Vice Point Police Station
"I'm afraid I can't grant you leave," the police captain pronounced.
He wasn't a particularly extraordinary person, except for his thick glasses and mole in between his eyes. He had a pair of blue eyes speckled with grey, and a voice of liquid silk.
"Why?" Tony demanded.
The two of them were in the police captain's office, a 4 by 4 feet room meant for the exclusive use of Police Captain Jonathan Burrows, Jr. The Florida state flag stood at the far right corner of the room. The Old Glory was at the far left. A heavy, expensive oak desk was in the middle of the room, behind which was a brown leather swivel chair. A mountain of reports was arranged neatly on the right side of the desk, while a white plastic telephone was on the left.
"Your brother. Three years ago, he was sent to jail. For six months after his release, we've lost all track of him. Yesterday, he reappeared. One of our informants spotted him visiting one Nicholas Caruso, former Made Man, now a disgraced handyman for the local Mob. Caruso still has ties to the Mafia, though, and despite his crippled leg; he still wants his old job back. Because of that, I want you to check on your brother."
Burrows leaned forward, grasping both hands together, and stared intently into Tony's eyes.
"Look, Tony. Now, we're going to be very harsh on the criminal underworld. The new police chief is concerned with the current rise in crime, especially that of the organized variety. Rumor has it that the FBI's Organized Crime department's gonna come here to assist in a possible crackdown.
"We need people to investigate the Vercetti gang, and you're not the only one. We need you to check on your brother. We think he's a big shot in this city-"
"I didn't know my brother is in this line of work!" Tony screamed, banging both of his fists hard on the table. The captain winced.
"I know. Don't let that fact interfere in this case. According to an informant, there may be something going on tonight at the Malibu…"
"Yeah, fine."
Tony stood up, and walked out.
Burrows shook his head. He knew why Tony was so edgy these days. The problem was, this guy was stupid enough not to see a shrink or something, or even tell anybody his problems. If only this shit didn't have to happen. And, thanks to that hardass police chief, Tony's never going to get a rank higher than Inspector. Stupid idiot. Why can't that stubborn SOB see that just because Tony's brother is, hell, may be, Mafia, it doesn't mean that Tony ain't a hardworking, competent cop! Hell, Tony's slated for promotion…three years ago! That dimwit chief hasn't approved Tony's promotion despite all the evidence staring at him in the face!
The captain shook his head, and opened a desk drawer, extracting a roll of aspirin. He popped two of them in his mouth, wondering how the hell the VCPD ever became so…stupid.
The Malibu, later that night
The more things change, the more they stay the same. The Malibu had been renovated again, but it was still of the same design as the last time. The only real difference was that the electrical system had been replaced with something more modern, and a DJ station had been added.
Tony walked in, dressed like a typical clubber: colorful T-shirt, blue jeans, blue sneakers, deliberately to attract attention, causing people to ignore him. He also had a leather bomber jacket, which concealed his S & W Model 19 in its small-of-the-back holster.
The party was getting started. The dance floor was warming up, with disco lights playing around the area. People gathered on the dance floor, all youths. The stage was unoccupied, for some strange reason. The DJ took his place at his station, built next to the dance floor. Brand-new speakers built into the walls boomed pop music, the latest craze in music.
Tony walked around the dance floor, avoiding the waitresses and tables in the dim colored light. Making his way to the bar, he grabbed a seat.
"What'll you have, sir?" the bartender asked, a middle-aged man with a slight paunch and broad smile. The other one was off-duty today.
"A Guinness Stout, nothing extra, thank you."
"Gotcha."
The bartender turned around, and reached for the appropriate drinks.
Tony looked around, and spotted…
The boss was right. Dammit. What the hell is Andy doing there!
Andy was sitting at a private table in the corner. Next to him was Nick, dressed in his greasy green overalls. Opposite him were Mike and a bodyguard. Nick did not care to hide the hostility in his eyes. As a concession, the former Made Men kept their backs to the corner while the boss and his lackey had to have their backs facing the door, exposing them to attack. Not that it'll matter: Mike would have his men infiltrate the nightclub and guard it long before his arrival.
Each man had placed his preferred drink on the round table. Nick had a full glass of brandy, with an almost-empty brandy bottle next to his glass. Andy settled on Jim Beam with ice. Mike preferred red wine, in this case some fancy French brand dating back to 1962 or so. The bodyguard was not a drinker.
"Andy, how come you didn't tell me you're out of jail?" Mike asked, an alcohol-induced glint in his eye.
"We were in the same boat the last time, you know," he continued.
Andy merely nodded. Mike had found him, and sent a representative to invite Andy for a drink. Refusal equals suicide.
"Anyways, since Tommy Vercetti is in New York, I'm the new boss around here. How are you doing?" Mike asked, behind a smile as genuine as the counterfeits his boss produces.
"Very well, thank you," Andy replied, his voice neutral. Nick put the glass to his lips, and bit the glass walls with his teeth. He tilted his head back, allowing the brandy to flow into his mouth. He sloshed it around as he lowered his head, holding the glass with his teeth, keeping his hands folded across his chest. He swallowed the brandy as the glass touched the table, feeling a warm sensation spread through his body.
Mike produced a cigarette from somewhere, lit it with a gold-plated lighter and placed the coffin nail in his mouth. Nick refilled his glass with the remaining amount of brandy in the bottle.
"If you need anything, just call me, and you'll get it…Nick, need another drink?" Mike asked.
"Wait," Nick answered, a grim smile playing across his lips.
Nick swung his crippled leg up, bringing it up onto the table. It landed with a metallic thunk, causing the liquid inside the other glasses to shift around. He raised his glass of brandy over his right leg.
"For the leg!" he toasted, before proceeding to pour the brandy in his glass over it. He poured the brandy expertly, without wasting a single drop on the table. When he was done, he returned his alcohol-soaked leg to its previous position. The glass banged on the table, courtesy of a calculated slip by Nick.
"Andy, if you're free, come over to my place," Mike whispered.
"I'm not interested."
Andy had spent three years trying to distance himself away from organized crime, and he's finally succeeded. No way he's going to go back into the Mob, give up all the progress he's made. No way.
"You're sure to like it," Mike pleaded, a final attempt.
"No."
"Fine, then. I'm going to the gents. Your next round's on me," Mike concluded. He and his bodyguard left the table.
Tony had seen enough. He had been nursing his drink all this while, waiting for a chance. He took it.
Walking up to Andy's table, his face became a stone mask. Nick saw him coming. That guy had 'cop' written all over him. One could see it in the way he walks; he keeps his hands near him and walks on the balls of his feet, poised for an immediate confrontation. Andy looked at Tony.
Anthony Tate faced his brother.
"Outside."
Andy stood up, and followed his brother. Half a minute later, Nick got up from his seat.
The brothers headed for the parking lots next to the club. They were empty of all life, and empty of any vehicles. The chain-link fence defining it was backed by metal walls as tall as the fence, isolating the parking lots to the world outside.
The night sky grew darker as the men entered. Black clouds rolled overhead, but did not gather. There was no rain scheduled for today, not yet. The men headed for the right side of the parking lots.
"Spread eagle against the wall, now!" Tony ordered, all cop.
Nick complied, placing his palms on the metal walls and leaning forward, placing pressure on his palms. His legs were placed behind his body, making his current position difficult to move out of.
Tony patted Andy's sleeves, finding nothing.
"What did you discuss?" Tony barked.
"Rubbish."
"Bullshit."
Tony started on the front of Andy's shirt, feeling around the neck area and finding nothing.
"Really!" Andy replied, a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice. Why won't he believe him?
"Which gang are you working for?"
Tony started patting down Andy's chest and abdomen.
"None of them."
"What illegal businesses does Tommy Vercetti own?"
"I don't know! Why don't you ask him?"
Tony started work on Andy's trousers, his previous search having yielded nothing.
"Why don't you know!"
"Tony-"
"Don't call me 'Tony'! Call me 'sir'!"
"Sir. I've quit the Outfit."
"Where do you work?"
"City Cab Service."
Tony stood up, having found nothing. Of course. Andy won't be that stupid, but procedure is still procedure, and one never knows what one may find.
"What's your address?"
"The apartment building at the corner of 23rd Street and Price Avenue, 3rd floor, apartment number 23."
"Hey," Nick called from the parking lot's entrance. He had seen everything, and was sick of it. He walked up to Tony, his body language calculated to be aggressive.
"What do you think you're doing? He's your brother! He ain't a gangster, man, and damn sure no criminal!" Nick spat, pointing his left index finger at Tony and pulling his right hand back. Tony took this for a threatening act and drew his revolver, going to the Weaver stance he was trained to perform.
Nick saw the gaping hole that was the revolver's muzzle right in front of his face, and his face became contorted into a furious mask. He would never, EVER, let ANYONE point a gun in his face, never again! Definitely not this son-of-a-bitching cop who can't tell the difference between a gangster and an ex-gangster! He reached out, grabbed the revolver with his right hand, and placed the muzzle on his chest.
"Don't point a gun at my head! If you must, aim at my chest, but not the face!" he yelled. "Go on, cop! Shoot me!"
Nick was six feet tall, taller than Tony by two inches. Both men stared into each other's eyes, willing the other to blink in this game of life and death.
A second passed. The inspector relented, finally, pulling his revolver towards his body. Nick released the barrel, allowing the inspector to holster his gun. Andy stepped away from his previous position, and stared at his brother, pleading silently with his eyes.
"Tony…sir…give me a chance to prove myself!"
Tony spat.
"Because of you, I won't be promoted! You know that! Don't leave the city! I'll go after you anytime!" Tony yelled, before storming off.
Andy sighed. Jesus. Tony's not getting a promotion because of him. Because of what he was.
Tony watched the inspector disappear into the night. What the hell. Not getting promoted because of Andy, eh? Big deal! That bastard's pettier than Andy ever was! Shit!
Later, in Tony's home…
Tony stared at his reflection in the mirror.
Why did you act like that just now? Tony's mind wondered.
What do you think! That brother of mine! Shit! Some brother he is! Bastard! Why the hell can't he see the harm he's caused all of us? Bastard! BASTARD!
Tony lashed out at the mirror, needing to hit something, anything, wanting to destroy it to prove that he can, to redress his anger. It shattered under his knuckles, transforming into dozens of sharp fragments that bit and stabbed into his right hand. He winced at the pain.
Idiot!
He walked over to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, and rummaged through it, removing a Band-Aid and some iodine. He walked out of the bathroom, seeing Christine waiting for him. Her eyes widened when she saw the blood and the glass.
"What happened?" she asked.
"I hit the mirror."
"Tsk, tsk…come on, let me bandage it for you."
Author's note: In the movie, this is the end of the first half. During the scene in the nightclub, everyone was drinking whiskey or something. When Tony ordered Nick out, he led him to an alleyway next to the nightclub, not a parking lot. Finally, in the movie, after smashing the mirror, the scene changes to one showing Christine's counterpart silently treating her husband's self-inflicted injury. Because this is not a movie, I had to change it…