Nick and Andy arrived at Hyman Condos. It was a ten-storey condominium that came with all the trappings of the rich, and exclusively for the members of Tommy Vercetti's gang, and then only if they had earned the right to live there. Two guards at either end of the alley leading to the building kept trespassers, by-passers, and police officers out.
The two men were again dressed in their business attire. They arrived at the 3 o'clock side of the condominium on foot. The sun glared down, soon making the day uncomfortably hot. The people outside were wearing mostly thin cotton tops and short pants/skirts, and both Made Men stood out like wolves in a flock of sheep.
The guards stood silently, scanning the crowds behind their dark sunglasses. Their suits were tailored a size too large, the better to hide weapons. Even so, Nick saw a bulge under each of their jackets.
Approaching them, both men removed their sunglasses. The guards nodded, and stepped aside, letting them pass. The Made Men entered the building.
The lobby appeared to have been taken from a luxury hotel. The high ceiling was painted white with gold corners. Oak-paned walls surrounded the area. The pillars were gold-plated. Andy and Nick kept on walking forward, the marble floor reflecting their movements. The guards in the lobby lounged in the sofas near the front door, with some nodding at their passage.
Both men ascended the stairs in the lobby, and arrived at the mezzanine. There were two elevators in front of them, both manned by trusted operators in white suits. Four guards scanned them quickly before letting them enter the elevator on the right.
Upon entering, Andy turned to the operator.
"Top floor, please."
"Very well."
The operator pressed the button for the top floor. The only reason why an operator was needed was so that any intruders could be shot dead inside the car. Nick knew of the Colt Python this particular operator had under his jacket. But, he couldn't care less about that.
After a short wait, the elevator doors opened. Both men stepped out, and walked forward. They were in a long, straight corridor, which terminated in an office. A secretary sat at her desk outside the office, typing something.
Arriving at the office, Andy entered, while Nick waited outside. He reached for a rose inside the trench coat.
"Hi," he whispered to the secretary, leaning forward.
She typed a sentence.
He smiled, and chuckled a little.
She changed the paper.
"Love you," he mouthed, placing the rose in front of her before going after Andy.
She had no idea he was there.
Meanwhile, Andy was inside his boss's office. An oak table took center stage. Two leather seats were in front of the desk. The boss sat on a plush leather seat, which also came with wheels. Several pieces of paper were on his table, along with a table lamp. A bookshelf, filled with books of all sorts, was on the door's left.
The acting boss, a trusted lieutenant of Vercetti's whom everyone called Pete, was in his late forties. Wrinkles creased his face. His black spectacles further magnified his large brown eyes. His receding hairline proved his age. His black hair was already turning gray.
"Take a seat, Andy."
He did so, wondering what this pre/post-deal meeting would be all about.
"How did the deal go?"
"It went down just fine. The Cubans took the cash and we took their crack for less than a fifth of what it's worth."
"Nice job. They still want to work with us again, according to my other guy on the ground… I hear you want to leave?"
"…Yes," Andy replied, wondering what his boss's reaction would be.
"Well…that's expected. Hell, you and your family's served our interests for long enough. Even Tommy Vercetti thinks that way. How's your father?"
"He's alive. I'll doubt his identity if that bout of pneumonia killed him."
The boss chuckled.
"You've one last job to do in Tallahassee, right? After that, I'll let you go. Tommy's approved of that. Mike has the details on it. He'll be in the Malibu nightclub at eight to meet you."
Andy nodded.
"Okay, go."
Nick entered.
"Nick!" his boss greeted.
"Hey Pete."
"You fine?"
"Yeah."
"Great job earlier on. Like I said earlier, Mike has the details on your next -and last- deal. He's handling some business downtown, so he can't tell you here. Is there anything else?"
Neither man said a word. Andy had already told Nick about his plans. The latter had agreed somewhat half-heartedly.
"Okay. You can leave."
Both men left the office, and started down the corridor.
"Nick," Andy said.
"Yeah?"
"Take care of this for me."
The businessman extracted his Beretta M92FS and two magazines from his coat's pockets. The gunman accepted them with a frown.
"You still carry Berettas?"
"Yeah. Kinda like the double-action trigger on them."
"Heh. Give me an American gun any day."
"Sure. But you can fire them without cocking the gun."
"Yeah, but the M1911 is still the best handgun in the world."
"In your opinion."
The men took the elevator down, and left the condominium. Outside, both men separated from each other, each with his personal appointment to tend to. Andy caught a cab some fifty meters down the road to the right side of Hyman Condo. Nick caught another one a few minutes later.
The taxi stopped outside the hospital in Vice Point. Andy got out, giving the driver an extra ten dollars for his speed. The driver sped off in high good humor as the Made Man walked forward.
The hospital was a fifteen-storey structure, painted white and green. A fountain outside it showed the hospital's wealth. The space in front of the hospital was of bright white concrete. He walked across the…space? He didn't know the term for it.
Opening the double glass doors, he walked into the structure. The faint, antiseptic smell of hospitals everywhere assaulted his nose, causing it to wrinkle. He never liked hospitals, but he had to go in. The reception counter was directly in front of him, currently staffed by two nurses attending to the families of a couple of patients. Several rows of seats, some filled, occupied most of the center of the room. A pair of elevators was set into the left wall. He made his way there, and called one, ignoring the people around him.
His father was hospitalized here, and was soon ready for outpatient status. It was only polite to visit him.
The elevator arrived, announcing its arrival with a loud ding. He entered it, and headed for the eighth floor. Nobody joined him.
Upon arrival, he walked down the green-painted corridor, hearing his footsteps. The nurses were busy tending to other patients. Bright lights overhead threw shadows behind him, mimicking his movements perfectly, almost mockingly. His father's ward was directly in front of him.
A person pushed him strongly against the wall—
"What the—"
—He felt his hands being pressed against the wall in the classic search position.
"This is a police inspection!" the person behind him boomed, frisking Andy.
"Yes sir," the Made Man muttered.
The searcher pulled him away from the wall.
"That's enough, Tony!"
Tony laughed, and pulled his brother away from the wall. Tony was 5'8", about two inches shorter than his older brother. Apart from that, they almost physically resembled each other, down to their brown eyes. Tony, however, had less wrinkles than Andy, and had higher cheekbones. Andy had a sharper nose, and a chin that was less well defined as his younger brother's. Tony was also a cop.
"All right, all right!"
"I hear you're going to be an inspector next, eh?"
"Damn right!"
The door opened, and a woman stepped out.
Andy only knew her by her first name: Christine. She was a klutzy twenty-three-year-old whose personality had drawn Tony to her. She was really plain, unless one counts her uncommon carelessness. She was dressed in a white blouse and light brown skirt, and had a violin case over her right shoulder.
"Oh, hello," she said.
"Hello."
Christine walked over to her fiancé.
"C'mon. I've got an audition, remember?"
"Yeah. I'll get the car. I'll meet you outside."
"Okay."
She turned around, instantly forgetting her fiancé and her future brother-in-law's position, or maybe the violin case. In either instance, the case swung around so violently that if either man had not ducked in time, they would have been bowled over.
Tony looked at her, shaking his head, a faint smile playing on his lips.
She walked on, and suddenly turned around, the violin case missing a patient by a millimeter.
"Hey! What are you waiting for? We're going to be late."
"Coming!" Tony replied, chasing after her.
She spun around again, the violin case bumping into a nurse. She apologized profusely as she ran.
The room was a private one. It was illuminated with a soft, orange glow from a table lamp on the table on the right, highlighting the orange-painted walls. A bed, currently occupied, took the far left corner.
"Dad," Andy whispered, walking towards him.
Andy's father was an old man; maybe sixty-five, seventy, Andy wasn't really sure. His face was lined with stress lines and wrinkles, indicating the highly stressful nature of his previous job. A head of white hair on his head added some dignity to his gaunt frame. His brown eyes turned to his visitor.
"Andy…how're you?" he asked in a hoarse bass voice, if a voice could ever be described as such.
"Better than you, old man," Andy said, walking up to him.
The old man chuckled.
"Indeed. The docs say that I can be released in two days, though. How are you?"
"Fine. I've another job coming up in Tallahassee."
Both men knew what 'job' meant. Two generations of their family had been serving a drug dealer named Juan Martinez, Ricardo Diaz when he killed Martinez and took over, then Tommy Vercetti.
"I'm planning on making it my last one. After that, I'll leave, settle down, and earn an honest living." Fifteen years of servitude was by-God enough. Serving an empire of evil leads to damnation, or so he was told. His soul tormented him every day for his association with Vercetti, and he had enough.
"Good. Your brother still doesn't know you're working for Vercetti?"
"No, and neither does anyone else who doesn't need to know."
"Excellent. I was wondering if I'd ever see this day."
His father had served for thirty years, catching more than his fair share of bullets and police attention. He had never once been caught, like his son. The fact that he had been a gangster still tore him apart ten years after the fact. The only reason he was allowed to retire was the fact that he was too old to do anything else apart from accountancy, which his boss had too many practitioners of.
Andy chuckled.
"Good…in the past, you and your brother loved to play 'police and thief', with you always being the thief. I always hoped that I'd never see it happen in real life. It'll be far easier for your brother if he doesn't know that you're a gangster, both for his career, and for his soul."
"Yeah."
Meanwhile in Vice City Concert Hall
The concert hall had been built only about three months ago, hence its relative lack of damage. However, it already had a faint coating of grime like all of the buildings in VC, although it was not very obvious.
They were almost late. Tony had to plead for a last chance before the judges finally relented. Christine was auditioning for the role of a violinist. The seats were unoccupied save for five; the judges took four, and Tony took the last, only because he was granted permission to do so. The air conditioning was at full blast, causing Tony to sit on his hands. The four judges, clad in jackets, didn't seem to mind.
The lights in the seating area had been turned down, allowing the judges to see the would-be player on the brightly illuminated stage that much better. Christine's stand was in place, and so was her seat. The only thing missing was she.
She came in from the backstage, violin case in hand. She walked to the front of the stage.
"You are Christine Graham, correct?" the second judge asked.
"Yes sir," she whispered nervously.
"Okay. Play whenever you're ready, Christine."
She walked tensely over to the chair, and sat down. She removed the score from her case, and placed it one the stand before removing her violin and mounting it.
At least she didn't screw up, Tony thought.
The piece of music she had chosen was 'As Time Goes By,' something best reserved for a piano. A judge frowned upon hearing the melody being brutalized by her nervous hand. Another one raised an eyebrow, hearing this familiar tune being played badly by an unfamiliar instrument. Even her fiancé winced, disheartening her.
The judge next to Tony looked at him and clapped, smiling a smile as genuine as a three-dollar bill as he did so. He was the head judge, and only his opinion really mattered.
She slipped.
The violin flew out of her hands, and collided with the stand. The latter flew for a foot or so, landing with a loud metallic 'clack' and scattering her score around the stage. She gasped, ran over to the stand, and rearranged everything. Replacing the stand, she turned to the judges.
"That'll be quite enough, thank you," the head judge said.
She returned the violin to its case as Tony quietly left the audience hall.
Tony and Christine met up outside.
"It was horrible, wasn't it?" she asked, on the verge of tears.
"Well…you did your best, Chris. That's all that mattered."
"But—"
"Shh…" he whispered, taking her into his arms. He felt her sob against his chest for a minute.
"Better now?" he asked tenderly.
"Yes, yes…let's go."
She turned around, and the heavy violin case collided with the window glass of a moving car next to her, shattering it into a thousand fragments. The Sentinel came to a stop, and the driver popped his head out, looking at the damage. It was the head judge.
"Come on!" Tony called.
The cop grabbed his fiancé's free hand and ran.
Later, in Ammu-Nation (Downtown)…
Ammu-Nation was a nation-wide chain of arms stores, selling firearms of all types to civilians, along with ammunition. Anything could be bought from it, if one had enough money, of course. Federal Firearms Licenses were mere inconveniences to the owner(s) of Ammu-Nation, assuming that he/she/they even cared.
This particular shop was Nick's favorite. It had a firing range, which he frequented, and sold all sorts of weaponry and ammo for low prices...since he was a Made Man, of course. The driver dropped him off outside the one-story shop before driving off to see his boss.
Nick sauntered in, shoes hardly making any noise against the concrete floor. He had stubbed out his cigarette at the dustbin outside the shop. There were all manner of weaponry, explosives, ammunition, and survival gear on display at the various counters at the back of the shop, but today, Nick had something important to do.
"Hey, Nick!" the shopkeeper called. He was a 'regular', after all.
"Hey. Is Phil here?"
"Yeah. He said he started shooting without you. He's downstairs at the range."
"Okay…I'll take five boxes of .45 ACP please."
"Hold on…" the man knelt down, and produced five boxes marked 'WINCHESTER 45 AUTOMATIC', and beneath that was '230 GR. FULL METAL CASE'.
"That'll be…seventy-five dollars, please."
Nick removed his wallet, and extracted a hundred-dollar note before passing it to him.
"And keep the change," Nick said, grabbing the boxes and heading downstairs. The bullets were for the magazines he would soon be using.
The firing range had six lanes. Yellow lines painted on the concrete defined the lanes, as though the partitions couldn't. Bright white lights glared from above, illuminating the area. The metal backstop was pockmarked with hundreds of bullet holes of various calibers.
A man stood at the number two lane, Colt M1911A1 in his right hand. He had long, blond hair, slightly overweight, and was clad in a brown T-shirt and blue jeans.
"Hey Nick," Phil Cassidy said.
"Hello. Shot without me?"
"Hey, you're late for our special match," he pointed out.
"Yeah, yeah…what's your score?"
"Sixty."
"Sixty? Hah! I can shoot better than that!"
"Prove it."
"You said so."
Nick walked to the number three lane, putting his ear and eye protection on, and drew his twin Colt M1911A1s. His left foot and arm was leading, supporting his right leg and arm. His arms were slightly bent for greater flexibility and lesser muscle tension. He was right handed, and only used that hand for shots needing greater accuracy. The other hand was for other targets.
"Okay…live ammunition! Three, two, one, FIRE!" Cassidy called. He didn't bother with ear protection. Oops.
Three man-sized targets, built of yellow plastic, came out from the sides. Each had five parts. To score one point, one must destroy the closest target. Earning two points required one to take the second target apart. Three points were awarded if he third target is disintegrated.
Nick trained the pistols on his targets, and pulled the triggers. He saw two plastic lower torso parts shatter, and he reaimed, blowing another two lower torso parts apart. The next two shattered the heads of the second and third heads simultaneously. The next four exploded the remaining parts.
Taking aim, he fired rapidly, seeing the upper torso and head of the nearest target blow apart in a spray of plastic. The next two shots destroyed the target. The left pistol's slide locked back on empty, and the right one's remaining bullet was expended on the farthest target's head.
Six points.
He ejected the magazines of both weapons simultaneously, and reached into his ammo carriers. He reloaded the right pistol, followed by the left one, and hit the slide release catch, feeding a round into each pistol's chamber.
The next nine shots were discharged as rapidly as Nick could aim, blowing away the furthest and middle targets. The last one received four shots, removing the torso section. Nick reloaded, and fired one bullet to finish the target.
Twelve points.
The farthest target came out of the left side, and the middle one came from the right. Nick crossed his arms and pulled the triggers smoothly, stopping only to re-aim. The nearest one again took four torso shots before he reloaded and fired a final shot into its skull.
And so it went, with Nick firing away at his targets. Cassidy's eyes opened wide as he shot his way to sixty points in ninety seconds, and his jaw fell off when Nick expended all but one round in his magazines in forty-five seconds. Each man was allowed to shoot as many rounds as one wanted in this match. The goal was to get as high a score as possible before time ran out, or destroy all the targets; something only two other men had ever done before. Nick was too busy firing to care.
While Cassidy was staring dumbfounded, Nick was still shooting. His superior eye-hand coordination was the key to his technique and speed. He took aim at the last target, and pulled the trigger, sending a bullet into the head of the last target, and exploded it just as the buzzer sounded. The pistol locked back on empty, and the last brass casing landed on the floor, joining several dozens of its fellows. The thunder of the shots had barely faded when Nick turned around.
"Not bad, eh? I got a perfect!"
"What?"
Nick had to repeat five times, each shout becoming progressively louder, until Cassidy could hear his voice past the ringing in his ears.
"Damn!
You're the third person to get that!"
"Ah well…a deal's
a deal, Phil. Hell, just to make you feel better, I'll pick up all
the brass and throw 'em away."
"All right, all right," he said good-naturedly, handing a hundred dollar bill over, "remind me never to enter a shooting match with you."
Nick laughed as he accepted the money. He had to reload the magazines he used later…after he was done cleaning up.
Author's Note: In keeping with the spirit of the movie, I have modified a few scenes in the story. Some scenes had to be modified so that they'll make some more sense (in Western minds). Also, Nick's counterpart in A Better Tomorrow didn't go shooting, but he wasn't mentioned at all in the movie, so I went ahead and placed the final scene in. Finally, I changed Andy's pistol, since his previous one probably never existed at all, according to my notes.