The Symphony Hall
Pre-Bebop, pre-Julia. Twenty-year-olds Spike and Vicious are low-time gang members for a group called the Red Dragons, but when an opportunity makes itself clear, their lives are changed. Rated R for cussing and adult situations.
A/N: A couple of issues are resolved in this chapter. And since I've failed to post it when I said I would post it (as I always do ), I've made the chapter a little bit longer. 3 Hope you guys like it; the end isn't too far now!
Radishface
- 10 -
It really was a don't call us, we'll call you situation.
One week had passed, then two. Neither Lin or Shin hadcontacted him, and Wolfe hadn't bothered tocall him after their little altercation. Vicious could care less.
The only person that called was Spike. Spike's number, singular and lonely, appearing in his list of missed phone calls at least eleven times.
He left his new cell phone plugged into the charger, picked up his coat, and headed over to Spike's apartment. Sometimes he sat in his car in the parking lot; sometimes he walked around the block.
He didn't feel like sitting in his car today. The sky was cloudy, and as Vicious stepped out of the car, it began to drizzle. Beacons of grey light slatted through the clouds.
The other man obviously wasn't expecting him. Luckily for Vicious, Spike wasn't the type to be surprised. He answered the door wearing a pair of old sweatpants, slung low on his hips. The drawstring was undone.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Spike yawned, and stepped out of the way to let Vicious in. Vicious noted the morning stubble on Spike's face, and decided that it looked decent on him.
"I decided to drop by." Vicious said, not bothering to take his shoes off.
"At fucking five in the morning?" Spike muttered, but Vicious heard the grin in his tone.
"You busy?" Vicious asked. He smelled sweat and sex on Spike. Maybe dropping by at five in the morning unannounced was not the wisest thing to do. The pangs in his chest weren't heartburn. Vicious stared in the direction of Spike's bedroom.
"Well." Spike grinnedand stifled a yawn. "You caught me at a bad time."
"Ah." Vicious nodded, and turned to the door. "I should go, then."
"You don't have to." Spike shifted from one foot to the other. "I mean."
This shouldn't have been awkward. Vicious wasn't even sure why he had even offered to leave. He had been here before, had barged into Spike's apartment before, unannounced. He'd sat on the couch while Spike finished his business. He'd seen the girls' reactions as they realized another man was outside, that maybe privacy meant something a little different to the both of them.
Something had changed along the way, and Vicious wasn't quite sure he knew what it was.
"I'll go." Vicious said.
Spike shrugged. "I'll be free later."
"We'll see." His hand was poised over the doorknob.
"I will." Spike reached out and grabbed his arm, stilling him. "In ten fucking minutes. Vicious."
He looked up into Spike's eyes, slightly taken aback at the intensity he saw there. "Spike."
"You don't think I know?" Spike's grip tightened on his arm, his voice a low whisper.
Vicious dropped his gaze. There were so many things that Spike could know. He could know that Shin and Lin were definitely planning a coup sometime soon. He could know that Wolfe had already dropped Vicious from the loop. He could know that Wolfe had used Spike against Vicious like some sort of fucking damsel in distress. He could know a lot of different things. He could know what that meant, if Vicious let himself be blackmailed into doing what Wolfe wanted simply because Wolfe could pull the trigger on Spike at any moment.
He shouldn't have come here. He was weak, to give in like this, to want to see Spike, to see that Wolfe's men hadn't gotten to him yet.
"I know," Spike said, "that you've been out there almost every single fucking day. I don't know why you do it. "
"Spike." Vicious managed to say.
"I'm right here, Vicious." Spike said, and let go of his arm. "I've been here for the last two fucking weeks."
Vicious was silent, waiting for the inevitable interruption. The girl would be calling for Spike any minute now. It was a predictable, rather pathetic affair, and here was Vicious, standing in front of Spike's door, trapped in a moment of indecision.
Maybe Wolfe was right.
He could feel Spike's eyes boring holes into his head, he could feel his brain sizzling, boiling in his skull. Spike's face was inches from his, and Vicious knew this was a bad idea, that he shouldn't have come here when he knew that Spike always had some fucker around at five in the morning. He was just setting himself up, and Spike's face was just inches from his, and if he turned his head a little they would be touching, and Vicious didn't know why his heart jumped in his chest at the thought, at that little word, at something so little as that, touching.
He liked to fuck himself up, didn't he? Five in the morning, he knew that Spike would have just woken up, he knew that Spike would have just been smoking his morning cigarette after his morning fuck. And Spike, breath ghosting across his face, he could smell the cigarettes, that morning cigarette. He could taste the ashes on his tongue. He could hear the rain start outside, steady drops falling on the windows, and in here it was unbearably humid, the moisture choking him to death.
"I'll call you." Vicious said, pushing the door open, staggering outside before he gave into the impossible. He slammed the door behind him, almost hurtled down the flight of stairs.
Spike didn't follow him, and Vicious was disappointed and frustrated and relieved all at once. He imagined he could hear the sounds of Spike getting back into bed with his fuck of the day. He imagined the questions, the answers, the inevitable diversion: Spike's calloused, broad hands trailing up her thighs and up her back, kneading her breasts, his mouth on hers, their breath puffing out in short pants as Spike slid into her, dick and tongue and fingers, all at once.
He had lit a cigarette unconsciously, dragging on the fumes in great, gasping lungfuls of nicotine and tar and poison, his teeth wearing gently at the paper in his mouth, the tip of his tongue pushing lightly at the filter.
Wolfe wasn't right. Vicious was in control of his own destiny, he could do whatever he damned well wanted to do. Vicious could smoke cigarettes at five in the morning, he could come visit Spike at five in the morning, he could stand out here in the rain and smoke his cigarettes after visiting Spike at five in the morning. He could realize that he wanted more than cigarettes and rain at five in the morning, if he wanted to.
Vicious didn't want to.
"What?"
Annie blinked wearily at him. Her coffee hadn't quite kicked in yet.
"I want to know about Spike."
"God damn." Annie yawned. "Okay, you want to know something about him? Smoking kills."
"You know what I'm talking about." Vicious was this close to reaching over the counter and taking Annie by the collar and wringing the answer out of her.
"I don't know what you mean." Annie said, eyebrows settling for a harried frown. "You never come in here so early. How the hell am I supposed to know if you're making any sense?"
"Annie."
"Vicious." She said, her voice taking on an exasperated tone. Vicious looked up and saw an earnest, almost desperate expression in her eyes.
Not here. Not now.
He nodded. "I need a couple of new magazines for the Jericho."
"That's Spike's gun." Annie said, and Vicious heard her rummage behind the counter. "What the hell do you want Jericho clips for?"
Vicious didn't answer.
"If you ask me," Annie said, "you baby him too much."
He felt a strange warmth diffuse through him, and angrily shoved it away. "I didn't ask."
"In my opinion," Annie said, "you spend too much time with him."
Vicious wanted to laugh, well, that just shows how much you know.
A plump hand shot out and slammed the clips against the counter. "He knew what he was getting into."
He didn't. Vicious thought. He was just a kid without a college degree. He just needed something to do. He wanted easy money, and he thought this was the way to get it. Easy women come easily, Spike could attest to that. Easy money… there's no such thing.
He shouldn't even be a part of this, Vicious thought. I used to work alone. There was some form of continuity there.
"He can die if he wants." Annie said nonchalantly. "You're not his keeper."
"If you say so." Vicious replied, just as easily. "Thanks." He pocketed the clips, and then felt something being pressed into his hand.
"Don't forget your receipt." Annie said.
Vicious nodded, and walked out of the shop, his index finger running over the crease in the paper.
Six in the morning. The rain hadn't abated, but Vicious was parked right in front of the store. In his car, he opened up the receipt that Annie had given him.
1 FHM 10
1 Playboy 15
Genuine quality ramen noodles
40.00
Genuine, genuyn, Nguyen, Vicious thought. He could be at the man's office at one, provided he didn't take an extended lunch break with Lisa like he usually did.
Vicious let out a sudden laugh. Who the hell was he kidding?
Starting up the car, he checked his watch. It was seven in the morning. He had six hours to kill.
Dr. Nguyen's office was located in the heart of the city, tucked away in the housing developments that had gotten started and then had been abandoned. Mars was moving out to the suburbs, sociologists said. After the initial excitement of colonization and expansion had worn off, people wanted a return to normalcy; this accounted for the rise in housing developments around the outskirts of the city, where people could pretend as though they were back on Earth, because that's where everybody really wanted to be.
"Ah, Vincent." Dr. Nguyen peered out of his office, and Vicious rose from his seat in the dingy waiting room. "To see you here again—it is good."
"Doctor." Vicious acknowledged.
Dr. Nguyen was a minute man with a head that was seventy percent grease and thirty percent toupee. His narrow black eyes glinted from behind thin spectacles that were more for decoration than anything else; laser surgery had corrected any imperfections long ago. He was the Red Dragons' special doctor; the man received monthly payments from Wolfe in exchange for his medical services. Dr. Nguyen spoke with a slight accent that was entirely faked; a disarming measure; he made up names for them, Vincent for Vicious and Spielman for Spike.
"Annabelle wanted to talk to you." Dr. Nguyen busied himself behind the register, no doubt digging for his handgun. Vicious watched him out of the corner of his eye as he sat back down in the worn leather seat. "You've knocked her up, Vincent?"
Dr. Nguyen had a strange sense of humor: one that could get a gun down his throat. "I don't think so." Vicious said, and Dr. Nguyen laughed, an annoying nasally chuckle that was completely genuine. He was a backalley abortionist, but he was a backalley abortionist with a heart of gold.
"I should not think so." Dr. Nguyen said, sitting behind the register now, chin propped up on one hand. "She is not seeming to be your type."
Vicious bit the inside of his mouth because there was no cigarette to act as his pacifier. "So, doctor." Vicious said, managing to keep his voice to a growling murmur. "How has business been?"
"Horrible, Vincent." Dr. Nguyen rolled his eyes. "Everybody is using carefully the contraceptives now. Nobody has come here in weeks. Perhaps your Red Dragons should honor me a favor and give the defective contraceptives, yes?"
Vicious smiled despite himself. "We'll see."
"Ah, Vincent. Always so ambivalent."
"Be careful, doctor." Vicious said. "Your education is showing through."
"Ambivalent is too neat a word, yes?" Dr. Nguyen took his glasses off, squinted at them. "I shall make it confused. Ah, Vincent, always so confused. And then me-- two Ph.D.s, and where am I ending up?"
Vicious gestured at the waiting room.
"Yes, well." Dr. Nguyen straightened, and Vicious saw the doctor's hand clench inside his pocket, gripping the end of the handgun protectively. Dr. Nguyen's eyes followed his. "Of course, Vincent. I mean you no harm. But any moment now there could be the government running into here and taking everything. You know what I do, it is illegal."
"And you're going to shoot government agents?" Vicious said, standing up as well. He couldn't trust anybody now, could he? With Wolfe on hiatus and the Chinese waiting to make their move, millions of transactions could have transpired within the past few days and Vicious wouldn't have been any wiser. Wolfe would be wise to use the last of his resources before his time ran out, but killing Vicious wasn't going to solve anything.
"I am not shooting the government agents." Dr. Nguyen said. "How then, if I am in jail, should I be getting my family from Vietnam here to Mars?"
Vicious shrugged, rolled his shoulders, hearing them creak in their sockets. "Maybe you aren't."
He heard the snap of the gun as the safety was disengaged, and Vicious was staring down the barrel of an antique Magnum.
"That's a nice piece." He said, smiling, letting a little teeth show. "It really shows your heritage."
"Wolfe is paying for my family's release from the camps." Dr. Nguyen said, outwardly calm, but Vicious saw the flicker of anxiety in the man's eyes. "I hope you understand."
"Maybe I do." Vicious said.
"I am killing one man so that many others may live." Dr. Nguyen said, swallowing. Vicious saw the quiver in the man's throat, chuckled to himself.
"You've killed a lot of babies to get where you are." Vicious said, and Dr. Nguyen pulled the trigger.
It made a pathetic clicking noise, and the look on Dr. Nguyen's little black eyes went from anxious to confused to terrified. His face turned white and he dropped the gun. "I-- I could have sworn-- "
"Too bad." Vicious could feel his grin spreading across his face as he ventured forward, pulling out his own gun, pressing it up against Dr. Nguyen's throat, feeling the clammy skin give way, the Adam's apple bobbing crazily. The doctor was crying, fat tears slipping out from the corners of his eyes, and Vicious wanted to laugh at him. "Well, maybe your family will get out anyway."
"Don't kill me." The doctor gasped pitifully. "I have information about what Wolfe wants with Spielman. He's--"
"He can take care of himself." Vicious said, jamming the gun harden into the man's windpipe, making him choke. "He doesn't need you."
"No, Spielman--"
Vicious didn't want to hear whatever the man had to say. Spike-- Spike had been fine this morning. Wolfe lay lethargic in his office, and the Chinese would soon step in and take over the organization. There would be a future ahead for them, for Spike and for Vicious and for everybody else involved in this lucrative capitalist loophole that was the syndication.
The Chinese would protect Spike. He was too valuable an asset to lose.
"Think about it." Vicious said, whispered into the other man's ear. "Your dying words are going to be Spielman. What are they going to think back in Vietnam?"
He pulled the trigger before and felt the doctor's body stiffen as his head was blown to pieces, bullet flying through Nguyen's brains as it ended its course lodged in the wall amidst a splatter of blood. Vicious felt something sharp cut his forehead, realized it was a piece of the doctor's bone.
The doctor's body slumped uselessly against his. Vicious dropped the man onto the floor and looked at him for a while, red blood oozing out of his mutilated face. Perhaps, Vicious thought, it would have been better to shoot him in the temple, classic suicide bullet entry. But it was plausible for a man to shoot himself in the neck and die, bleeding to death on the floor. Vicious checked his shoes-- they were clean.
He walked into the doctor's clinic room and rinsed his hands off with soap and water. Walking back out into the waiting room again, he wondered if the body's position was correct for a suicide shot. If Dr. Nguyen had killed himself, would the trajectory of the bullet be so that it entered the ceiling? Would the blood splatter the way it had?
The two diplomas hung up on the wall, certifying Dr. Nguyen as a doctor of gynecology and pediatrics. It was all a little ironic, and Vicious thought, two Ph.D.s, and look where you are now.
He left through the back door. This was a seedy neighborhood and nobody would notice that Dr. Nguyen was missing. By the time anybody found him, his body would be bloated, decaying, rats and maggots would be crawling out of his bloodied head as if it were their new home. The blood on the wall would have dried to a rusty brown. It would look like a piece of modern art.
Vicious wasn't worried about Annie. The woman may have set him up, but Vicious didn't think Annie the shrewd type. At any rate, she'd have a nice surprise waiting for her when she got there. The thought made him smile.
He had gone back to his apartment after he'd killed the doctor, had isolated himself again. His phone rang a few times, from Annie, from various telemarketers. He wondered howthetelemarketers hadgotten his phone number-- it wasn't listed in the city's directories.
One night, as Vicious was getting out of the shower, his cell phone rang; it was Spike. Vicious stared at the phone for a minute, letting it ring, wondering about the qualities of forgiveness and love and lust, honor and masculinity. He answered the phone.
"Hello."
"Hey." Spike said, his voice coming through the phone in a burst of static. "I have some news for you. Wolfe needs a couple of drinking buddies tonight."
"And your point is?" Vicious deadpanned.
"Well, actually--" Spike's voice wassardonic. "He's attending the gala opening at the Forbidden City Casino. There's a ride picking us up at the park around the corner of my apartment complex."
"And he thinks he can trust us?"
"Something's going to happen." Spike said, voice cool. "We need to be there."
There was a long pause as Vicious processed the words; Spike was being deliberately vague, Vicious' answers were equally vague, his feelings equally elusive.
They couldn't help themselves; they were Red Dragons.
"I'll see you there." Vicious said, and hung up.
They arrived around the same time at the park, waiting in the silence and the quickening dark until a black sedan came around the bend.
"I saw Annie today," Spike said, fidgeting with his seatbelt. "She was a little out of it."
Vicious was silent, waiting for him to go on.
"I mean--" Spike hesitated, looking out the window. "We're on the same side, right?"
Money, power and satisfaction? Vicious thought angrily. He didn't know why he was suddenly frustrated. Maybe, he thought, if I have those things, I won't have to think about you anymore.
He could feign ignorance, who are you talking about? You and Annie? Of course you're on the same side.
"Of course we are." He said instead, and felt Spike's hand on his shoulder.
"And what side is that?"
Vicious cast him a warning glance. It wasn't safe in here, not in Wolfe's car. Spike nodded and settled back in his seat, and they rode the rest of the way in silence.
Their chauffeur pulled up to the casino entrance, and politely declined the valet offer. Spike and Vicious entered the casino and were greeted by a blast of sound: tokens falling into metal bins, roulettes rolling, the gaudy chime of the slot machines, sounds of laughter at the card tables.
"Where are we supposed to meet him?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, a large hand clapped him on the back. Vicious turned his head around and peered into Wolfe's face, flushed red, a light sheen of perspiration on his forehead.
"Where've you been?" The man asked, slurring his words. Vicious smelled alcohol on his breath. "I've been waiting."
"Car trouble." Spike said easily. Vicious cast him a wary glance; Spike's eyes roamed the casino, unperturbed.
"You're missing the fun." Wolfe said. "They told me you were coming, so I came down to greet you myself."
Vicious wondered how many shots Wolfe had, to act this way. The man was thoroughly intoxicated.
"What are you playing?" Spike said, and began walking towards the elevators with Wolfe. Vicious followed behind, letting his eyes fall freely on the hard slope of Spike's backside, the strong shoulders encased in the beige trenchcoat, calves tightly muscled under his black trousers, footsteps strong and sure.
"Twenty-one." Wolfe said, ringing up an elevator, grinning lewdly at the bellboy that passed their way. "Something I can still focus on, even with my--" he unsuccessfully masked a hiccup, "--limited capacities."
"Of course."
They descended down to the high roller and VIP rooms, and as they stepped out of the elevator they could smell the expensive cigars and cologne. Wolfe looked out of place among the portly gentlemen with their silk suits and their neatly combed hair. Wolfe looked like a mess, his coat off, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his hair sticking up in tufts.
"Gentlemen." The dealer was an Asian man with jet black hair and slanted eyes, his vest pristine, his frame light-boned. He had long, elegant fingers, Vicious noticed, like a typist's, maybe he had been an accountant, a bookkeeper. Spike was standing still, a sociable smile frozen onto his features, the other card players were looking at them expectantly. Vicious realized what this was. Wolfe was going to die, these gentlemen had paid a heady price to watch him make a fool of himself. Wolfe knew he was going to die, and he was living his last moments of life the only way he knew how.
"Gentlemen." The dealer repeated, shaking Vicious from his thoughts. "Would you like to join?"
"No thank you," Spike answered for the both of them. "We're just here to watch."
The frozen, tense atmosphere of the room dissolved for the moment, and vodka glasses clinked as they were refilled. Wolfe was loud, obnoxious, making jokes in his intoxicated state, and the portly gentlemen in the silk suits were laughing at him, at his antics. Wolfe was too young for this crowd, and Vicious almost felt a stab of sympathy for him.
"What side are you on?" Spike whispered into his ear as they watched the card game in progress. Vicious leaned into the warm breath ghosting across his neck, let himself think it was an unconscious act.
"Shh." He said, not daring to look at Spike, afraid that some facet of emotion would show through his face, reveal him. "Watch the game."
Spike didn't press the issue, and they watched the game. They watched Wolfe down the vodka shots, they watched as his hand gestures became increasingly sloppy, overwrought. Vicious smelled the fear on him, the anxiety, the desperation. It seemed too easy to watch Wolfe succumb to this. He'd been so full of his own ego, his own life, just a few days ago; now he was reduced to this useless, floundering wreck. The Chinese were going to ruin him, and he knew it.
But did Spike know it? His words as of tonight had been vague, ambiguous. Anything he said could have been from either side; he had not said if Wolfe had hired them both tonight as bodyguards, or if the Chinese had instructed them to come here to witness the coup.
He couldn't be certain of Spike's loyalties anymore than he could be of Annie's or Dr. Nguyen's. It left him empty, nauseous, to think that perhaps Spike was still loyal to this inept son of a bitch.
The games finished, and Spike and Vicious waited until everybody else had left before they went to Wolfe's side, hauling him out of the chair. Wolfe stumbled out of the room, penniless and giddy. Good game, Vicious heard him giggle, what a great game. Those guys can really play.
Of course, Spike said, placing a hand on the small of Wolfe's back, guiding him into the elevator. They're the best.
Vicious stood on the opposite corner of the elevator, trying to distract himself from seeing Spike's hand resting lightly on Wolfe's hip, trying not to imagine what he would do if given the opportunity to kill Wolfe right now, here in this elevator, his skin and bones splattered on the security camera.
His eyes met Spike's for a moment as the elevator rose; he remembered that Spike had said something, he'd said I'm doing whatever you're doing. And he was saying it now, except neither of them was talking the lead. They were following implicit orders from the Chinese. He felt a ridiculous rush of affection for the other man, a biting, tremulous shudder of love that left him reeling, breathless. They were fighting a war, one that had no clear boundaries or definitions; how far would they go for each other?
I'll go wherever you go.
Spike dialed the chauffeur's number on his cell phone and stood off to one side, speaking quietly. Vicious and Wolfe waited in the front. Wolfe's hand came down hard on his shoulder for the second time that night, and Vicious turned his head to find Wolfe frowning at him, as if the man didn't know who Vicious was.
"I'm not going to die, you know." Wolfe said conversationally. "But I should've killed you when I had the chance."
"Shut the fuck up." Vicious said.
"No, you. Shut up." Wolfe swayed precariously. "Fucking traitor. I know you. I should've never. Should've known that they'd do this to me. You know that this was their plan the whole time?" Wolfe closed his eyes. "You should be able to predict what those fucking commies are going to do. You should've seen it coming."
The black sedan pulled up into the driveway, and Vicious opened the back door and tossed him in. Spike came over just as he shut the door.
"Are we going with him?"
Vicious shook his head. "No."
There was a pause, a moment of hesitation as they watched the black sedan drive away, as they watched it disappear into the city.
"Come on, then." Spike said, his brown eyes uncharacteristically gentle. "I'll call us a cab. Let's go home."
Spike had been watching television, lanky body stretched out on the floor. Vicious had been sitting on the couch, watching Spike watch television. Spike had dozed off, his head leaning back against the couch cushions, mouth slightly open, his breathing adenoidal. Vicious stood up, careful not to disturb the other man, and walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, and stared at the white interior.
He should have been loyal to the organization, to either Wolfe or the Chinese. He should have been loyal to his aspirations, his ambition, and maybe he was. But to ask him to fight to death for any of those things, and he would have questioned his purpose. It was in a man's nature to question things he didn't believe in; it was divine to find something to follow with unquestioning faith.
He would not think of Spike; he would not make that association.
"They found some guy buried in fifteen pounds of coke."
"No fucking way. What happened?"
"Guy owned a small business. Apparently his business partner was murdered a couple days ago. Looks like it wasn't such an innocent business after all."
"Well, given that amount of coke, you think?"
"They were drug dealers, something like that. His business partner, the first to go-- he'd been dead for a while before they found him. Decayed beyond recognition… something like that. Murdered in his office."
"And this other guy?"
"They tied him up and stuck his head in a bin of coke. There was air enough to breathe, but he basically OD'd himself to death."
"What a way to go."
"The best way to go."
"They catch the guys who did it?"
"They've got two suspects: the two guys who were last seen with him, in their twenties. Apparently the dead guy was the head of some organized crime unit. They say the guys they caught were working for him."
"So it was some sort of takeover."
"Well, you never know. They both had alibis. Hanging out, watching TV, stuff like that."
"You believe it?"
"Hey, you never know with these things."
A/N: Thanks for reading! 3 3 The review mark is now over ninety, which makes me absurdly happy (yes, I am an sap for attention sweatdrop).
I'm rather angry with myself for not writing in Lin&Shin stuff. Well, they will be in the next chapter; it's already planned out. At the same time, I was happy that I got to write a little bit of Annie in there, and explore Dr. Nguyen's involvement in the conspiracy for a little bit. )
I feel that a smutty, light/fluffy piece is in order after this. They suffer too much angst as it is. xO
Thanks again for reading! Feedback and comments are accepted with glee… make my day! xD
