Vice City Concert Hall
Andy looked around, standing in the shadowy wing just next to the brightly-lit stage. A blue sling bag hung from his right shoulder, heavy with something or other.
A school choir group was rehearsing on the stage for some upcoming event. It was composed entirely of children, none a day older than eight or nine years old. Their collective voice had a high-pitched, pure timbre, like how angels must sound. Guided by their teacher in charge, a boy soloist began to sing, his innocent voice the only sound for a while.
"No matter how dark your road..."
"Andy," a voice called out.
He turned to his left, beholding Christine, the worried expression on her face belying her bright yellow clothing. Standing in the light, many of the fine details on her clothing were obliterated by the shadow her body had cast.
"Chris," he greeted.
"No matter how long it takes..."
"Andy, of all the meeting places you could have chosen, why here?" Chris wondered.
"Please remember that the sun will shine again"
"Because it's neutral ground."
"And the raging storm will pass."
"What do you mean?"
A girl took her cue, and continued from where her partner had left off.
"Don't compromise your soul..."
"Nick and I...took something from Mike DeFrantz. I want you to have it. Pass it on to Tony for me, please," Andy whispered, holding his hand out, offering her the sling bag.
"Your honor's your last refuge..."
"Andy...what is it?"
"Don't care what all of them say..."
"It's...something important. Tony will understand what it is."
"Just remember to be yourself."
"Also," Andy continued, "tell him to be at the docks at midnight tomorrow, with the whole police force."
The rest of the choir started singing, just as Christine Graham DiMilo accepted the bag.
"These dark days will surely pass"
"Why?"
"And the light will break through again."
"It's important. Say it's from me."
"Don't give up now..."
"Andy...why are you doing this?"
"Not when the end is near..."
What could he say? Honor? Was that the only thing that he could say?
"So please take my hand"
The answer came to him, as clear and powerful as the sun's rays breaking through dark, ominous storm clouds.
"And come with me to a better tomorrow."
"For a better tomorrow...one without gangsters, criminals...and one where honor exists."
Andy turned around and walked away, making his way around the stage, disappearing around the corner.
"Andy, wait!" Chris cried, running towards him, ignoring the now-curious choir.
But it was no use. Andy was gone.
Later, Hyman Condos...
"What the hell!" Mike shouted into the telephone.
"Geez, Boss. Like I said, Nick came in, blew away the guards, stole the data roll" Oliver Powers protested, a few miles away on the other end of the line.
"YOU INCOMPETANT IDIOT! WHAT THE HELL AM I PAYING YOU FOR, YOU WORHTLESS PIECE OF SHIT! WHY THE HELL DID YOU LET THAT SON OF A BITCH GET THE DATA ROLL! DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT MEANS TO US! HUH! DO YA!" Mike roared.
"Sorry Boss..."
"SORRY? SORRY? YOU, YOU WORTHLESS, BRAINLESS, SHIT-FOR-BRAINS, YOU'RE SORRY! YOU JUST RUINED US ALL! NOW GET BACK TO WORK AND START SHUTTING THE PRINTING PRESS DOWN!"
Mike angrily slammed the telephone receiver down, missing the cradle. It bounced off the table with a loud, hollow thunk. Mike furiously picked it up, and returned the receiver to its proper position. His face was flushed a deep red, his breathing shallow, rapid, and audibly loud.
Idiots! How the hell can a goddamned cripple do all that? Shit! It's not as if Nick Caruso was goddamned Tommy Vercetti or anything!
"Mike," Pete evenly said from behind him.
"What?" he snarled, turning around.
The two men were in Mike DeFrantz's apartment's living room. Pete was sitting rigidly at the edge of a black leather sofa, taking no comfort from its superior design and materials. In front of him was a glass table, upon which was a pair of coffee cups sitting atop another pair of coasters. Glaring sunlight flooded in from the full-length windows opposite Pete, forcing him to look away to protect his ageing eyes.
"Calm down. Tommy will"
"Tommy will what!"
"He'll take care of things, like he's always done before. Hell, the police" Pete reassured him, and failed.
"The police chief has been replaced, don't you know? The VCPD, FBI, even the Secret Service is after us! They're cracking down hard on all our businesses, thanks to him! They've already raided, what, a dozen nightclubs and fronts belonging to us!"
"But most the guys who've been arrested don't know anything about how we operate"
"We've lost ten grand in one day! And those who do know how we work are squealing to whoever can offer 'em the best deal!"
"I've called Tommy. He's rounding up some guys in New York to help us. They're good men, great shooters"
"How long will he take?"
"About a week"
"We don't have three days! I swear, the FBI's just opposite the street!"
He was understating the problem. Unknown to everyone, the FBI had virtually surrounded the whole building, using state-of-the-art eavesdropping equipment to gather evidence against Mike.
"In that case, we should"
"I know what to do, goddammit!"
The telephone rang.
Mike cocked his head at it. Pete sighed, got up, and picked it up.
"Hello?" he nervously asked.
"Pete? It's me, Andy," the caller said.
"Andy? Thank God! Where"
"Shut up and listen, Pete," Andy growled menacingly. "I have the data roll for your printing press. I'm sure you know how important it is."
Sure as hell he knew. The printing press was one of the foundations of the Vercetti criminal empire. The Feds had decimated their drug processing and distribution networks, led by a Special Agent Richard Grant and his team, now hailed by the press as the modern-day Untouchables.
"Yeah, I do."
"Listen very closely, then. Nick and I are willing to trade it for ten million dollars in unmarked bills, and the ability to turn around and walk away without any problems. We don't care about what's happening in VC: we just want out. The meeting place is the Church of the Sacrament in VC at eleven p.m. tomorrow. You know where it is, right?"
"Yeah, I do."
"Good. Tell Mike he'd better be there."
"Don't worry, I will."
"If you're late, we're going to the cops. You do know we can work a deal with the Feds, right?"
"Yes, yes!" he agreed. The Vercetti gang had been his life. He couldn't bear to see it go down the drain, not while he was still around.
"Good."
Andy hung up; Pete heard a click, then a continuous tone. He hung up, too.
"Well?" Mike demanded.
"Andy and Nick have the data roll," Pete said, turning to his boss. "They want to exchange it for ten million dollars and freedom. He's setting up a meet at the Church of the Sacrament, at midnight. He wants you to be there."
Mike nodded, slowly, visibly calmed down.
"All right then."
"So, what are we going to do about this situation?" Pete asked.
"I already have a plan," Mike assured him.
"Good. So, what's the first step?" Pete wondered, relieved.
"Getting rid of you."
"Wha?"
Reaching under his coat, Mike removed a silenced Hush Puppy. Extending his right hand, he fired two shots. Both 9x19mm Parabellum rounds entered Pete's head, blowing its contents out all over the parquet floor. Pete collapsed soundlessly, blood, bone, and brains hemorrhaging from the wound.
Mike lowered his gun.
Silently, the domestic staff appeared, witnessing the spectacle, their faces drained of blood. None of them dared to scream, or even react. They knew Mike's wrath if they dared to do anything without his permission.
"You know what to do," Mike muttered.
They nodded in submission.
Author's Note: I apologize for this short chapter and its format, but that is deliberate: around this part of the movie, the dialogue makes more sense than then action. Also, in the movie, Interpol hadn't set up any surveillance networks...at least, visibly. Two more chapters to go; I'll be done with this story by year's end. As my 'O' levels are coming, I'll be busy studying most of the time. I hope you, dear reader, can understand.