Avery Carrington's massive construction site stood on the far side of Vice
Point, hard to miss with its partially built glass structure and red
support beams. Carrington was a big gun in the field on aggressive real
estate on both of Vice City's islands, and the way Vercetti had it figured,
if anyone would know where a guy like 8-Ball had been inclined to set up
shot, he would definitely be the person. Vercetti pulled the convertible
car as close to the curb outside site as he dared without actually driving
onto the sidewalk. The local authorities tended to frown on parking jobs
like that.
Shifting to avoid hitting Maria again, Vercetti popped open the door and climbed out, grateful for the small favor of getting out of the way-too- crowded little vehicle. As he worked on smoothing the wrinkles in his shirt, Maria crawled over the seat and exited behind him. He turned around and nearly plowed her right over. With an embarrassed laugh, he moved her out of his way, guiding her by the shoulders and closed the door. Rosenberg came around from the other side of the car and joined them on the sidewalk. Vercetti led them past the site's outer gate.
Carrington's sleek, black limousine pulled out from it's haven under the half-constructed frame of the building as if on cue. Vercetti raised an eyebrow, wondering how whoever it was that was driving that car for Carrington always knew exactly when visitors came. Sure, he supposed that the guy could just look out the window and see people standing there, but it was as if he knew. The limousine had pulled out in that exact fashion ever other time Vercetti had called upon Carrington's services. It was creepy. Vercetti had helped the aging westerner "persuade" a few business owners into selling their property to make way for better profit, and they were more than happy to accommodate.
As the limousine rolled to a stop, Vercetti stepped forward and opened the back door, not bothering to wait for the vehicle to cease its movement. He shot a glance backward and silently instructed Rosenberg and Maria to wait for him by the convertible. Neither of them were too keen on squishing into the back of the car with Vercetti and Carrington anyway, so they nodded in understanding.
"Tommy! Good to see you son; it's been a little too long. What do you think," Carrington immediately boomed in his thick Texan drawl as Vercetti slid into the seat across from him and pulled the door closed. Carrington was nearing his mid-fifties, sporting a gray handlebar mustache and matching hair that was slicked back against his head. He wore a somewhat tacky western style shirt and black jeans, bottomed off with silver-toed leather boots. Vercetti liked doing business with him because he knew just the right kind of jobs to give. The kind that he needed done, and the kind Vercetti enjoyed doing.
"Hello Avery. How have you been?" Vercetti let his eyes wonder around the car. They flickered over wine bottles, hard liquor flasks, crystal Champaign glasses and a small television set turned at a slight angle. Carrington was busy straightening his cowboy hat on his head. It was completely obvious that he had just risen from the deep throes of sleep. Vercetti began to wonder if the man lived in the limousine or something weird like that. He immediately shook the though off, regarding it as stupid, but it still remained in the back of his head as a plausible possibility.
"Fine, fine. Business has been through the roof since the last time our paths crossed. I attribute it all to your and you demolition work, my friend. Anyway, enough garble. What can I do for you on this fine day?" Carrington leaned forward and poured himself a drink. He offered one to Vercetti, who declined politely, and he smiled, remembered that Vercetti was a clean thinker.
"I need to know if you've sold, or have heard of any sale of, property to a guy by the name of 8-Ball," Vercetti said with a smirk, watching Carrington swirl the vodka around in his wine glass. If he really did live in this car, it would be a major shock. The guy seemed so high class. Vercetti wondered where it was that a man like Carrington would live anyway.
"8-Ball you say?" Carrington rubbed at his mustache in a show of thought. The name "8-Ball" was certainly not a common one, and he figured he would definitely remember someone by that identification if he had indeed met the man. It was difficult to say though, because many of the people who came through his business didn't like using their true names, or even the names they were known by. He doubted 8-Ball was the guy's true name. He was about to tell Vercetti that it was difficult to say, simply because the name didn't register in his mind, when he had an epiphany. "Oh, I know who you're talking about. A loud, bomb-toting young man who was babbling about 'all the right stuff for another holocaust', right?"
Vercetti nodded. He didn't know what 8-Ball could mean by talking about a holocaust, but he could safely assume that he had meant that he wanted to open up a bomb-rigging service like the one he was known for back in Liberty City. There was plenty of use for one of those down in Florida for sure. It seemed that everyone around wanted to see something, anything, blow into kingdom come. "That's him," Vercetti confirmed vocally.
"Yeah, I set him up in one of those premium two-story studio apartments in the very farthest corner of Vice Port. He had use of a good eight garages from there. He was really big on garages, don't ask me why. I don't want to know. You might be able to spot the little alley I got for him from that car dealership of yours. It's somewhere near the airport. I'm bad with directions," Carrington replied, taking a sip of his drink.
"All right," Vercetti said with another comprehending nod. As bad as the charismatic Texan real estate tycoon may have been at giving directions to a place he himself had sold, it was still enough to get Vercetti to where he needed to go. It was adequate. "Thanks Avery. I'll see you later." Vercetti opened the door and began to climb out.
"Come back when you've got your work done. I've been having some problems with the Haitians. I'd really appreciate it if you'd help them to know their place, if you know what I mean," Carrington as Vercetti left. Vercetti nodded his acknowledgement and closed the door of the limousine. He ran a hand through his short brown hair and watched the car back up and disappear deeper into the site. He shook his head, wondering where it had to go back there.
Rosenberg was leaning against the side of the convertible, looking as if he should be smoking a cigarette and posing for a Rolex advertisement. Maria was sitting on the car's hood, looking at the early morning sky, hoping it wasn't going to open up and pour down rain. That was the last thing any of them needed. Plus, she was worried about Vince, because Vince had always been particular about small spaces. She only hoped he wouldn't freak out. It wasn't Vince's style to do that anyway, but she hoped he wouldn't lose his cool. He was known for doing that on occasion.
Vercetti folded his arms across his chest and waited for them to take notice to them. When they did, he motioned for them to get into the car. They did so, and Vercetti climbed into the driver's seat. He shifted around until he found a position that would be comfortable for all those present, and then turned the key. "Okay," he said, "now all we need is a police car."
"What the hell for," Maria asked, shoving Rosenberg over a little to the point that he was pressed up against the door. He, in turn, looked at the lock nervously, praying that it wouldn't give and spill him out onto the street, especially at the speeds Vercetti was known to like to drive at.
"You'll see," Vercetti answer with a little mystery in his voice. He smiled a little and revved the engine before remembered that he had to put the car into the correct gear. He moved the shift and backed up, turning the wheel around to the left. Then he shifted the car again and put his foot down, gunning it down the street, weaving in and out of traffic like one possessed.
************************************************
By the time the trio managed to exit the horrific traffic on the on bridge that led into Vice Port, it was nearly noon. All lanes were jam-packed with suit-and-tie commuters trying to get to one place or another. Normally, it wouldn't have been a problem for Vercetti, because he would have just plowed his way through. Today, however, the traffic was in such grid-lock that waiting his turn had been his only option. Vercetti didn't like being stuck with no way out, so it was a very infuriating couple of hours.
The sun had climbed high into the sky on it's twelve hour ladder, and it peered down upon the glitz and glamour of Vice City from its lofty perch. It's sole mission was to shine directly into the eyes of hapless drivers on the streets. Vercetti cursed sotto voce and raised his hand to block the sun's rays. It was generally a good thing to be able to see where he was going. Maria had fallen asleep against his shoulder sometime during the four and a half hour traffic jam coming across the bridge, so he took special care not to disturb her.
Vercetti pulled into the front parking lot of Sunshine Autos, the repair and dealership he had purchased late last year, sometime not terribly long ago. The exact time had escaped his mind. He turned the convertible around to face the street again and put the car into park, listening to the engine idle quietly. He squinted, trying to gain his bearings. He knew where he was, but it was difficult to gauge exactly where it was that he needed to be.
Carrington had informed him of an alleyway somewhere close the airport. There were a lot of little passageways around, but none that Vercetti would have considered an alleyway. He kept an eye out for a row of garages to, as those seemed to be 8-Ball's calling cards, where he set up his shops. His gaze finally flickered across the tiny opening squeezed between two tall buildings, and it took him a long moment of sitting and staring blankly before he came to realize that he had found it.
"Got it," he announced proudly, albeit a little too loudly.
Rosenberg jerked, jarred out of his light sleep, which was slightly induced with the line of cocaine he had decided to introduce into his system back when Vercetti was in the limousine with Avery Carrington. "What," he slurred, "are we there? What's going on? Where are we?" His eyes were wide behind his thick glasses, as if he was panicked, or he had forgotten what had happened in the past two days completely. With all the drugs he had been taking recently, Vercetti didn't put it past him.
"We're at Sunshine Autos. You know, that place that I run," Vercetti informed in a solid, reserved tone, making sure to speak slowly as to be sure that Rosenberg understood every word. The nervous wreck of a lawyer wasn't exactly the brightest crayon in the box to begin with, but adding narcotics into the mix made him like a goldfish. He has a memory span of about two minutes when he was high, and it made Vercetti want to punch him. "But remember, Ken, we're going to head Downtown in a few seconds because I need to get a police car. Do you have an recollection of that at all?"
Rosenberg stared at him blankly.
Vercetti sighed. "Forget it. Just go back to sleep." Abruptly, he put the car back into gear and swung it back out on to the road. He looped around the back end of the city, putting his own fancy steering and the car's screaming traction to the test. He passed Folded Tactics Boat Yard, averting his eyes only briefly to make sure everything was running smoothly over there, and then headed up to zoom on by Cherry Poppers Ice Cream Factory. He chuckled to himself. There hadn't been many places like that one in the past, and he doubted there ever would be again. Finally, he reached the northern part of town, coming up fast on the Ammunation before realizing with a soft curse that he had gone the wrong way. Turning the car rapidly, he righted his direction and came up on his destination from the opposite way that he had originally intended.
It was all good and fine though. Vercetti was just glad to be out of the damn automobile. He popped open his door and nearly fell out onto the street. Squaring his shoulders, he stood up, stretching. Thankful for the use of his incredibly stiff legs, he walked around the car, admiring his parking job. Half on the sidewalk and half on the road was generally looked down upon, but at this point in time, Vercetti scarcely gave a shit. He rapped on the car's hood loudly with his knuckles in an attempt to jostle his companions out of unconsciousness. It worked, and Maria opened her eyes, yawning. Rosenberg was less than graceful and he started, afraid that the world might be ending or some such nonsense.
Vercetti whistled and directed their attention to the police car that sat idling in the reserved parking space outside the station, crooking his finger. Maria shoved Rosenberg out of the car and they both followed their fearless leader as he slipped his hands casually into his pockets, strolling along slowly as not to attract any undue attention. Approaching the squad car, he risked a glance inside. Police officers had to be one of the stupidest breed of man. The car was unattended with unlocked doors and a running engine. Smirking at his luck, Vercetti opened the front door swiftly, not taking the chance that the perfect plan would be ruined by some random passerby, or by an officer exiting the station. He slid into the driver's seat as Rosenberg opened the passenger door. Maria moved into the middle of the back seat, separated from the two men by a steel grate.
Vercetti pulled the car away from the curb, its tires protesting loudly as smoke rose into the air. Vercetti continued to gun the engine, his foot all the way down to the floor, knowing that sooner or later, the car would find its legs and go shooting off down the road. When it finally did, Vercetti nestled back into the comfortable seat and retraced his route back to Sunshine Autos.
8-Ball's little alleyway turned out to be a lot narrower that Vercetti had anticipated, and it took quite some maneuvering to get the police car through to the wider area of the establishment unscathed. It was a precise practice, but Vercetti was a well trained artisan. Taking his time, and ignoring the impatient yammering of Rosenberg, who didn't quite understand why the squad car had to look untouched, Vercetti worked his way through and came out triumphant. The alley spanned out a bit once passed the tight entrance. It sported eight garages, spread out in a neat row along the left wall, and a small pedestal staircase leading up to a metal utility door on the opposite side.
Vercetti and Rosenberg stepped out of the car, almost forgetting Maria, who couldn't open the car door from the inside, and examined the door, looking for an indication that they had come to the right place. The verification came rather quickly in the form a loud sign above the door that stated "8- Ball's Bomb Shop".
"Inconspicuous, isn't he," Rosenberg articulated rather sarcastically.
Vercetti decided it would be best to just ignore that little comment. Rosenberg had a strange knack for trying to be witty, but he always failed miserably. Instead of saying anything, he moved forward and skipped up the stone steps to the utility door under the sign. Looking around, he didn't see any kind of doorbell, so he figured he was supposed to knock or something. Somehow, it didn't seem like he should be knocking at the door of a place like this one, but he didn't have a choice. Shooting a glance behind him, he shrugged and turned back around, raising a fist to rap rather harshly on the entrance.
The door almost immediately cracked open, catching on a chain lock when the space was about three inches wide. Vercetti frowned. The reaction time almost suggested that this guy 8-Ball had been expecting company. A pair of suspicious brown eyes set in the skull of a strongly built African American man of medium height appeared in the opening.
"Yeah, who are you?"
Vercetti moved to peer at him from the other side of the door. "You 8- Ball," he asked, knowing the answer but knowing of nothing else to say. Anyway, it was better to make sure. What if 8-Ball was somewhere in the back and this guy was just a front man. It was never unheard of. Vercetti had come to expect that nothing was ever unheard of. He'd seen a lot of weird stuff in his lifetime.
"That depends on who's asking," the man replied. He repositioned himself so that Vercetti could see him a little better. The chain rattled against the door quietly, and Vercetti smiled. What a cliché. How was it that he knew this man was going to say that?
"I'm a friend of a man you may know by the name of Vincent Vercetti," he answered.
"Who? I don't know anyone by that name, man. You must have your billiard balls mixed up," the man said.
"So you are 8-Ball. You do admit that, right," Vercetti said, a soft chuckle hiccupping his words a little. He leaned back against the metal railing around the stairs, visibly relaxed but still inwardly tense from the whole situation that surrounded him. Crossing his arms across his chest, he nodded to the man behind the door. "It's okay. I really am a friend of Vince's. I'm not trying anything."
"Look, I really don't know who you're talking about," 8-Ball replied, his face reddening a little at having so boldly identifying himself without realizing it.
"Of course you don't. That's because you've never heard anyone say his name. Tommy, people up in Liberty City know your brother as the Reaper," Maria chimed in, having successfully climbed out of the backseat of the car. "And no one tells them otherwise. Certainly not Vince."
"Why the 'Reaper'?"
"He's an efficient killer," 8-Ball answered. "When people see his face, they see death in all senses of the word. That gun of his is a tool of the Devil himself. Spawned right out of hell." He closed the door and released the chain, allowing the group to see him in his full form of the first time. Making the shape of a gun with his thumb and forefinger, he mimicked his friend and pretended to shoot Vercetti.
"Oh. Right. Well anyway, like I was saying--"
8-Ball abruptly cut him off. "Wait, did I hear that you're the Reaper's brother? And what did you say his name was? Vincent what now?"
Vercetti looked a little flustered. All he wanted to do was spit his plan out, have it done, and go on with his life. "Vercetti I said. His name is Vincent Vercetti," he said, clearly irritated. "What the hell does that matter? You don't know him by that name anyway."
"Yeah, but I know you. If the Reaper's your brother, and his name is Vercetti, than you've got to be Tommy, right?" At Vercetti's reluctant nod, 8-Ball suddenly leaped from the doorway, and before Vercetti even knew what was happening, 8-Ball was enthusiastically pumping his hand up and down in an overly excited handshake. "I've heard a lot about you."
"What? Hey, come on, what are you doing? Let me go," Vercetti yelped, jerking his hand away.
"You're the most famous gangster of them all up in Liberty, Tommy. I mean single-handedly you took down eleven men. You did it all by your damn self. People still talk about you. I get messages from the North with updates on your progress down here. I guess I just didn't put two and two together. Man, it's so great to meet you. You're legend," 8-ball said.
Vercetti's expression darkened. Without warning, he lunged forward and grabbed 8-Ball by the collar of his shirt, backing him up until they were inside the tiny apartment. Slamming him against the nearest wall, Vercetti growled, "What the fuck do you know about me? You get updates? From who? What the hell do they say about me?"
8-Ball was at a loss for words. He had been taken completely by surprise, and the mere presence of Tommy Vercetti right up in his face with that murderous look in his eyes was enough to deter him from making at kind of comment.
"Talk you little shit! The last thing I need is to have Liberty City on my ass. I've got enough problems right now, you understand me? Now, I want to know what they say about me," Vercetti rumbled, his eyes dangerous, flickering with a redness that only suggested his psychopathic nature.
"I--I don't fuckin' know Tommy. I'm part of the Leone Family. I get my updates from there! I don't even know if the Forelli family knows what it is that you're doing down here. For all they know you could still be stuck on those twenty kilos you lost. We don't share our information with Forelli! I swear to God man, I'm part of the Leone crew," 8-Ball stammered.
Vercetti let him go. "You hear anything else about me. You find me."
8-Ball nodded. "Yeah sure. Take it easy man. So what can I do for you?"
Vercetti turned and walked back to the front stoop, clasping his hands behind his back. "My brother has landed himself in a bit of trouble. He got himself pinched in a scuffle out in the Vice Straights. We need some help getting him out."
8-Ball joined him on the stoop and peered around to see the squad car parked where Maria and Rosenberg were both watching, a little shocked at what had just occurred. "Let me guess," he said. "You want me to rig some C4 to that car there so you can blow out the wall where your brother's being held."
The gangster nodded. "Yep. That's just about the plan, I'd say."
8-Ball scoffed. "Ah, give me a real challenge, yo. Come on and pull into my office here." He shrugged past Vercetti and hopped off the porch, over the railing with practiced ease. Crossing the tiny alley clearing, he stopped in front of a large garage door near the end of the line. He stooped down, grabbed the handle, and pushed it up. Inside was his laboratory. Vercetti smiled and jumped over the railing with equal grace and got behind the wheel of the car. He took his time guiding it inside. The cruiser would allow him undetected access through the prison gates, and the bomb would do the rest.
"Remote controlled if you don't mind," he said, getting out and leaving 8- Ball to do his work. "I don't want to be blowing up randomly for no reason. You hear me?"
8-Ball waved a hand at him dismissively. "Get out of here. You think I'm stupid or something?"
"So that's what we needed the police car for," Rosenberg stated in final understanding. Maria rolled her eyes, watching Vercetti pull the garage door back down to conceal 8-Ball's shop.
"And they wonder why I hate lawyers."
Shifting to avoid hitting Maria again, Vercetti popped open the door and climbed out, grateful for the small favor of getting out of the way-too- crowded little vehicle. As he worked on smoothing the wrinkles in his shirt, Maria crawled over the seat and exited behind him. He turned around and nearly plowed her right over. With an embarrassed laugh, he moved her out of his way, guiding her by the shoulders and closed the door. Rosenberg came around from the other side of the car and joined them on the sidewalk. Vercetti led them past the site's outer gate.
Carrington's sleek, black limousine pulled out from it's haven under the half-constructed frame of the building as if on cue. Vercetti raised an eyebrow, wondering how whoever it was that was driving that car for Carrington always knew exactly when visitors came. Sure, he supposed that the guy could just look out the window and see people standing there, but it was as if he knew. The limousine had pulled out in that exact fashion ever other time Vercetti had called upon Carrington's services. It was creepy. Vercetti had helped the aging westerner "persuade" a few business owners into selling their property to make way for better profit, and they were more than happy to accommodate.
As the limousine rolled to a stop, Vercetti stepped forward and opened the back door, not bothering to wait for the vehicle to cease its movement. He shot a glance backward and silently instructed Rosenberg and Maria to wait for him by the convertible. Neither of them were too keen on squishing into the back of the car with Vercetti and Carrington anyway, so they nodded in understanding.
"Tommy! Good to see you son; it's been a little too long. What do you think," Carrington immediately boomed in his thick Texan drawl as Vercetti slid into the seat across from him and pulled the door closed. Carrington was nearing his mid-fifties, sporting a gray handlebar mustache and matching hair that was slicked back against his head. He wore a somewhat tacky western style shirt and black jeans, bottomed off with silver-toed leather boots. Vercetti liked doing business with him because he knew just the right kind of jobs to give. The kind that he needed done, and the kind Vercetti enjoyed doing.
"Hello Avery. How have you been?" Vercetti let his eyes wonder around the car. They flickered over wine bottles, hard liquor flasks, crystal Champaign glasses and a small television set turned at a slight angle. Carrington was busy straightening his cowboy hat on his head. It was completely obvious that he had just risen from the deep throes of sleep. Vercetti began to wonder if the man lived in the limousine or something weird like that. He immediately shook the though off, regarding it as stupid, but it still remained in the back of his head as a plausible possibility.
"Fine, fine. Business has been through the roof since the last time our paths crossed. I attribute it all to your and you demolition work, my friend. Anyway, enough garble. What can I do for you on this fine day?" Carrington leaned forward and poured himself a drink. He offered one to Vercetti, who declined politely, and he smiled, remembered that Vercetti was a clean thinker.
"I need to know if you've sold, or have heard of any sale of, property to a guy by the name of 8-Ball," Vercetti said with a smirk, watching Carrington swirl the vodka around in his wine glass. If he really did live in this car, it would be a major shock. The guy seemed so high class. Vercetti wondered where it was that a man like Carrington would live anyway.
"8-Ball you say?" Carrington rubbed at his mustache in a show of thought. The name "8-Ball" was certainly not a common one, and he figured he would definitely remember someone by that identification if he had indeed met the man. It was difficult to say though, because many of the people who came through his business didn't like using their true names, or even the names they were known by. He doubted 8-Ball was the guy's true name. He was about to tell Vercetti that it was difficult to say, simply because the name didn't register in his mind, when he had an epiphany. "Oh, I know who you're talking about. A loud, bomb-toting young man who was babbling about 'all the right stuff for another holocaust', right?"
Vercetti nodded. He didn't know what 8-Ball could mean by talking about a holocaust, but he could safely assume that he had meant that he wanted to open up a bomb-rigging service like the one he was known for back in Liberty City. There was plenty of use for one of those down in Florida for sure. It seemed that everyone around wanted to see something, anything, blow into kingdom come. "That's him," Vercetti confirmed vocally.
"Yeah, I set him up in one of those premium two-story studio apartments in the very farthest corner of Vice Port. He had use of a good eight garages from there. He was really big on garages, don't ask me why. I don't want to know. You might be able to spot the little alley I got for him from that car dealership of yours. It's somewhere near the airport. I'm bad with directions," Carrington replied, taking a sip of his drink.
"All right," Vercetti said with another comprehending nod. As bad as the charismatic Texan real estate tycoon may have been at giving directions to a place he himself had sold, it was still enough to get Vercetti to where he needed to go. It was adequate. "Thanks Avery. I'll see you later." Vercetti opened the door and began to climb out.
"Come back when you've got your work done. I've been having some problems with the Haitians. I'd really appreciate it if you'd help them to know their place, if you know what I mean," Carrington as Vercetti left. Vercetti nodded his acknowledgement and closed the door of the limousine. He ran a hand through his short brown hair and watched the car back up and disappear deeper into the site. He shook his head, wondering where it had to go back there.
Rosenberg was leaning against the side of the convertible, looking as if he should be smoking a cigarette and posing for a Rolex advertisement. Maria was sitting on the car's hood, looking at the early morning sky, hoping it wasn't going to open up and pour down rain. That was the last thing any of them needed. Plus, she was worried about Vince, because Vince had always been particular about small spaces. She only hoped he wouldn't freak out. It wasn't Vince's style to do that anyway, but she hoped he wouldn't lose his cool. He was known for doing that on occasion.
Vercetti folded his arms across his chest and waited for them to take notice to them. When they did, he motioned for them to get into the car. They did so, and Vercetti climbed into the driver's seat. He shifted around until he found a position that would be comfortable for all those present, and then turned the key. "Okay," he said, "now all we need is a police car."
"What the hell for," Maria asked, shoving Rosenberg over a little to the point that he was pressed up against the door. He, in turn, looked at the lock nervously, praying that it wouldn't give and spill him out onto the street, especially at the speeds Vercetti was known to like to drive at.
"You'll see," Vercetti answer with a little mystery in his voice. He smiled a little and revved the engine before remembered that he had to put the car into the correct gear. He moved the shift and backed up, turning the wheel around to the left. Then he shifted the car again and put his foot down, gunning it down the street, weaving in and out of traffic like one possessed.
************************************************
By the time the trio managed to exit the horrific traffic on the on bridge that led into Vice Port, it was nearly noon. All lanes were jam-packed with suit-and-tie commuters trying to get to one place or another. Normally, it wouldn't have been a problem for Vercetti, because he would have just plowed his way through. Today, however, the traffic was in such grid-lock that waiting his turn had been his only option. Vercetti didn't like being stuck with no way out, so it was a very infuriating couple of hours.
The sun had climbed high into the sky on it's twelve hour ladder, and it peered down upon the glitz and glamour of Vice City from its lofty perch. It's sole mission was to shine directly into the eyes of hapless drivers on the streets. Vercetti cursed sotto voce and raised his hand to block the sun's rays. It was generally a good thing to be able to see where he was going. Maria had fallen asleep against his shoulder sometime during the four and a half hour traffic jam coming across the bridge, so he took special care not to disturb her.
Vercetti pulled into the front parking lot of Sunshine Autos, the repair and dealership he had purchased late last year, sometime not terribly long ago. The exact time had escaped his mind. He turned the convertible around to face the street again and put the car into park, listening to the engine idle quietly. He squinted, trying to gain his bearings. He knew where he was, but it was difficult to gauge exactly where it was that he needed to be.
Carrington had informed him of an alleyway somewhere close the airport. There were a lot of little passageways around, but none that Vercetti would have considered an alleyway. He kept an eye out for a row of garages to, as those seemed to be 8-Ball's calling cards, where he set up his shops. His gaze finally flickered across the tiny opening squeezed between two tall buildings, and it took him a long moment of sitting and staring blankly before he came to realize that he had found it.
"Got it," he announced proudly, albeit a little too loudly.
Rosenberg jerked, jarred out of his light sleep, which was slightly induced with the line of cocaine he had decided to introduce into his system back when Vercetti was in the limousine with Avery Carrington. "What," he slurred, "are we there? What's going on? Where are we?" His eyes were wide behind his thick glasses, as if he was panicked, or he had forgotten what had happened in the past two days completely. With all the drugs he had been taking recently, Vercetti didn't put it past him.
"We're at Sunshine Autos. You know, that place that I run," Vercetti informed in a solid, reserved tone, making sure to speak slowly as to be sure that Rosenberg understood every word. The nervous wreck of a lawyer wasn't exactly the brightest crayon in the box to begin with, but adding narcotics into the mix made him like a goldfish. He has a memory span of about two minutes when he was high, and it made Vercetti want to punch him. "But remember, Ken, we're going to head Downtown in a few seconds because I need to get a police car. Do you have an recollection of that at all?"
Rosenberg stared at him blankly.
Vercetti sighed. "Forget it. Just go back to sleep." Abruptly, he put the car back into gear and swung it back out on to the road. He looped around the back end of the city, putting his own fancy steering and the car's screaming traction to the test. He passed Folded Tactics Boat Yard, averting his eyes only briefly to make sure everything was running smoothly over there, and then headed up to zoom on by Cherry Poppers Ice Cream Factory. He chuckled to himself. There hadn't been many places like that one in the past, and he doubted there ever would be again. Finally, he reached the northern part of town, coming up fast on the Ammunation before realizing with a soft curse that he had gone the wrong way. Turning the car rapidly, he righted his direction and came up on his destination from the opposite way that he had originally intended.
It was all good and fine though. Vercetti was just glad to be out of the damn automobile. He popped open his door and nearly fell out onto the street. Squaring his shoulders, he stood up, stretching. Thankful for the use of his incredibly stiff legs, he walked around the car, admiring his parking job. Half on the sidewalk and half on the road was generally looked down upon, but at this point in time, Vercetti scarcely gave a shit. He rapped on the car's hood loudly with his knuckles in an attempt to jostle his companions out of unconsciousness. It worked, and Maria opened her eyes, yawning. Rosenberg was less than graceful and he started, afraid that the world might be ending or some such nonsense.
Vercetti whistled and directed their attention to the police car that sat idling in the reserved parking space outside the station, crooking his finger. Maria shoved Rosenberg out of the car and they both followed their fearless leader as he slipped his hands casually into his pockets, strolling along slowly as not to attract any undue attention. Approaching the squad car, he risked a glance inside. Police officers had to be one of the stupidest breed of man. The car was unattended with unlocked doors and a running engine. Smirking at his luck, Vercetti opened the front door swiftly, not taking the chance that the perfect plan would be ruined by some random passerby, or by an officer exiting the station. He slid into the driver's seat as Rosenberg opened the passenger door. Maria moved into the middle of the back seat, separated from the two men by a steel grate.
Vercetti pulled the car away from the curb, its tires protesting loudly as smoke rose into the air. Vercetti continued to gun the engine, his foot all the way down to the floor, knowing that sooner or later, the car would find its legs and go shooting off down the road. When it finally did, Vercetti nestled back into the comfortable seat and retraced his route back to Sunshine Autos.
8-Ball's little alleyway turned out to be a lot narrower that Vercetti had anticipated, and it took quite some maneuvering to get the police car through to the wider area of the establishment unscathed. It was a precise practice, but Vercetti was a well trained artisan. Taking his time, and ignoring the impatient yammering of Rosenberg, who didn't quite understand why the squad car had to look untouched, Vercetti worked his way through and came out triumphant. The alley spanned out a bit once passed the tight entrance. It sported eight garages, spread out in a neat row along the left wall, and a small pedestal staircase leading up to a metal utility door on the opposite side.
Vercetti and Rosenberg stepped out of the car, almost forgetting Maria, who couldn't open the car door from the inside, and examined the door, looking for an indication that they had come to the right place. The verification came rather quickly in the form a loud sign above the door that stated "8- Ball's Bomb Shop".
"Inconspicuous, isn't he," Rosenberg articulated rather sarcastically.
Vercetti decided it would be best to just ignore that little comment. Rosenberg had a strange knack for trying to be witty, but he always failed miserably. Instead of saying anything, he moved forward and skipped up the stone steps to the utility door under the sign. Looking around, he didn't see any kind of doorbell, so he figured he was supposed to knock or something. Somehow, it didn't seem like he should be knocking at the door of a place like this one, but he didn't have a choice. Shooting a glance behind him, he shrugged and turned back around, raising a fist to rap rather harshly on the entrance.
The door almost immediately cracked open, catching on a chain lock when the space was about three inches wide. Vercetti frowned. The reaction time almost suggested that this guy 8-Ball had been expecting company. A pair of suspicious brown eyes set in the skull of a strongly built African American man of medium height appeared in the opening.
"Yeah, who are you?"
Vercetti moved to peer at him from the other side of the door. "You 8- Ball," he asked, knowing the answer but knowing of nothing else to say. Anyway, it was better to make sure. What if 8-Ball was somewhere in the back and this guy was just a front man. It was never unheard of. Vercetti had come to expect that nothing was ever unheard of. He'd seen a lot of weird stuff in his lifetime.
"That depends on who's asking," the man replied. He repositioned himself so that Vercetti could see him a little better. The chain rattled against the door quietly, and Vercetti smiled. What a cliché. How was it that he knew this man was going to say that?
"I'm a friend of a man you may know by the name of Vincent Vercetti," he answered.
"Who? I don't know anyone by that name, man. You must have your billiard balls mixed up," the man said.
"So you are 8-Ball. You do admit that, right," Vercetti said, a soft chuckle hiccupping his words a little. He leaned back against the metal railing around the stairs, visibly relaxed but still inwardly tense from the whole situation that surrounded him. Crossing his arms across his chest, he nodded to the man behind the door. "It's okay. I really am a friend of Vince's. I'm not trying anything."
"Look, I really don't know who you're talking about," 8-Ball replied, his face reddening a little at having so boldly identifying himself without realizing it.
"Of course you don't. That's because you've never heard anyone say his name. Tommy, people up in Liberty City know your brother as the Reaper," Maria chimed in, having successfully climbed out of the backseat of the car. "And no one tells them otherwise. Certainly not Vince."
"Why the 'Reaper'?"
"He's an efficient killer," 8-Ball answered. "When people see his face, they see death in all senses of the word. That gun of his is a tool of the Devil himself. Spawned right out of hell." He closed the door and released the chain, allowing the group to see him in his full form of the first time. Making the shape of a gun with his thumb and forefinger, he mimicked his friend and pretended to shoot Vercetti.
"Oh. Right. Well anyway, like I was saying--"
8-Ball abruptly cut him off. "Wait, did I hear that you're the Reaper's brother? And what did you say his name was? Vincent what now?"
Vercetti looked a little flustered. All he wanted to do was spit his plan out, have it done, and go on with his life. "Vercetti I said. His name is Vincent Vercetti," he said, clearly irritated. "What the hell does that matter? You don't know him by that name anyway."
"Yeah, but I know you. If the Reaper's your brother, and his name is Vercetti, than you've got to be Tommy, right?" At Vercetti's reluctant nod, 8-Ball suddenly leaped from the doorway, and before Vercetti even knew what was happening, 8-Ball was enthusiastically pumping his hand up and down in an overly excited handshake. "I've heard a lot about you."
"What? Hey, come on, what are you doing? Let me go," Vercetti yelped, jerking his hand away.
"You're the most famous gangster of them all up in Liberty, Tommy. I mean single-handedly you took down eleven men. You did it all by your damn self. People still talk about you. I get messages from the North with updates on your progress down here. I guess I just didn't put two and two together. Man, it's so great to meet you. You're legend," 8-ball said.
Vercetti's expression darkened. Without warning, he lunged forward and grabbed 8-Ball by the collar of his shirt, backing him up until they were inside the tiny apartment. Slamming him against the nearest wall, Vercetti growled, "What the fuck do you know about me? You get updates? From who? What the hell do they say about me?"
8-Ball was at a loss for words. He had been taken completely by surprise, and the mere presence of Tommy Vercetti right up in his face with that murderous look in his eyes was enough to deter him from making at kind of comment.
"Talk you little shit! The last thing I need is to have Liberty City on my ass. I've got enough problems right now, you understand me? Now, I want to know what they say about me," Vercetti rumbled, his eyes dangerous, flickering with a redness that only suggested his psychopathic nature.
"I--I don't fuckin' know Tommy. I'm part of the Leone Family. I get my updates from there! I don't even know if the Forelli family knows what it is that you're doing down here. For all they know you could still be stuck on those twenty kilos you lost. We don't share our information with Forelli! I swear to God man, I'm part of the Leone crew," 8-Ball stammered.
Vercetti let him go. "You hear anything else about me. You find me."
8-Ball nodded. "Yeah sure. Take it easy man. So what can I do for you?"
Vercetti turned and walked back to the front stoop, clasping his hands behind his back. "My brother has landed himself in a bit of trouble. He got himself pinched in a scuffle out in the Vice Straights. We need some help getting him out."
8-Ball joined him on the stoop and peered around to see the squad car parked where Maria and Rosenberg were both watching, a little shocked at what had just occurred. "Let me guess," he said. "You want me to rig some C4 to that car there so you can blow out the wall where your brother's being held."
The gangster nodded. "Yep. That's just about the plan, I'd say."
8-Ball scoffed. "Ah, give me a real challenge, yo. Come on and pull into my office here." He shrugged past Vercetti and hopped off the porch, over the railing with practiced ease. Crossing the tiny alley clearing, he stopped in front of a large garage door near the end of the line. He stooped down, grabbed the handle, and pushed it up. Inside was his laboratory. Vercetti smiled and jumped over the railing with equal grace and got behind the wheel of the car. He took his time guiding it inside. The cruiser would allow him undetected access through the prison gates, and the bomb would do the rest.
"Remote controlled if you don't mind," he said, getting out and leaving 8- Ball to do his work. "I don't want to be blowing up randomly for no reason. You hear me?"
8-Ball waved a hand at him dismissively. "Get out of here. You think I'm stupid or something?"
"So that's what we needed the police car for," Rosenberg stated in final understanding. Maria rolled her eyes, watching Vercetti pull the garage door back down to conceal 8-Ball's shop.
"And they wonder why I hate lawyers."