyebrow at him. He pulled at his shirt to straighten it out and cleared his throat.
"I understand that Ken. I know. That's precisely why I said you had to 'pretend' that you have no fear of the Feds. After all, what are they going to do, kill you?" Vercetti ran a weary hand through his brown hair. This was almost routine. Rosenberg really needed to be on medication for his chronic anxiety. It was beginning to bite at Vercetti's nerves. He wasn't a psychiatrist, why was it his job to calm Rosenberg down? It wasn't. So why was he always doing it?
"What if they arrest me?"
Vince rolled his eyes heavenward. He raised his hands and pretended to choke himself, strangling himself with the collar of his leather jacket. He dropped the act with a sigh and looked at Lance as if to say "to hell with you" and made the gun with his hand again, mock shooting Rosenberg between the eyes. Maria and Lance shared the laugh, and Vince went back to inspecting his gun.
Rosenberg, on the other hand, looked horribly offended. "Hey, just because you're mister scary psychotic killer man who's not afraid of anything doesn't mean that I am. I happen to be relatively normal. I'm scared to death over here. I'm scared of death over here!"
Vince chuckled soundlessly and shook his head.
"Gee," Maria said flatly. "I would have never guessed you were scared."
"Normal is all in perspective," Lance muttered. Rosenberg shot him a dirty look. Lance ignored it and started to laugh good-naturedly, finding the concept of Rosenberg, of all people, being normal quite hilarious. Vercetti, however, was less than amused. He caught himself against the left wall as Mercedes threw the van around a hard right turn.
"Are you people finished? This is important," he informed them solidly. They were nearing the Vercetti owned Pole Position strip club now, and the plan for this whole ordeal had not yet been formally laid out. True, Vercetti had told everyone what roles they were supposed to be carrying out back when they were still in the Malibu Club, but he was one to make sure that ideas for such an important project were retained securely in the minds of those participating. "Listen Ken, all you have to is keep those prick agents up in the office long enough for me and the others to set up downstairs, understand?"
"How do I do that," Rosenberg demanded.
"Talk to them," Vercetti answered without hesitation. He clapped the fidgeting lawyer on the shoulder in a brotherly sort of way and smiled. "Don't worry. You'll be just fine. It'll be over before you know it."
"Yeah," Rosenberg said gloomily. "I'll be dead. Dead and gone from this world like so many others."
Mercedes pulled the van into the tiny, square patch of asphalt that served as the Pole Position's back parking lot and shut off the engine. She turned around in her seat to look at her passengers between the two closely set front seats. "Ready?"
"Set," Lance responded, checking to see if all the straps on his Kevlar bulletproof vest were securely in place. Then he reached into his pocket and found his 9-millimeter Uzi. He was ready.
"Go," Vercetti said quietly. He popped the back doors of the van ajar. "And be careful damn it."
They went. The clamored out of the van one by one and stood together in a small knot in the center of the parking lot. Mercedes joined them from the front seat. Vince tapped the hilt of his shotgun and spun on his heel, walking away from them, getting ready to get into position.
"Everyone understand what's going to happen here," Vercetti asked, looking for final verification.
The others nodded and they branched off to go in their separate directions. It was time for the games to begin. There was no such thing as time outs in this game, so each of them could only pray that one wasn't needed. Dangerous type of Olympics this was. Only professionals were to walk through the doors to that strip club now. Vercetti hoped the group of people he had with him were up to the challenge. ----------------------------------------------
Hi, I'm sorry not much happened in this chapter, but I felt it important to update before people forgot about me. I'm paranoid like that. Anyway, something maybe a little interesting will happen in the next installment, so stay tuned if you wish. As always, constructive criticism is welcome, and thank you to all my reviewers, especially Tiffany, who seems to be with me all the way through so far. Your support is greatly appreciated.
-Maverick Point