Disclaimer: Not mine, although you'd think I was trying to take it over by all the fanfic I keep compulsively writing.

2--And You Throw A Hissyfit

Calliope Fanning, known as Callie to everyone who knew her, waited, sitting back in her seat, pulling the brim of her cap down over her eyes. She had been warned, on occasion, not to do this, but her windows were up and her doors were locked, and she wasn't particularly worried.

People who had never been mugged generally didn't worry, not until it was too late.

She considered munching on the snacks she'd brought with her, but the most appealing thing at the moment was her Snickers bar, and she didn't want to get herself hyped up on sugar at the moment. It would just pique her irritation at Ray.

Ray. Detective had gone to his head. It had been bad enough when he'd been a street cop, coming home all the time in his uniform, badge shining. He was seriously trying to make his way through the ranks, and succeeded. Now, he dressed like an undercover cop, hair slicked back, long brown trench coat. She constantly berated him for it, but he insisted that if he was going to work the narcotics division, he had to blend in with the street life.

That was Ray. Total chameleon. Could be whatever you wanted in a blink of an eye. He'd had a girlfriend, briefly, but it hadn't worked out, and now he didn't seem to have anything else to do with his time except bug her about finishing school and getting a real job, and if she was going to visit Dad during her break.

Of course, she knew that right now, he was on a big case, and that always made him tense. More obnoxious and difficult to bear than usual. But still, she loved him. In spite of the fact that he was an asshole.

There was a rap at the back window. She ducked her head, saw Vincent standing there. It had only been a little over five minutes. She clicked the unlock button and he opened the door, sliding in.

"Any problems?" he asked.

"Not a one. How about you?"

"Other than a close encounter with a window," he said with a bit of a smirk, "no, no problems at all."

"So where to now?" she asked.

"7567 Fountain," he said.

"West Hollywood," she said, her fingers tapping at the computer's screen buttons.

He asked, "How long do you think that will take?"

He was very conscious of the time. He reminded her a little bit of Ray because of that. "About twenty minutes, give or take," she said.

"Sounds good. Let's go." So she put the car in drive and went.

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This drive was longer than the last, and Vincent turned chatty. Not that he hadn't been before, but now he was getting personal, asking questions that she nearly felt comfortable asking.

Did she have a boyfriend? Why was she so interested in criminal psychology? What exactly did she plan to do when she finished school? Did she have any particular graduate schools in mind? Had she traveled much? What kind of music did she listen to?

Discomfort or not, she found herself answering them all. It was a very easy flow of conversation, and he'd even leaned forward, one arm partly looped over the front of the seat so he could hear her better without her having to turn her head and take her eyes off the road.

"No boyfriend?" he asked. "I find that hard to believe."

She chuckled. "No, no boyfriend, but I warn you, I'm quite used to my customers attempting to flirt with me, and I assure you, I'm quite immune."

He smiled, laughed. A big, toothy grin. She noticed that the center of his front teeth was actually a little to the left. He was well manicured, the way his one hand grasped the back of the seat. She liked men who took good care of their hands. So many were so grimy and sloppy, jagged nails.

Truth be told, it had been one of the things about her current pursuer that kept her interested.

"So if you're so used to your customers flirting with you, then you must be aware of how charming you are."

She gave him quite a look. "Laying it on thick, aren't you?"

"I'm sorry," he said, his expression only mildly contrite, but still smiling. "I don't get to meet a lot of pretty girls in my line of work. Well, I do, in real estate. Just most of them are married. Single girls don't generally buy houses."

"No, they don't," she said. "That's usually something reserved for couples."

"We single people live in apartments. Or condos, depending on how much money you have."

She laughed. "Well, none here, I'm afraid. Although my dad keeps talking about leaving the house to me when he dies. I always make him change the subject, it's too morbid."

"Well, it's only natural to think about those things," Vincent said, relaxing a bit, sounding less flirtatious and more serious. "I mean, his wife has passed on, I'm sure you and your brother are all he has to think about now." Then he sobered, glancing out the window, very serious. "Funny thing about marriage...sometimes, after the first one goes, the second one just wants to follow."

"Yeah, we went through that," she said softly. She shook her head, tossed him a smile. "So I take it you have a condo," she remarked.

"Definitely. Are you an apartment girl, or do you live in a dormitory?"

"I live in school housing, it's not really like a dormitory, but it's much cheaper than renting an apartment. Especially around the campus, you wouldn't believe how expensive things are out here."

"Oh, I would," he said. "Never ceases to amaze me how poor people can afford to live where they do, in the conditions that they do, and yet put up with the prices they have to pay for it."

"Sometimes we don't have any choice," she said.

"No. Same thing goes for crime, really," he went on, letting go of the seat and leaning back, talking loud enough for her to hear, but now on a personal roll. "I mean, think about it - the kids that grow up there, what do they see? So they want out, naturally. But when they go to school, they can't get good grades because they can't get help with their homework, they can't afford tutoring, and they can't get enough sleep at night and eat regular enough meals to be ready to learn the next day. Plus, the only examples of adulthood they have are just bigger versions of themselves."

"There are ways around it," she said, feeling mildly defensive. "School systems offer free tutoring, breakfast, lunch, clothing if they need it. The schools do everything but give the kids showers and places to sleep."

"Maybe it would be better if they did," Vincent commented, looking out the window. "What can you expect from a kid who grows up without a mother and a drunk for a father?"

She grew thoughtful. "I guess some of us are just really lucky, then," she said, more to herself.

"Yeah, you are," he said, turning back to her. She looked into the rearview. He was smiling at her, gently. There was a deep sadness in his eyes, and it touched her.

"You look like you made it out," she said, trying to be of some comfort. "I mean, whatever your background. You seem to be doing pretty well."

He made a soft grunt in the back of his throat and looked down. "I'm doing what I can," he agreed. "What I do best."

"I guess..." she trailed off, wanting to say something about how being deprived left wounds that sudden influxes of material goods couldn't make right again. She'd known too many kids in school who were so messed up, getting older and wealthier didn't serve any other purpose than to make them even colder on the inside, more out for themselves, rather than trying to help others have the good life they now enjoyed.

"You guess?" he prompted.

"Well, society can't fix everything," she said.

"No." His eyes turned sharp. "It most certainly can't. In some ways, it makes things much worse."

She had to shrug. "Sometimes. But it's better than anarchy."

"Really?"

"Sure. I mean, everyone out for themselves? Think of it. The violence that would come out of it, everyone being a law unto themselves? Judge, jury, executioners. We have enough murders every day in L.A. without going that far."

"Survival of the fittest. It's the way of Nature," he said.

"Maybe," she agreed. "But still, I like to think of human beings as being more than slaves to their natural instincts."

"The lucky ones are," he said. "So that's why you want to be a criminal psychologist? Want to try and convert criminals into being better people?"

"Is that such a bad thought?" she asked.

"No, not bad. But probably..." Now he trailed off, hesitating. "No, not bad at all," he finished. Just then she turned the corner and their building loomed into view.

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Another alley. This one was much more deserted, and she shut the car off after she had parked. It made her a little uncomfortable, thinking of sitting here, alone, in the dark. It wasn't as well lit as the other alley before, even if it was in a better neighborhood.

She glanced at the clock. It was almost ten now. It wasn't that late. Real trouble wouldn't start until the graveyard hours. She calmed herself, waited patiently as Vincent shuffled in his briefcase, pulled out something rather official-looking, and got out of the car without so much as a word.

She locked the doors behind him, watched him go inside. Earlier, she had looked at the hundreds he'd given her. They were real, brand new mint, complete with the little sparkles in the corners and the double head on the far right side of the bill, impossible to counterfeit. Obviously this guy had some serious change to throw around.

Which made her criminology-tuned mine suspicious.

She'd seen her fair share of mob personalities and he just didn't strike her as that type. But the briefcase, the suit, the sunglasses he would slip on his face as he stepped into the light outside...

She shook herself. She was being slightly paranoid. Sure, she lived in L.A., but he'd been polite enough to her, and hadn't done anything so far that could back up her suspicions, so she decided to let it go. She let it go so much that she leaned back in her chair, adjusted her shoulders, and let herself rest for a moment.

It was okay, the doors were locked.

There was a tapping at her window. She looked up, saw the face of a man, not much older than her, with a natty beard and long, greasy hair. He looked like a Kid Rock wannabe. He pushed a lock of the stringy hair behind his ear and grinned at her, wiggling his fingers, motioning for her to roll down the window.

She was an L.A. cabdriver. She gave him the finger and shook her head.

His smile, which hadn't been pleasant to begin with, disappeared and darkened into an angry scowl. He reached back into his pocket and slammed something large and metal onto the glass, making it crack.

He struck again. It shattered, sending glass over her shoulder, onto her lap, and all across the pavement. Then the barrel of his gun was staring her in the face.

"Fucking bitch," he was saying, "you wanna give me attitude? I'll make you fucking blow me!"

Her hands had flown up instinctively to shield her face, and she slowly lowered them, wondering how she could have been so stupid. He'd caught her completely off guard, although what the hell she'd been expected to do, she had no idea.

"What do you want?" she managed, her voice maintaining some semblance of strength, even as the gun loomed close to her temple. Stupid idiot, he carried it to the side, like out of a movie, trying to look cool. You never held a gun like that in real life.

"Gimmie your fuckin' purse, bitch," he said.

She reached down to comply, trying not to show that she was actually relieved. She never carried her credit cards in it. Her purse was just pure decoration, holding tampons, Kleenex, lip balm, and her reading glasses. Her driver's license was wedged up in the visor above her head, ready to hand over if an officer should request it, and the money Vincent had given her, she'd shoved into her back pocket.

"Your fuckin' fares, too, bitch, hand 'em over!"

She went to the glove compartment, to the bag where she kept them. She handed it over to him, and he found the lock.

"Where's the fuckin' key, bitch?"

She almost sighed. He couldn't come up with anything more original than bitch? She'd gotten worse on the playground when she was seven. She reached for the keys, pulled off the small one that unlocked the bag, handed it to him.

"What else you got for me?" he grunted, going to the back seat. She flipped the unlock switch so he wouldn't have to shatter that window, too, He opened the door, and said something very stupid, like, "Ooh, jackpot!" taking the briefcase with him.

She felt her stomach sink. No doubt, Vincent was going to be very pissed.

And speak of the devil.

The Kid Rock wannabe had just slammed the door shut and stepped to the side of the cab. He wagged his gun at her one last time, said something moronic, pretending to fire at her, and tromped off, another guy joining up with him a few feet up the alley.

Callie looked up, saw Vincent step out into the alley, through the door. The clipboard he'd been carrying was gone, and he was empty handed. This would have struck her as strange if she hadn't been suffering from a mild adrenaline high. Vincent glanced back at her, then stepped toward the twosome.

"Hey, homie," he called. "Is that my briefcase?"

The skinny guy turned, then flounced back to him, run raised and pointed at his face. "Yeah, it is! You got anything else for me? How about your wallet?"

Vincent slowly raised his hands into the air. It happened so quickly after that, it was just a silver-gray blur to her eyes. Somehow he managed to slap down the younger kid's gun, pull out one from somewhere at his waist, and shoot the kid twice in the chest. Then, he spun on the other, shot twice in the chest and once in the head. As the kids lay there, the one who had mugged her still alive, Vincent reached down, picked up her purse, his suitcase, and then casually, like an afterthought, without even looking at the guy, shot him right in the forehead.

He was definitely dead after that.

Vincent walked back toward the cab.

At this point, Callie wasn't sure what to do. Part of her knew that to get out of the cab and run was a stupid idea, he would just shoot her in the back. The other part knew it was equally stupid to sit there and make herself an easy target. She shrunk back into the seat with each of his approaching steps, though, as if by some miracle she could just suddenly disappear, become invisible, melt into the seats and never be heard from again.

She actually thought, for a moment, that she was going to faint.

He walked up to the passenger side. She had hit the unlock button before, and she couldn't remember, suddenly, where the lock was to keep him out. He opened it up, threw his briefcase in the back seat, and slid into the passenger seat beside her. He gently set her purse down beside her on the seat.

"You okay?" he asked, his eyebrows raised, his expression filled with concern. She didn't have enough wits about her to determine whether it was genuine or just a facsimile.

She just stared back at him. Her jaw had gone slightly slack, hanging open a little, and she was taking in small breaths of air through her mouth. Her chest felt tight, and it was a laborious process.

Vincent looked past her, toward the window. "He break the window?" he asked.

"Yeah," she breathed.

His eyes focused on her. He seemed unsure of what to make of her, unsure of her reaction, waiting for her to say something, anything, and give him a clue.

"You...shot them," she said, swallowing to moisten her throat.

"They mugged you," he said. "And me. They would have shot me if I hadn't shot them."

She looked down, toward his lap, as if the gun would be sitting there, in plain sight. Her eyes traveled to his waist, to where his gray coat hung open, and she thought she saw a slight bulge over one hip. "You're carrying a gun," she said, her voice coming just a little bit easier as shock wore off and panic started to set in. "You're in L.A., and you're carrying a gun."

He nodded. "Yes. I am."

"You don't carry a gun here in L.A. unless you're a cop or a criminal," she said. "What the hell are you doing carrying a gun if you're a real-estate agent?"

"I never said I was a real-estate agent," he replied, calm.

"You said you were closing a real-estate deal-"

"That's what I said."

"And you need a gun to do that?"

"It can be a tough business." His look had softened, as if he'd figured her out, and knew exactly how to handle her.

She realized that in the process, she had seized hold of the steering wheel and her knuckles were turning white. She forced herself to let go, but it was a mistake. Her hands had been taking the damage her stomach had been trying to ignore. It heaved inside her, although there wasn't anything to heave, as she hadn't eaten in at least six hours.

"I'm going to throw up," she said, turning to the door and fumbling with the latch. Gently, he reached over and took her hand, enclosing it in his. He pulled her back, his arm warm across her chest, his fingers against her skin, not letting her get out but not forcing her, either.

"The window is open. You've got air. Just breathe, it will pass. You're stressed, it's natural, after what just happened."

She took big gulps of air. He reached into the back seat, produced a large bottle of water. "Here, it's cold, drink some of this." He opened it. She took it and took a tentative swallow, thinking only afterwards that there might be something in it. She looked at him suspiciously.

"You killed them," she said again.

"I did. They would have killed me."

She shook her head. "They were stupid punks. That gun was just for show."

"Then why did you let them have your purse?" Vincent asked.

"It was easier. There isn't anything in it anyway. I put your money in my back pocket." She considered, her brain calming just a little bit. "They took my fares, though. You didn't happen to see them, did you?"

He glanced out the windshield toward the bodies. "No. But I don't want to leave you until I'm sure you're all right."

She looked at him, feeling a giddy sense of sarcasm. He didn't want to leave her because she might bug out of there, like a smart girl. "You just killed two men in cold blood and you're worried about me being all right?"

He gave a small sigh. "Cold blood implies I didn't have a reason. I did have a reason. They tried to steal from us."

Us. Together. Solidarity. He was wooing her to his side, trying to get her to sympathize with him. She took more deep breaths, her chest rising and falling.

Then he scowled at her, his impatience starting to show. He looked away, out the window, and said, annoyed, "They put a gun in your face, robbed you and me-I shot them out of pure self-defense, and you throw a hissyfit."

"I'm going to call my brother," she said, reaching into her pocket for her phone.

His hand landed on hers again, this time with a much more aggressive grip. "Don't do that."

"He's a cop. He'll know what to do."

"Even so. Don't call him."

"But I have to. This is a crime scene. Sure, you can argue self-defense, but we have to call the police-"

His grip became so tight she felt her bones push together. It was nearly painful. "I said. No cops." Low, dangerous. He glared at her sidelong, his dark eyes catching the faint streetlight from outside and glowing their smoky emerald green.

"My brother-"

"You're going to have to forget about running to your brother this time, Callie. You gotta deal with that. Sorry," Although he didn't sound like he really meant it. He'd taken a very frank tone, now, no bullshit from him. Although he still seemed to want to play it nice. He could, after all, have easily shot her by now, too.

She took a last, deep breath, and calmed. She put her hands in her lap, surprised to find that he let her go to do it.

"So what do we do, then?" she asked, her voice soft.

"You pop the trunk," he said. "We can't leave them here."

She closed her eyes, shook her head, felt dizzy enough to vomit again. She second she got out of the car, she might not make it three steps. Then again, she felt a strange kind of resilience in her. As if her brain were telling her to get used to this kind of shit, if it was going to be her life's work.

With the exception that she planned on being one of the good guys.

"We're going to put the bodies in the trunk," she said, clarifying.

"Yes," he said. "Let's go."

She just sat there for a moment, looking at him, shock making her movements sluggish.

"I said," he repeated, "Pop. The. Trunk."

She reached under the dash, found the button, popped it. There was a slight commotion from the building beside them, and for a moment, Vincent froze, listening. Then, he motioned for her to hurry, quickening his own pace.

"Come on," he snapped, although it was more forceful than angry, "let's go."

She realized he was keeping her just in front of him. Watching her. He kept looking around, especially at the building. Just looking, everywhere, every which way, down the alley, up the alley, back at the car, at the door he'd come out of. It was like a twitch.

Funny...she had never met a flesh-and-blood criminal before, at least, not one that was still free in the outside world and going about his business. All her criminal meetings had been with men safely locked away behind bars, telling her their stories for whatever project she was working on that week. Some men in prison will open up to a pretty girl - not that she'd never considered herself pretty, but anything with a vagina qualified as a beauty queen in that place. Some of them tried to intimidate her, true, tried to wow her with their shocking exploits, gross her out with lurid details. None of it had really bothered her. She'd welcomed all of them, really, wanting to harden herself to it.

It was even funnier, how calm she felt as the night air enclosed her and she got closer to the two dead punks. She saw her locked pouch lying on the concrete about a foot away from where it had fallen out of the Kid-Rock lookalike's pocket. The other kid reminded her of a skinhead, with half the brains and twice the decoration.

"That one, grab the feet," Vincent ordered. She looked up, saw that the cab was much closer than she'd realized. The walk had just felt longer, that was all.

She grabbed him by the ankles. Vincent got the kid under the arms, encircling his chest, the head lolling against the gray lapels of his jacket, and they carried him, a bit quickly, to the trunk, where Vincent unceremoniously dumped him in. He motioned for her to go back.

"Why me first?" she asked. "I didn't shoot them."

He gave her a very deadpan look. She turned and walked, cursing under her breath. Stupid kid had gotten blood on her jeans. These were her favorite jeans. Fuck them if they ruined her shirt, she wasn't going to let any of their slimy blood ruin her favorite jacket. She got the ankles again and helped Vincent with the second haul.

Two dead bodies in a trunk was quite a bit. Vincent reached up to his collar, unbuttoned the top button, and took of the thin, gray tie that hung there. He threw it in on top of the mountain of dead human flesh, and then slammed the trunk shut.

"All right, get in."

"Wait," she said, "my fares. Did you see them?"

Vincent looked back down the alley. He squinted. Then he looked at her, and stepped around her to reach into the driver's side. When he stood up, her keys dangled from his hand.

She watched as he walked down the alley to pick up her locked bag, getting into the car as she did so, and waited until he was a good ten steps away. At exactly his eleventh step, she slammed the door shut, reached up and pulled down the visor over her head.

She always kept a spare key taped to it. Just the ignition key, you never knew what could happen in a bad situation. She'd heard, too many times, about women getting mugged, and using their keys to fight the guy off, only to find themselves in a car with no way to make it run. If she had to use her keys, she wanted a back-up.

She ripped off the duct tape, slammed it into the ignition, and started the car. Vincent spun around at the sound, and she turned the wheel, making the tires squeal.

He looked like a moving shadow from the corner of her eye as she turned. She saw him step into a particular stance, similar to the one he'd used when he'd shot those kids. The back of his suit coat flew out, and something was in his hand.

His gun.

It was raining. The alley was slick with oil in the gravel stones. Her tires couldn't get the fast traction she wanted, and she had hit the acceleration too fast.

He was running toward her.

She heard a shot fire about two feet from her head. She knew it wasn't a miss - Vincent didn't miss, no hit-man worth his salt would ever miss. He was giving her a warning.

She ignored it.

Before she knew what was happening, he was beside her, lunging in through the broken window. He grabbed the wheel with one hand, his gun aiming at her with the other. She reached out, grabbed his wrist, tried to push him away.

The bullet went through the windshield. In an utter panic, she slammed the break, suddenly unable to see the dark world through a spider-web of splintered glass. Vincent was half-way into the car now, reaching over to push up the gear stick into neutral, so as not to blow the transmission. He pulled back a little, his hands on the edge of the window frame, knocking away the bits of glass.

"Stupid, Callie," he said to her, more calm than he had any sane right to be. "Very stupid."