o(19)o
Smecker greeted the day with a café latte in hand and a file in front of him. Walking into his office, he was so engrossed in the report he was reading that he almost missed the paper that was sitting on his desk.
Picking up the paper, a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he realized that was the toxicology report on that housekeeper, fresh from the medical examiner's office. Written across the top in slightly shaky, spiky handwriting was a message from the M.E. requesting that Smecker see him as soon as possible. Giving in to the smile, Smecker took a fortifying swallow of his coffee and left his office, heading to the other end of the building.
"Agent Smecker," The M.E. motioned him over as soon as he walked through the heavy chrome door. "I assume you got my message. Come here and have a look at this."
"What am I looking at?" Smecker said, obeying.
"This," the M.E. gestured toward the paper in Smecker's hand, "is the biggest thing to hit the U.S. since methamphetamine. The drug in Gabrielle Prado's system was completely new. We're talking fresh off of the boat new, here, Agent."
Smecker nodded, "So what is it?"
"It's similar to heroin, but it's been redesigned, if you will, to be better than heroin on its best day. The lab is still trying to figure out what process they used, but rest assured that this isn't your garden-variety drug, it produces a longer high and less lethargy, the downside is that it's much more addictive and can have some potentially, ah, damaging side effects."
"Oh?" Smecker raised his eyebrows and the M.E. made a face.
"Let's just say there are a few rats in the lab that will never be the same. I thought all of this would be of particular interest to you because of this fine gentleman that came to me in the middle of last night."
The M.E. gestured over to one of the autopsy tables and Smecker followed, taking another drink of his latte, fighting the shudder that was trying to crawl up his spine as the older man peeled back the white sheet.
"Meet Carlos Machado, male, Hispanic, 29, identified by his police record. Cause of death was a .22 right between the eyes." The M.E. gently lifted the corpse's head and gave it a little jiggle. "The neat thing about .22s is that they have enough power to enter the head, but not exit. So, the bullet bounces around inside the skull and basically turns the brain into a Slurpee. It's going to be a mess when I pop the top off of this kid, let me tell you."
Suppressing a grimace, Smecker nodded, "So what's this have to do with me?"
"Well, CSI found a couple small packages of our mystery drug hidden in this kid's shoes, which was interesting enough, but I thought that this was a little more your style."
The M.E. turned over the corpse's hands revealing tattooed words inscribed across both of the wrists. "The boys upstairs said that you were on the lookout for tattoos similar to this one."
"Redima con Sangre" Smecker read quietly, a little thrill racing through his veins, "This tattoo is the identifying mark of the gang I'm investigating."
Finally, he was getting somewhere! After days of wading through stagnant paperwork, rereading the same stale reports until he was too tired to see straight, a lead had fallen right in his lap.
He friggin' loved it when that happened.
"Looking at this kid, I figure he was one of their mid-level dealers, a little more prominent than the average scuzzballs I get in here," Said the M.E., eyeing the corpse thoughtfully.
Smecker stared at the tattoos, eyes narrowed. He'd been right, this drug was the Street Priests' ticket into the U.S., and with something like this new drug, they could easily knock the Russians and the Italians to the side.
Something that the local Mafiosos wouldn't be too pleased with, he was sure.
"Where did they find the body?" he asked.
"Some warehouse on the east side, seems like there was some hullabaloo there several weeks ago too, a bunch of guys with tattoos just like this got gunned down. It backed me up for days, I've never seen such a mess."
"The warehouse on Marshall Street?"
"That's the one."
Smecker frowned, that was where the MacManuses had broken up the drug bust, but Croghan had said that the P.D. had recovered nothing but cocaine. If the Street Priests had something as potent as this new drug under their belt, why in the hell were they trafficking cocaine?
Opening a one of the chrome doors, the M.E. pulled out a disturbing array of knives and saws, setting them on the table with a metallic clatter.
"I was going to wait for Croghan and Warner to do this, they usually prefer to be here during the autopsy. But since you're here, I suppose you can clear the body and I can go ahead and get started."
"Croghan and who?" Smecker asked, frowning.
"Warner." The M.E. replied, and then shook his head, sighing. "I mean Townsend."
"Who's Warner?"
Glenn Warner was Croghan's old partner, he was killed about two months ago, and Townsend took his place." He chuckled a little, "Sometimes it's hard for an old fogey like me to keep things straight."
Smecker turned away as the M.E. picked up a particularly wicked-looking saw and tried to ignore the sound of metal meeting flesh and after a moment, bone.
"You'll let me know if you find anything else?" he said, swallowing, suppressing a shiver of disgust. There was little else in the world that bothered him quite like an autopsy.
"Sure." The M.E. said, his words followed almost immediately by a wet splat. "Agent, would you do me a favor before you go?"
"What do you need?"
"Open that cold chamber over there and grab me my coffee. I'd get it myself, but my hands are a little full at the moment."
"You have to be friggin' kidding me."
"No, it should be just the right temperature now."
o()o
Connor hung up the telephone and grinned at his brother, snapping the last piece of his gun together with a satisfying click. "Smecker's got us a fuckin' lead."
The words sounded just as good the second time they were spoken and Connor's grin widened. The idea of sitting around, useless, while the Street Priests were out doing evil had festered under Connor's skin like an infection. But now, after an endless week of waiting, they were finally going to reap motherfucking justice on these bastards.
He couldn't wait.
Murphy looked up from his own gun, currently in pieces on the table, and raised his eyebrows quizzically, the corner of his mouth quirking. "What did he find?"
"He said that they found one o' the Street Priests this morning in the warehouse where we took out that drug deal. The bastard was shot in the head and had some sort of new drug on him, something big."
Murphy frowned, efficiently reassembling his weapon, his hands moving with unconscious ease, "So where do we come inta play in all this?"
"Smecker said that he traced the fellow back to a smaller group of the Street Priests that are working around here. He said he's pretty sure that he can find out where they're located."
"Fuckin' brilliant." Murphy grinned as he turned his attention back to the gun, carefully checking the sights, "I say we go in and kill those fuckers as soon as yer able."
Connor nodded, checking his own sights, finding them perfect as they always were. "By the end o' the week then, we'll need a little time ta prepare."
"That soon?" Murphy gave his brother a surprised look, bringing his thumb to his mouth, "Are ye sure ye're up to it?"
"I am, aye. That fuckin' aloe Danae keeps givin' me is helpin' a lot; even the blisters are dryin' out already."
"Girl knows her medicine." Murphy's tone was a little too casual and Connor shot him an amused glance.
"She does at that." He said, smiling at the flush that was creeping out of his brother's collar. "Listen, Smecker said he'd meet us here tomorrow afternoon, so the way I see it, there's only one thing left that we can do tonight."
"And what's that?" said Murphy, shooting his brother an amused glance.
"Find a fuckin' pub and have a fuckin' drink." Connor said. It had been an age since he had been out to a good bar and nothing sounded better right now, than getting royally buckled with his brother.
"Amen ta that." Murphy said, chuckling, "Let's get the fuck out o' here."
o()o
Murphy grinned at his brother through the smoke filled bar, leaning over the pool table.
Connor grinned back at him, "Are ye going ta break or fuckin' make love ta the table?" He asked, taking a swallow of beer.
"Fuck you." Carefully aiming, Murphy sent the cue ball careening across the felt of the table, demolishing the neat triangle of balls. It looked like he was stripes, again.
They had been there for a couple of hours already, doing shots of whiskey in between pints of beer and games of pool. Murphy's head was pleasantly fuzzy, and he was quick to laugh at his brother's jokes.
"Say, Murph?" Connor said, walking around the table to take his shot, "Why doesn't Smoky the Bear have any children?"
"Why not?" he asked, chuckling, his twin was anything if not predictable.
"Well, because every time his wife gets hot, he fuckin' hits her over the head with a shovel!"
Laughing despite himself, Murphy shook his head. "Christ, Conn, could yer jokes get any worse?"
"Aye, they could. They could be Danae's fuckin' jokes."
He stopped, seriously considering his brother's words. "Yer right, Jesus her jokes are fuckin' nawful. They're so fuckin' nawful that I need another shot just fer thinkin' about them."
Laughing, Connor set down his pool stick. "You have yer turn, I'll go get us our shots."
Nodding, Murphy watched his brother weave a path across the bar, noting with a smile how much easier Connor's gait was becoming. The painful limp that had marked his twin's movements for almost two months was barely discernible now. Connor had been through a lot, but he was going to come through it just fine.
The thought infused Murphy with warmth. For the first time in a long time, he felt like everything was going to be okay.
A kick at his shoe drew his attention away from the pool table, turning he saw Connor holding two shots and two more beer mugs full of dark Guinness. "Irish Car Bomb?" his brother inquired, and Murphy grinned at him, taking a mug and a shot glass.
"Best drink in the fuckin' world." He dropped the shot into his mug and raised it in salute. "Sláinte."
"Sláinte." Connor mirrored the action and together they finished their drinks in several of long swallows.
Setting the now empty mug on the table, Murphy swayed a little on his feet and grinned at his brother.
"Your shot."
Last call found both brothers slumped over the bar, nursing their final beer in amiable silence.
"Okay, guys," the bartender said, leaning down to look them both in the face, "it's time to go."
Connor flashed the girl a winning smile "C'mon now darlin'," he slurred, "We're just gettin' started here."
The bartender chuckled a little and raised her eyebrows. "Well, you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. Should I call you guys a cab?"
Pointing at Murphy, Connor grinned, "Ye're a fuckin' cab!" he cried, hooting with laughter.
Murphy shook his head, taking one last drag off of his cigarette before stubbing it out. "Nah, s'not necessary, luv. We'll make it just fine."
Giving his twin a slap on the shoulder, he rose precariously to his feet and paused until he regained what might have passed for balance. "C'mon, Conn, let's get home."
Slinging an arm around Murphy's neck, Connor managed to knock them both off balance as he slid off the barstool.
"Ye fuckin' eejit." Murphy muttered, staggering under the weight of his twin as well as the alcohol he had consumed. "Stand on yer own fuckin' feet."
"I fuckin' am." Connor protested, the alcohol slurring his words and thickening his accent. Idly, Murphy wondered if he was as difficult to understand.
"Siúil leat." Come on, he said to his twin, smiling at Connor's surprised glance at hearing their native Gaelic. "Let's go home."
Connor's surprise quickly disappeared, replaced by a lecherous grin. "Home to yer wan?" he asked also in Gaelic, chuckling.
Murphy rolled his eyes, swaying unsteadily as he did. "Knock that shit off, ye know good and well I'm too fuckin' drunk."
Stumbling, Connor snickered. "Since when have ye ever been too fuck to drunk? Fuck. To drunking fuck ta fuck? Fuck! To fucking drunk ta . . ."
"Christ, Connor!!" Murphy interrupted the increasingly jumbled flow of words, "Ye've made yer fuckin' point. Can we fuckin' go now?"
o()o
Danae looked up from her book as Connor and Murphy burst through her front door.
"So he picks up the fly and gives it a fierce shake yelling 'Spit it out! Spit it out ye bastard!'" Connor said as he collapsed onto the couch, laughing uproariously.
Murphy, laughing just as hard as his twin, leaned against the doorframe, wiping mirthful tears from his eyes.
"Good night out?" she asked, and Murphy replied in a language she didn't understand. The words rolled off of his tongue, velvety and rich, if slightly slurred, and she raised an eyebrow.
"You want to try that again in English?"
Murphy frowned at her for a moment then chuckled. "Sorry. 'T'was a good night out, aye." He said, and Connor gave an inelegant snort, cuddling up with one of her throw pillows, slouching further into the couch.
"Very good night out." He echoed, "Murph here had ta water yer tree a on the way in, though.
Danae looked at Murphy. "You did?" she asked, embarrassed.
"Aye," Murphy said, oblivious to her discomfiture, "but I wasn't alone in the crime."
Connor gave his brother a meaningful look then looked down at his feet. "Gotta get me boots off," he mumbled. Leaning over, he fiddled clumsily with his bootlaces, then his hands stilled and after a moment quiet snores resonated from between his knees.
Murphy looked at his brother and chuckled. "Fuckin' Connor." he slurred good-naturedly.
Carefully ambling over and squatting down in front of his sleeping twin, Murphy took a boot onto his lap. He gave it a quick tug and the boot came free, whizzing across the room, the momentum of it knocking the already unsteady Murphy flat on his back.
"Ow, fuck." He said, and Danae bit her lips to keep from laughing. "Lend us a hand up would ye, luv?"
Shaking her head, she slid off the couch to sit next to him, untying Connor's other boot and easing it off his foot.
"I think you're safer on the floor." She said, a few giggles finally escaping.
Propping himself up on his elbows, Murphy looked at her, chewing on his lip. "Has anyone ever told ye how beautiful ye are?"
Danae shot him a sideways look, amused. "Has anyone ever told you how drunk you are?"
"I'm serious."
"So am I. Come on, let's get some aspirin in you and get you to bed."
"Will ye come with me?" his voice had gotten lower, his words a little clearer.
Danae chanced a full look at him and saw that his expression had become serious and evocative.
Bedroom eyes, she thought, he has the most amazing bedroom eyes I've ever seen.
"Come on, Murph." She said quietly, fighting the emotions that he was stirring up. "Help me get Connor into bed."
o()o