A couple of notes about this story. It's a bit of an edgy one, but I hope you'll enjoy it regardless. Thanks for the kind words and loyal readership, it means a lot. I will continue to try and portray our favorite characters as closely as possible, even when they're facing new and downright scary challenges.
Also, I should really dedicate this story to my friend Nancy. Without her, none of my stories would have ever gotten published. But she kept nagging me in her best naggy voice to share them "with more than just her and my hubby" while we'd sit there for hours analyzing episodes, hypothesizing character developments and going back and forth about my stories. So, there you are, Nancy. God knows how many thousands of pages we're into now, but it's been a fun journey.
Season: 4
Characters: Mike, Steve, Olsen, Lenny, Tanner
Episodes: none
Life is like a flowing river. Present and unyielding, yet a constant of change. Though its strength is timeless, each fleeting moment, the river changes…with every second, every heartbeat, every violent wave things are no longer the way they used to be; treasured memories impossible to relive no matter how much we want to hold on to the beauty of them.
It'll be easy, Stevey, Rodrigo had said with that charming smile showing off those immaculate white teeth, half of them fake after two decades of working the Streets for Vice. It'll be great, you just gotta do what you're best at Stevey, my man, no strings attached, I promise.
"No strings attached, my ass…", he'd muttered earlier as he followed the group of thirty-something's fresh off the boat from Europe down to the basement of the run-down house along 18th and Missouri, a place Rodrigo considered to be the epicenter of a new wave of under-age alcohol sales in the region.
Considering the flood of china white and crack taking innocent lives on seemingly every other corridor in the City, the problem had been on the lower end of the priority list for Vice. That was, until a fifteen-year old girl and her sixteen-year old boyfriend died of alcohol poising a month or so ago.
Condon had ridden the guys in Vice hard about it and requested backup from other departments wherever possible, hoping to nail this new supply ring.
That's where he'd come in.
Fresh off their latest case and any future action currently held up in court pending the outcome of the DA's discussion with the Prosecutor's office, Mike and he had been looking forward to a couple days of quietness and relaxation.
So much for that, too.
Steve sighed, and pulled another card off the stack, noticing its stickiness from many rounds of incessant gambling. Adding it to the assortment of other cards in his hand, twelve to be exact, he waited until his vision cleared and he no longer saw double, before deciding to get rid of the three of clubs, being that it didn't fit a single pattern.
Rudolf, the "Brewmaster", freshly immigrated from Munich, sat across from him, grunting in disapproval. It was a noise Steve had become quite accustomed to in a round full of Germans who were, for all intents and purposes, painfully immune to ungodly amounts of alcohol.
"Herman aus Duesseldorf" was next, all three-hundred pounds of him.
Steve remembered the man almost breaking his wrist when they first met a couple blocks down the road, his handshake being as strong as an industrial vice grip. With his thick mustache and a felt fedora, decorated with an assortment of feathers, he stuck out like a sore thumb in this city.
Four hours into their game session, Steve was fairly certain he'd figured out the group well enough. Both Rudolf and Herman were pretty decent guys, a little on the lenient side when it came to sharing their love of alcohol with the younger generations. They were, in essence, good fellas who needed a refreshment lecture on the laws and regulations of their new adoptive country.
Heinz and Roberta on the other side, that's where things turned criminal.
From what he had gathered, Roberta, who was painfully absent in their round tonight but was known to make the best pot of Spaetzle this side of 18th Street, actually ran a small grocery store in the Tenderloin. The group used the large vacated basement below to brew various types of alcohol, ranging from Weizenbier to Pear Grappa. What had started as a personal venture quickly turned into a money making business for Heinz, who was responsible for bottling and distribution.
And distributing he did well.
Rodriguez had several witnesses and stoolies come forward who had either seen, or heard of him making the rounds in the Tenderloin, Mission District and the Potrero, offering to sell his quality goods. Most of the regular drug guys paid little attention to him, but as his clientele increased and more money was spent on finely brewed German goodness, the regular customers had less money to spend on other vices. The friction created thereby alerted Vice long before the alcohol-related deaths of the teenagers, raising questions on how to best stop the group without much evidence beside shaky witness testimony.
And that's where he and Rodrigo, or Lou-Rod, as he called the burly Vice Detective, came in.
Lou-Rod had a stoolie down on Folsom that'd seen the hard-to-miss group of German immigrants go to nearby bars, drink everybody under the table, and here and there offer up their homebrewed goodness.
Now, the key to a successful indictment would be if Steve went undercover pretending to be twenty, something he still wasn't sure anybody at the card table was buying…and to further the proof in front of the court, he would then claim to want to purchase alcohol for his seventeen-year old girlfriend.
Well, with both, a bottle of the finest Weizenbier one could find in this foggy city, along with a fifth of Grape Grappa sitting in a brown paper bag by his feet and the money having exchanged owners long ago, he could check these items off his to-do list.
The problem he was facing now however was two-fold.
First of all, Lou-Rod and Mike were supposed to interrupt this card game party hours ago, making him wonder if something had happened to delay the intervention, or if he'd simply been forgotten about down in that basement, sitting with people whose language and strange customs he barely understood.
The other issue was that unlike he was promised, these guys weren't playing pinochle at all. The sole reason he was supposed to be the lead in helping out with the Vice sting was because he was unbeatable in playing pinochle. It would allow him to be both, comfortable in his element, and beat the heck out of the competition.
Unfortunately for him, after the group had found him to be quite "see charmin maan, jaa", they had invited him to a game of rummy instead.
Something had definitely gotten lost in translation there.
His momentary horror had been short-lived when for some strange divine intervention; he continued to win round after round of the card game he knew so little of. His beginner's luck quickly making him the favorite amongst two of the three men, Heinz being the sole one glaring at him each time he laid the rest of his cards on the table.
Things seemed to finally turn for the better for him.
That was until he learned about another treasure of the German culture.
At the end of each round, all members of the group came together to drink a shot of Grappa, the winner having to take two. And at shortly before, what seemed to be eleven PM, if his wristwatch would ever stop moving, Steve could no longer remember how many times he'd won.
All he could think of was the divine sound of the basement door being broke open by a Vice Squad and having his stomach contents pumped out to save his fraying liver. Because no matter how much he pushed his tolerance in college, he was no match for the German drinking brigade.
His turn to play came faster than expected once again and Steve drew another card from the stack, having aligned everything he had in his hand ahead of time. The quick intro of the rules when they started had long turned into second nature gaming and despite his cognitive deterioration; he was still two steps ahead of the weaving and hollering crowd who seemed to have the time of their lives playing rummy "wiss see Americann".
Pulling the card off the stash, Steve felt his eyes beginning to well up with tears, when he noticed that it was a joker…meaning, it would be plenty enough to finish his last matched pairs, causing him to win the round yet again.
With a shaky breath, he ran a hand across his forehead, desperately trying to think of a way to break up his set of King of diamond to the diamond of 8, or perhaps it would be easier to get rid of a two of the 2's of diamond, heart or spades and keep the diamond of 4 instead, or break up his row of four of spades to six…anything, not to drink any more shots.
And yet, his tired mind could no longer muster the strength to defy his uncanny winning streak, and he succumbed once again, laying all the cards out on the table before discarding the joker altogether, causing a roar of emotion in the small room.
Herman played with the feathers of his fedora in obvious discontent, while Rudolf prepared another round of shots from a newly opened bottle. Heinz glared at him unimpressed, while he gathered the rest of the cards from the other players.
"You've learned to play card like so here in Amerrica?", Rudolf asked skeptically and got onto his tipsy feet, making Steve's heart leap with joy when he almost stumbled and lost the bottle, before unfortunately regained his balance and refilling everybody's glasses.
"Mhm…", he grunted and looked up at the basement door, ready to crawl back up the steps and run into the road to call for help any minute.
Lou-Rod would be paying dearly for this one.
"See the…eh…the…the key is that you…you know…you gotta put all your…mojo into the game, fellas.", Steve said, noticing his voice starting to become slurred, "You gotta…you know…feel it, right here!"
He had planned to symbolically put a hand over his heart, but missed the spot and ended up patting his left shoulder instead.
"Steffen…I will just call you Steffen, ja?", Herman tried and used his fedora to fan his flushed cheeks, "You still go to schu…school you said? Where?"
"Yeah, Stef…Steffen is fine. What did you say?"
Noticing that he was by far the only one losing feeling in all his extremities, including his tongue, Steve took another shot of grappa with his shaky hands, the bile building in his stomach erupting upon contact. Swallowing hard, he wiped the corner of his mouth and set the glass back down, only to curse Rudolf when he promptly refilled it.
As his intoxicated mind envisioned how the scenario would play out if he'd decide to just tell the guys that he was an undercover agent and that all their drunk behinds were officially under arrest; he didn't noticed Heinz holding the next shot up to his lips, until he tasted the bitter fire of Grappa again.
And this time they'd switched flavors back to the most-hated pear.
Steve froze for a moment, as the last shot hit his battered stomach, knowing that vomiting was no longer a possibility, but an inevitable outcome approaching rather quickly.
He made sure to remind himself again that Lou-Rod would pay dearly for this one.
Much to his frustration, Heinz mixed the cards once again and distributed another set of twelve to each player. This one, Steve swore to himself, this round he would lose. He had to. His system could handle no more alcohol.
Damn you, Lou-Rod!
As he reached up to grab and sort the cards, he temporarily rested his chin on the palms of his hand, making the Spades and Diamonds and Clubs and Hearts dance in front of his eyes like a bunch of witches during a fire sacrifice.
Sighing in defeat when his hot breath against the cards was potent enough to get him even drunker, Steve tried to straighten out again when he swayed forward. As if by sheer luck, he landed chin first on his right forearm, never losing his grasp on the cards.
Taking one last deep breath, he entered alcohol-aided oblivion.
It wasn't until quite a while later, when a gentle hand squeezed his shoulder.
"Mhm?"
"You eh…you ready to try and get out of here, Buddyboy?"
The strange sobriquet threw him for a loop and Steve opened his heavy eyelids, just to stare at a king of spades and two jokers again, still resting in his hands.
It couldn't be. Not another near-ideal set of cards. He couldn't do this anymore.
Damn you, Lou-Rod!
Closing his eyes in defiance, he felt the hand move to the back of his neck, before gently running through his wavy hair.
"I promise you'll feel a lot better if we get some water and fresh air into you."
The lack of a German accent was both, staggering and relieving at the same time. Lifting his head with a start and regretting it instantly, he leaned back onto the crease of his elbow, carefully breathing against the growing nausea rising from below.
"Come on, it's just a few steps. If you walk out of here on your own, I can bring your name up to Condon for a commendation for going above and beyond the line of duty."
Managing to open his eyes to narrow slots and blinking against the bright light from the bulb hanging above, which was very quickly giving him the mother of all headaches, Steve found himself face to face with his grinning partner. Crouched down on one knee, Mike couldn't mask his obvious amusement about this situation even if he tried.
"Just…I just need one th…th…thing, Michael…", he tried, before burying his face again.
"What's that? Just let me know and we can get you out of here and into bed."
Taking a deep breath, Steve sighed, before pointing his finger at the stairwell to the exit door.
"A garbage can…get me one…fast…"