Darkness fell. With the passing of light came the coming of darkness, both in terms of brightness, and of morality. The police became a little more vigilant; as though it would do anyone save themselves and a few lucky people some good, Andy thought, as he exited his taxi outside the Malibu.
The Malibu nightclub had been reopened after three months of renovation work. After Tommy Vercetti had solidified his grip on Vice City, he had decided to use some of his cash to improve his businesses, and in turn, generate more cash.
Andy entered the nightclub without so much as a cursory inspection from the bouncers. By now, he had changed into a white polo shirt and gray trousers with black pseudo-leather shoes. Smart casual attire was the dress code of the club, and it never pays to advertise when you're not on a job. They nodded as he passed. He was a Made Man, and Made Men were granted instant respect from anyone below them, meaning everyone except the boss.
The exterior facade remained unchanged, save for a large section jutting out of the back. That was where the renovation work had mainly focused on.
The interior of the nightclub was lit by flickering disco lights, illuminating the dance floor, the main highlight of the nightclub. Several dozen patrons were on the dance floor, gyrating to a techno dance beat while being led by several leaders on the stage. The guards looked impassively on.
The bar had been removed, and relocated. The nightclub had been expanded, adding more flooring, lighting, and electronics. The bar had been shifted to the far end of the wall. Several female waitresses in scarlet miniskirts, thigh-high leather boots and cleavage-revealing red shirts circulated around the room, bearing drinks for customers. Some of them naturally offered 'special' services, for a price, of course. Some of their take would go back to the nightclub's management, which gave it to the boss. Or the boss would just take the money himself and save the management the trouble.
Andy shook his head. He'd been in the Mob for too damn long.
He made his way to the far right corner of the bar. He walked through the dance floor, avoiding the dancers as much as he could. Cigarette smoke hung in the air, but no so much as to choke him. His nose wrinkled at the stench of secondhand smoke, though.
Passing by several tables, he arrived at the table. The corner table had a tangible advantage to anyone discussing confidential matters; anyone who was eavesdropping could be spotted easily, and walls can hide no man.
Nick was there, nursing a beer. He was dressed in a brown vest over a white T-shirt and brown trousers. A paper bag lay on his lap. He looked up, and nodded in recognition.
"Hey Andy."
The older man nodded, and sat opposite he.
"Want your gun and ammo back?" Nick asked.
"…"
The pistol and magazines had been gifts to him from Tommy Vercetti. The Beretta was still being evaluated as the US Army's next pistol, right? Andy didn't know, and Nick only paid attention to American guns, not Italian ones.
Tommy wanted them to be parting gifts; he left for NY a week later. Andy had seen them as confirmation that he was a mobster. Like it or not, though, it would be the gun that he would have to carry until he was free. It was the only way; respect came in many forms, and this was one of them. Respect is the only thing that mattered in the underworld.
Dammit.
"Yeah."
The gunman extracted the pistol and magazines from his bag, and handed them to his partner, who placed them in his over-sized gray jacket. The added weight was not reassuring, rather like more weight added to the burden on his soul.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
Mike came into the nightclub. He was, like them, a Caucasian, although at six foot one taller than either. But not by much. He was in his white cotton shirt, and blue jeans, making him look like an average guy having a beer after a hard day's work.
Mike arrived at the corner table.
"Mike," Andy said.
"Hi, Mike," Nick greeted.
He nodded, and sat down. Leaning forward, he brought his hands up and grasped them.
"Right. Our next deal is in Tallahassee. The boss wants to expand operations there. We're dealing with this guy named Oliver Powers. Powers is in control of a major coke distribution network, and we want a cut of it.
"We'll be going to Tallahassee in two days, with five grand. He wants that much in exchange for five keys of coke. The street price is worth more than that, but this is his introductory offer. We leave tomorrow at 7 p.m. Andy…you know business, right?"
"Yeah."
"Good. The two of us will negotiate further when dealing with him. Tommy wants at least a five percent cut of his take, but Powers will only negotiate once he has the cash. Nick, you'll back us up."
"Actually…I'm going to stay here, and take care of things for Andy."
Mike nodded. He, too, knew about Andy's retirement.
"Okay. In that case, Andy and I will go to Tallahassee. Nick, stay here."
"Okay," both men said simultaneously.
"Good. Now, let's grab a beer."
Three beers later, the men were still talking shop.
"On my first deal, we were double-crossed by the gang we were doing business with. I ended up having two pistols at my head!"
"Really?" Mike replied.
"Hell, yeah. Andy was being covered by this bastard with a sawn-off twelve gauge. Their boss wanted us to drink a glass of champagne. I thought, 'Okay, that's reasonable,' so I downed it in one go. We thought he was done, but he wasn't. That son of a bitch actually got a glass of piss and forced me to drink it! It was my first deal, and the first time I drank urine!"
"Damn!" was Mike's response.
"Anyways, ever since then, nobody's pointed a gun at my head…and lived!" Nick concluded.
Andy checked his watch.
"Hey guys, I've gotta go."
"Sure. Bye," Nick said.
"Good night, Andy," Mike replied.
Andy left, leaving the other two Made Men to continue their drinking.
Vice City Police Headquarters, the next morning
There was something about the police that he respected. Hell, his own brother was a cop. The police headquarters represented the command center of the city's police force, and as a result, was among the largest municipal buildings in the city. It was mostly surrounded by a chain-link fence, topped by barbed wire, to keep out the most casual of intruders.
Andy arrived outside the entrance of the building, turned, and faced outwards. It felt like walking into the enemy's camp, except that he didn't know who you were. That thought provided no relief.
He waited.
A familiar face appeared in front of he.
"Tony!"
"Andy!"
The cop came up to his brother, and threw a right uppercut. Andy stepped backwards, hands reaching out to block his blow. Tony lunged forward, causing his brother to lean backwards and avoid his incoming right fist. Tony next strike, a left straight, caught him in the lower abdomen.
"You should punch more punching bags!" Andy laughed, even though he knew that Tony deliberately lightened his attack so much that it felt like a light push than a real punch.
"Yeah, yeah."
Tony was in his police uniform, a tan-brown shirt on darker brown trousers. A Colt M1911A1 rested in his holster, next to three spare magazines and his baton. A pair of handcuffs was on the left side of his belt, along with a police radio.
"Tony…I've got a business deal in Tallahassee. Mind holding the fort 'til I get back?"
"No sweat. Chris can tend to the old man."
"Good."
Tallahassee, a day later…
Andy and Mike exited their car. They were in the outskirts of Tallahassee…at least, that was what Andy thought. Everything looked cleaner than Vice City's buildings, which wasn't very remarkable. There were only four houses in the immediate area, all single-storey, and they were all scattered from each other. A hundred yards or so separated the house from the beginnings of the nearby swamps.
Andy was dressed in a flowing white cotton jacket that reached his knees, a pair of equally white trousers, a white shirt under the jacket, and a white tie. He even had a pair of white leather gloves. His sunglasses were black, of course. He positively reflected all of the sun's rays when they reached him.
Mike was wearing the same clothing Andy was, except that everything was black, except for the shirt.
"Come, come! Follow me," the man in front of them said cheerfully. Andy guessed that he was Powers.
They were surrounded by five men, dressed in casual attire, mostly T-shirts and shorts. Powers was in front of the car's hood. They all had smiling faces on, and seemed rather polite, but…Andy sensed that their smiles concealed daggers aimed at both him and Mike.
The men walked over to the single-storey house. It didn't look like it belonged to an American city…more like a Third World country. All of the walls were streaked with faded dirt and blood, and were pockmarked with bullets. The roof looked like it could slide away any second. The wooden door looked like it had been made of cheap material, and the dirt encrusted in its tiny holes made Andy wonder what the hell they were being led to.
The speaker opened the door, and showed both men into the living room. Two windows on the left allowed some sunlight into the room, but not a lot. A television set, circa 1970, sat on a wooden table on the door's left. A so-called sofa was about four feet away from the television, its faded and dirty fabric almost drawing a look of disgust from Andy. The floor was made of parquet, but it was chipped like all hell. Two doors on the far end and right respectively led to the other parts of the house.
"Sit, sit! Let me get the stuff," Powers said, before walking over to the rear left wall and reaching for a trunk there. Both men politely refused.
Outside, the local SWAT (Special Weapons And Tactics) team quietly took up positions, blocking off the main road. They were too slow in doing the back door, though.
Andy felt a chill running down his spine. His pistol, smuggled through Customs, trembled under his jacket.
Mike leaned against the right wall, watching the other guards. Causally, he placed his right hand into his right pocket, and gripped the Smith & Wesson 459 he had hidden there.
The four men stood around the room as their leader started yakking away. Andy's eyes focused on his hands. Mike looked at the gangster who had chosen to stand next to him. Another one had taken the doorway, and the other two were standing next to their leader.
Powers reached inside the trunk. Andy caught a glance of a flash of blued steel -
He reached into his coat, gripping his Beretta, and drew it, snicking off the safety. Powers turned around, a shotgun in his hands. Andy fired a shot, which shattered Power's left shoulder. Turning, he faced the gangster to Powers' left and shot him in the neck. Powers fell over, stunned. The other gangster pointed his gun at Andy. Mike drew his Smith, turned, and shot the gangster next to him in the face, spraying blood over the walls.
"TOC (Tactical Operations Command), be advised shots fired inside the building. Sounds like pistol fire. Requesting permission to execute."
"Roger. Execute when ready."
Andy dove over the sofa as Powers recovered. The latter raised his shotgun, and fired, catching Andy in the stomach with two pellets. The other gangster fired as well, but the bullet went wide. Mike fired at him, but missed, as he ducked. Mike turned, and shot twice at the gangster in the doorway, opening a hole in his chest. He followed through with a shot to the head.
Andy got up, and saw Powers. Raising the pistol, he aimed, and pulled the trigger. The 9x19 Parabellum bullet entered between Powers' eyes, shattering his head and blowing his brains out. Andy picked himself up as Mike shot the last gangster thrice in the heart.
Both men made their way to the other door. There could be other gangsters closing in, after all, and that door had to lead outside. Mike opened the door, and stepped out, Andy close behind, the pain in his wounds fading away.
The door burst open, revealing a SWAT officer in the doorway.
"Police! FREEZE!" he shouted, MP5 aiming at Andy.
"CRAP! RUN!"
Andy stepped outside, and discovered that he was outside the house. Guess he was right.
Both Made Men ran for the swamp, SWAT officers in pursuit. Mike led the way, clearing a path through the vegetation for Andy to follow. Crashing through the undergrowth, they kept on running, moving away from the house, keeping to dry areas. The swamp's crocodiles eyed the fleeing figures, and one of them hissed evilly.
Both men refused to stop running, at least until their breath gave out. The wounded man propped himself against a nearby mangrove tree while Mike just stood.
"Did you set me up?" Andy said, facing Mike. After all, only two other living people knew about the job: the boss, and Nick, both of whom Andy trusted. There was no way SWAT would have arrived so fast, unless someone betrayed them. Neither Andy nor Nick trusted Mike that much, and always felt that he would betray them eventually.
"If I did, would I be here?"
Of course not, Andy's mind whispered.
Then who?
Andy stood in silence for a few moments, before handing his Beretta to Mike.
"What are you doing?"
"Run!"
"You can't give yourself up!"
"Just run!"
"No, I won't-"
"Look. Take my gun, my ammo, and my gloves, and there'll be nothing for the cops to prove that I was there, all right? We wiped out the gang there, and dead men tell no tales. I wouldn't be serving hard or long time, if I do. Hell, the judge might even reduce my sentence since I gave myself in voluntarily. Besides, my wound will slow us down."
"I won't leave you behind."
"Then I'll shoot you, and let the crocodiles eat you," Andy replied coolly.
"Damn you, Andy."
Mike grabbed the pistol, and Andy stripped off his gloves before passing them on to Mike. Reaching into his pockets, he emptied them of their magazines and passed them to Mike.
"See you around," Andy whispered.
Andy turned around, and staggered away. He retraced his steps, thinking about his past. This was his one chance to be forever free of the Mafia, and still be in their good books. He had enough of being a criminal. It's time to start on the straight and narrow.
He stumbled out of the swamp, hands up, already knowing what to see. Police cars had quarantined the area, their lights flashing to warn passers-by. Every police officer had his or her gun drawn, and all of them were behind their car doors. He took a few more steps towards the police vehicles.
"Freeze!" the nearest cop said. He did just that, spine erect, hands straight, face devoid of emotion, letting these cops know what an honorable gangster is. The wound gave him hell for standing up straight, but some things were more important than that. Besides, it was only a flesh wound.
Two police officers approached him, weapons drawn and pointed at him.
"On your knees," the nearest one ordered. His partner nudged his shotgun a little to emphasize that order. They both knew where to send him when they were done: the local hospital. No ambulances were available, thanks to an accident on a freeway. The wound didn't look all that bad, anyway.
Andy did so stoically, without revealing anything on his face.
The police officer walked around and came up behind him, and holstered his pistol. He patted Andy down, finding nothing. He reached for a pair of handcuffs, and cuffed the criminal.
"On your feet!" he said, jerking Andy up. He didn't resist.
The police officer removed his Miranda card, and read off every line on it, just so that the tight-assed lawyers in America couldn't use 'improper recital of Miranda rights' or bullshit like that against him.
"Do you understand these rights?"
Andy nodded.
"Good."
The cop led Andy away, leading him into his car. There wasn't an ambulance available, incredibly enough. The gangster didn't struggle.
Sorry, Tony, Andy's mind whispered.
Author's Note: Sorry it took so bloody long. I'm being bombarded with tests and homework left, right, and center, and a piece of bad news almost blew my head apart. Literally. In the original movie, the deal was in Taiwan (Vice City was Hong Kong in the movie), the argument between Andy and Mike was slightly different, and I had to cut some scenes from the original to avoid spoiling the plot. Also, I extended the scene in the bar; I felt that the original bar scene was a little too short.