1990
Vice City
"Who d'you think you're?" the criminal screamed.
Tony didn't bother with an answer. After all, people like that punk don't need answers to their unbelievably stupid questions.
Grabbing his arms, Tony escorted him into the police station. The crook tried to struggle, not even caring about the fact that the handcuffs he had were too difficult for people like he to break free from.
"My brother's a lawyer!" he screamed.
A raised eyebrow was the inspector's only reply. There were too many lawyers in this city…hell, America.
The inspector brought him through the reception area, and manhandled him until they were past a certain door set into the wall. It was marked 'DISPATCH'. The cop stood on its left, temporarily leaving his charge behind.
"What the f-"
"COME OUT!" Inspector DiMilo called, knocking on the door.
The door burst open, slamming into the criminal's face and dislocating his nose. He went down with a strangled cry as a cop stuck her head out from the doorway.
"Yes, Inspector?"
"Nothing. Thank you. You may go back in, now."
The police officer shrugged, and closed the door. The desk sergeant on duty chuckled a little.
"What the hell is this! Police brutality!" the punk roared.
"No. It was an accident. I asked the dispatch officer to come out, and when she opened the door, it crashed into your face," Tony replied matter-of-factly. The duty sergeant laughed out loud, along with the civilians in the reception area.
"You bastard!"
"Curse and swear all you like. Let's go."
The Inspector picked the criminal up, and led him downstairs. The criminal decided that no, everyone would say that it was an accident, so there was no point saying anything more. The civilians actually applauded as he was led away, and that would take too long to live down.
The men descended the concrete steps, entering the holding cells. The cop made a right turn, and opened a green metal door marked 'INTERROGATION'.
The room within was lit by a several fluorescent lights mounted on the ceiling, revealing a metal table and four chairs, two on two ends, in the middle. One of the seats facing the door was occupied by the criminal's brother.
The Inspector walked the criminal over to his brother.
"Did the police mistreat you?" the lawyer asked, seeing his brother's damaged nose.
"No."
Outside a prison in Florida
It was a bright cold day in April, and Andy's new digital watch showed 1300.
Freedom.
For three years, he had kept his mouth shut, saying nothing about what had happened, revealing nothing about himself except his name. For some reason, the district attorney only managed to get him to be charged with flight from justice. The DA had no proof whatsoever that Andy was in the Mob, or even fired a shot, hence his sentence. The hospital stay lasted for one month, preliminaries were six months in the making, the song and dance that was the trial took four months, and he was only sentenced eighteen months ago.
Behind him was the prison he had left. It was situated a ways out of the main cities, since no one would tolerate prisons in the cities.
Andy didn't serve hard time. His fellow prisoners treated him as a hero, taking the fall for a friend. Everyone knew not to touch him, since they all knew what the Vercetti gang was. His warden had presented him with the watch upon release, and had called for a taxi to send him away. He had even waived the bill.
Andy was dressed in a muted green windbreaker, white T-shirt, and brown trousers; all of them bought some time back. He walked forward, heading for the cab in front of him.
"Andrew DiMilo!" a voice called.
Andy turned around.
It was Detective Chia, dressed the same way he had last seen him; long black overcoat, black shirt, black trousers, and black leather shoes. This guy loved the color black too much. The only colored thing he had were his tortoiseshell glasses. At least Nick wore white sometimes…
"Detective Chia," Andy replied.
"How're you, Mr. DiMilo?"
"The outside air smells fresher."
Chia chuckled. "I'm impressed. You spent three years in jail without betraying your colleagues."
"I have a sense of honor," Andy answered with an embarrassed grin.
"Honor?"
"A gangster's version, but honor nonetheless."
"Honor…it's good that a man has honor in this day and age. Money's the only thing that maters in this world now."
"I've promised everyone that I'm not going back into the underworld."
"Once a mobster, always a mobster, DiMilo. Still, we won't let anyone who betray you have any peace," Chia promised, from the side of the law to…the thin gray line separating both law and crime.
Andy smirked before opening the cab's door and entering the car.
"Where to?" the driver asked as he slammed the door.
"The airport."
A day later, Vice City…
The graveyard was new. It was built last year to accommodate the increasing number of dead people in Vice City. Located in the west side of Downtown, it overlooks the ocean, a peaceful backdrop to a resting ground.
It replaced the useless open areas in the southwest of the city, concrete having given way to turf and soil. Here, Tony and Christine were playing out a monthly ritual.
Christine was dressed in a simple white blouse and blue jacket, clutching a bouquet of fresh flowers. They were white tulips, Robert DiMilo's favorite. Tony was in his brown leather jacket, white shirt, and blue jeans. A lighted cigarette was clutched between his teeth.
Christine was in front of her husband's father's gravestone, kneeling down. She placed the flowers on the ground, a mark of respect for a man who lost it in his former occupation.
Tony was staring out at the sea, absorbed in his own thoughts. The lighted cigarette in his mouth helped his concentration, but not by much. Still, it was always better to have something that helps in stress relief.
Damn Andy. Thanks to him, the old man's dead…Shit! Where the hell's he? If he came back, and the two of them meet, their shared blood won't make any difference. That son of a bitch! No man would cause his father to die. SON OF A BITCH!
"Tony?" Chris whispered.
Tony blinked. He didn't realize that his face was contorted into a snarl.
"Are you all right?"
"It's nothing."
Later…
It was raining. A freak thunderstorm had come in from Cuba, bringing chaotic rains and wild winds. It wasn't a hurricane, but almost. The night sky only added to the storm's rage, almost that of Heaven.
Christine and Tony were in a Vice City Cab, listening to the rhythm of the rain, hearing it pattering on the roof. The taxi driver couldn't care less about what they did, or what they were thinking.
Andy was standing in the rain, waiting for a taxi along the road. Streetlamps threw a sorrowful orange glow across the street, weeping with the rain. How did things get so bad…? His career wasn't meant to end like this. Why the hell did he have to get caught? Hell, he had nothing of worth. Hell, he didn't even have an umbrella with him! Shit.
The taxi drove on through the night, its headlights catching whatever litter in its path. Tony leaned back, watching the shadows. He turned right, seeing…what the hell!
"Stop the car!" he ordered.
Andy turned right, hearing the taxi approach. He saw who was in the passenger seats at the back.
No way.
The taxi's wheels screeched a long protest as they gripped the road, burning off some rubber. The car came to a stop on the side of the road opposite Andy. Tony opened the door, and stepped out into the rain.
"Tony?" Chris asked. Her husband didn't reply, instead clenching his hands into fists of rage.
Andy saw Tony leave the taxi, barely even looking left or right to look for any oncoming traffic. There wasn't, of course, not in this storm. No one but people like he would go about in weather like this. He smiled.
That son of a bitch actually smiled! He dared to smile! Damn him! DAMN HIM! Tony's face became a passive stone mask, revealing nothing. He marched up to his brother, a time bomb ready to explode.
When he reached Andy, the first thing Tony did was to land a haymaker on his brother's jaw, sending him reeling backwards into the rain. This is for real, and thank you for the advice! Tony followed with a brutal left straight that slammed into his brother's solar plexus and knocked the wind out of him. A savage right uppercut to the chin sent a spray of spit into the night air, and caused Andy to fall over backwards. He landed on the soaked ground.
"Stop fighting!" Chris cried. She had exited the cab, and was standing away from the men, an open umbrella in her hands.
"Don't let me see you again!" Tony roared. He spit on his brother before turning away.
Andy lay dazed on the street as the taxi sped off into the night; its fading taillights hope draining away. He knew perfectly well why his brother had beaten him up. He had deserved it. That thought was as devastating as an ill-deserved shot to the heart, confirming his worst nightmares. Tony knew he was ex-Mafia. He had to know.
Shit.
The next day…
The City Cab Service was new, having been established last year. It was located in Little Haiti, a replacement of some of the slums there. It was a modest single-storey building not unlike Kaufman Cabs. In fact, though neither company knew, the architect that designed Kaufman Cab's building had used its blueprints as a base for the CCS building. The only difference was the manager's office at the back of the first floor.
Andy walked in, noting everything. He had a manila envelope in his hands, containing a letter of recommendation from a friend of a friend of someone in the Mob who owed him a favor. Two white and red-painted cabs were at both broad ends of the garage with the hoods open. Each cab had a man looking into the engine compartment, as though fiddling with something. A few other men were helping those men out, ferrying tools as needed.
He walked past the men, who noticed him and quickly formed a circle behind him, watching the newcomer.
"I'm looking for the manager," he asked of them.
A man stepped forward.
"There's none. I'm in charge. My name is Roger Johnson."
He was about Andy's height, maybe minus an inch. He had short, close-cropped black hair and eyes the color of the sky. He also had a particularly sharp chin, and a nose that was broken at least twice. There was a scar on his right cheek.
"I'm here to look for a job."
"Any recent job experience in VC?"
"I was abroad for three years, I'm afraid."
"If you were in jail, then say so."
Andy's heart sank.
"Well…I've a letter of recommendation from a friend."
He passed the manila envelope over to Roger. He took the envelope, but didn't inspect its contents.
"Y'know...everyone here's an ex-con. Hell, I set this place up so that I can give ex-cons a job. I only employ ex-cons because I'm one. So, what're you so afraid of?"
Andy almost sighed out loud.
"Do I get the job?" Andy asked, almost too eagerly.
"Yes. Can't be helped. I've got to accept you, since my friend said so."
Andy figured that the letter was little more than a formality, but he didn't say it out loud.
"What's your name?" the man asked.
"Andrew DiMilo."
The man turned to address the others.
"Boys, this here's Andy! He's new, so show him the ropes"
All of the ex-cons cracked grins, breaking the tension. They walked up to him, and exchanged greetings and handshakes, along with sharing a little about themselves.
"All right, enough talk! Back to work!"
"Yes boss," they replied collectively, before returning to work.
"Thank you," Andy said.
"Don't thank me."
Six months later…
It had been a pleasant six months. Andy figured that he would make a decent taxi driver, earning about two thousand bucks a month. He was now living in a rented apartment in Washington Beach, and perfectly respectable at that. Hell, he might even be free of the Mafia.
He drove around Washington Beach, picking up and dropping off his fares for three straight hours. By then, he was free to take a break. He stopped at the street opposite 1102 Washington Street.
Exiting his car, he took a glance at the house.
Tommy Vercetti had bought it some time last year, and was now using it as an alternate home in case the Vercetti Estate was compromised. It was comfortable enough to be used as a house for his higher-ranking lieutenants to live in. In fact, though Andy didn't know, Mike was staying there.
Andy saw a man dressed in dirty green overalls leave the house, carrying two pails; one in each hand, and a cloth was draped around the handles of the pails. He was walking with a pronounced limp, as though his right kneecap was shot away, and his posture was that of a defeated man who would never surrender. He took a closer look at his face.
What the hell? Nick!
Nick limped over to a car parked on the pavement. It was a Washington, painted iceberg white. He went to the left pail, and dipped its cloth into its contents, before removing it, wringing it dry, and running it over the car.
Nick's a car washer!
After soaping the car's exterior, Andy took the right pail and used its cloth to soak up part of its contents. Then, he wiped the car clean.
What the hell!
There was movement in front of he. Andy turned, looking at the entrance of the house.
Mike was there, dressed in an all-white ensemble, except for a pair of sunglasses. Ten bodyguards, all wearing business suits and shades surrounded him, probably for show and to take any bullets.
Mike's the boss now?
Mike's procession made its way over to Nick, arriving just as he was done. Nick stepped aside, his face devoid of emotion. Mike walked over to the car, and extracted his wallet. He pulled out a pair of dollar bills from it, and dropped it at Nick's feet.
"For your service," Mike muttered before entering the car, followed by three of his bodyguards. One of them took the driver's seat. Half a minute later, the car drove away, and Nick turned around, walking off. He kept his back to the car, hardly bothering to look behind him.
Andy jumped into his taxi, and followed Nick.
Later…
Nick walked around Washington Beach, buying a few essentials, not noticing his ex-partner in crime. His final stop was to buy lunch before limping off into a garage owned by Tommy Vercetti.
Nick entered the garage, his makeshift home and workplace. The concrete floor was dirty, covered in grime and dust so thick he had to scrub it twice a day. Cardboard boxes were stacked around the area, full of supplies. Discarded newspapers were also stacked, and readied for re-selling. A solitary mattress and a chair on the far right end of the room were his only other possessions.
Andy stopped several feet away from the garage, and left the car. Poor Nick.
He entered the garage, seeing boxes and newspapers stacked along the walls. He noted a particular section of wall that appeared to have been cordoned off by a line of boxes that terminated in the middle of room. Andy walked over to it, and rounded the corner.
Nick was sitting on a chair, eating a taco from a box. A dirty mattress was on his right, so old that it was impossible to tell its true color.
"Hello Nick."
Both men stared at each other for a millisecond. Then, Nick dropped the box to the floor. Its contents didn't bounce out, fortunately.
"ANDY!" Nick cried, standing up.
"Don't tell me you're that down," Andy said.
Nick merely extended his hand. Andy grasped it and they embraced in the way only men who had seen death together could. After an eternity, they parted.
"Nick…even without your leg, I have to repay your kindness."
Andy had heard about the shootout in prison, and the rumors were that Nick had been shot in the leg. The rumors were true after all.
"I asked for it," Nick replied, a smile on his face.
"Can you walk on your crippled leg?"
"The doc had to place some sort of metal brace on it. I can't bend my leg, but I can walk on it."
"Good. I didn't see you for 3 years, and yet you're still so fit."
"Yeah, you know how things are. It's not our world now."
"What do you mean?"
"Mike took over from Pete after manipulating everyone to get to the top. Tommy's in NYC to take care of some problems from a gang who's attacking his network, and only Mike reports to him, so he doesn't know the truth about things over here. He turned me, a frickin' Made Man who killed and bled for the Outfit, into a frickin' car washer! I've been waiting for three years for revenge! Come with me! Together, we can right everything, and take control!" Nick ejaculated, pausing to breathe deeply, refilling his depleted lungs.
Andy thought about it. If he accepted…Nick might have his revenge. Andy might well take over from Pete, and be Tommy Vercetti's second-in-command. They'll get their status back, become respected Made Men again.
But at what cost? Only his honor. He had told everyone that he would not go back into the underworld after his last deal. He wouldn't break his word. He was an honorable man, dammit, and he'll be damned if he'll break his word. A man may live with neither fame nor fortune, but he is less than a man without honor.
No, he decided. He won't follow Nick.
Andy shook his head sadly, but firmly.
"No, Nick. I won't. I'm sorry."
Author's Note: I'm back! Let's see…Detective Chia's in the previous chapter; I added a new scene to it. This chapter has the least number of modifications. The scene outside the prison was set in Taipei, not Florida. Mike's counterpart was leaving his office, and in the garage scene, Nick's counterpart was eating what is known as 'economy rice' in my country. Think a Styrofoam box filled with rice and two-four selections of vegetables and/or meat. Otherwise, the rest of the changes are mostly dialogue…for example, the conversation about honor, and Andy asking after Nick's leg. This isn't the end, not even half of it.