Chapter 7: The Rookie

There weren't many people around the office that late, but Freddy didn't mind. He didn't feel like heading back to his apartment anyway, not after having to go through shit just to get back on the job.

He'd gone to confession to make the psychiatrist happy, though it had been complete bullshit. He hadn't even mentioned Larry, although some motherfucker must have told the bishop a few things because he had ended up talking about Marvin. Somehow he'd started yelling at the bishop, who must've been eighty fucking years old, so that hadn't really gone down well. But then he'd been able to say a bunch of shit about lying all the time and living in fear for his life and all that Hollywood crap. The old man ate it right up, and he had finally been cleared for duty.

The other cops had acted real careful around him for the first couple of days, as if they were afraid he was going to drop unconscious in the middle of the floor for no fucking reason. It had been annoying as hell, but with good behaviour and approval from his therapists he eventually got his wish: he was joining the investigation to find Vic Vega. Ferchetti had warned him that he wouldn't be doing any field work at this point, and so now he was catching up with his research. There was a very thick file with Vega's name on it that he had to get through.

It was after midnight, and Holdaway had lent him his office to do his reading. Normally he'd do it at home, but after spending so many goddamn depressing hours in that cramped apartment he didn't think he'd be able to stand it. Strictly speaking he wasn't supposed to spend more than four hours a day at work, but the other cops knew how personal this was for him and were mum on the subject – and whenever Ferchetti walked by he ducked behind the desk. It was actually pretty relaxing. He'd found a few bottles of lukewarm German beer in Holdaway's desk, and had popped over to the corner store to buy some Fruit Brute. He was spilling cereal everywhere as he ate out of the box, but he didn't think Holdaway would mind. His office was a fucking pigsty.

There was a knock on the door, and Freddy looked up to see a young guy with ginger hair who looked vaguely familiar. Freddy had probably seen him around, but couldn't remember his name.

"Hey. You're Detective Freddy Newendyke, right?" the cop asked. He wore the thickest plastic-rimmed glasses Freddy had ever seen. Shit – glasses and red hair? The poor kid was probably tortured at school.

"That's me," said Freddy, wondering vaguely if there was a member of the force who fucking didn't know who he was by now.

The young cop smiled and stuck out his hand. "I'm Jeffrey Andrews. You can call me Jeff." Freddy reached out and shook the proffered hand, though he'd be damned if he called the rookie by his first name. This kid's palm was damp; he was fucking nervous.

Andrews smiled and absently wiped his hand on his pants. "I'm helping with the Victor Vega case," he explained, placing a file carefully on the mess that was Holdaway's desk. "Mrs. McKlusky told me to give you this. It's everything we have on Vega after he was released from prison."

Freddy eyed the new file and rubbed his eyes. It was getting late, but he sure as shit didn't want to go back to his apartment just yet. Besides, he may as well get to know this guy a little seeing as they'd be working together. "Could you summarise that for me, Andrews?" he asked tiredly.

The young cop blinked in surprise. "Oh… sure. Sure thing. And I prefer Jeff."

"I prefer Andrews," said Freddy, gesturing at the only other chair in the room. "Would you like a beer?" he asked, pulling a fresh bottle out of Holdaway's desk.

"Um… sure," said Andrews, accepting the drink hesitantly after taking a look around as if scared of getting in trouble. The offices were practically empty, and the blinds were closed. He sat down, looking like he was getting ready for his first job interview. Freddy could almost see the sweat beading on the guy's face. Shit, why was this kid so fucking anxious? Was it because of him? Were people saying things about him around the station?

Freddy dug into the cereal box and shoved a handful of Fruit Brute into his mouth, spilling some on his shirt. He motioned for Andrews to start.

The other cop cleared his throat. "Detective Newendyke? I just want to say it's a real honour to be working with you. I mean, I know about your undercover job, bringing down the Cabots, and –"

"Stop right there." Freddy was staring at the kid. So this explained the nervousness. Shit, the last thing he needed was a fucking fan. "Look Andrews," he said, "I'm the last guy you should be saying that shit to. If you know about the job, then you know it fucked up real fast and real bad. And thanks for bringing it up, by the way." The younger cop looked mortified. Good. "Now, could you just summarize that file?"

Andrews nodded. "Okay. Sure thing, man." He sat up straighter. "So, we already talked to Vega's parole officer Seymour Scagnetti. Vega was let out of the halfway house because he'd managed to get a legitimate job at a Long Beach warehouse as a dockworker."

"Cabot got it for him?" asked Freddy, lighting a cigarette.

Andrews nodded. "One of Cabot's people, anyway. This was a week before the robbery. He was clocked in and out every day. Scagnetti checked it out as soon as he heard, but was told by the foreman that Vega was out at the airstrip picking up a shipment. Pretty convenient, huh?"

"Who's the foreman?"

"Scagnetti said some guy called Matthews. We got nothin' on him, though, except a bad description – it's a dead end. The warehouse switched ownership twice since Cabot's death, and the current owners don't know shit. Records lost in a fire – it looked like arson. We don't know who gave Vega the job, and we don't know who associated with him in Long Beach. We got a couple guys making inquiries in the area, but so far nothing." Andrews gestured helplessly with his hands.

Freddy blew a smoke ring and propped his elbows on the desk. "Well that's just fuckin' great."

"Tell me about it."

They sat quietly for a minute, then suddenly Andrews stood up and slammed his fist into the wall. Freddy jumped to his feet, chair toppling over, cigarette fizzling out in a puddle of spilt beer. "Hey man, just calm down!" He grabbed Andrews by the arm, and the younger man took a few deep breaths and nodded. He took off his glasses and polished them on his shirt. He was blushing, and his red cheeks clashed with his ginger hair. "Now what was that about?" Freddy asked quietly. This was the weirdest guy he'd ever met. Except maybe Pink. Heck, Brown had been pretty weird too, the poor bastard.

"I'm sorry," mumbled Andrews. He put his glasses back on. "I dunno if you know – you probably don't – but I asked to be put on this case. You see, Marvin and I – you knew Marvin Nash, right?" Freddy nodded mutely. "Marvin and I were buddies. We went to the same school."

Freddy was slowly shaking his head. "Shit, I didn't know," he mumbled.

Andrews looked at him. "They told me he was killed by Edward Cabot, but a friend of mine in evidence found Marvin's blood on Vega's razor."

"Yeah," said Freddy quietly. "Yeah, that's right." He glanced at the young cop, who was looking at him hopefully. "Listen Andrews, I ain't gonna tell you what happened to Marvin in that warehouse, okay? But I will tell you one thing – he knew who I was, and he didn't rattle. Not even when he thought he was gonna die."

The other cop sank back down into his vacated chair and put his head in his hands. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, man," he said, and Freddy was embarrassed to hear the younger man's voice breaking. "He had a kid, you know that? Derek's less than a year old." Freddy looked away determinedly as Andrews took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. "You know," said the young man when he had sufficiently recovered, "Irene's gonna want to talk to you. Marvin's wife," he explained at Freddy's puzzled look.

"Oh right," said Freddy. "Yeah, sometime later." Much later.

Andrews gave a bitter smile. "God, this is such a fucked up place. Why'd you want to be a cop anyway? It's like we're swimming against the tide."

For a moment Freddy considered telling him about Pete Kricher who had found him under the stairwell. But it was too soon for that. So he gave his second-most-truthful answer: "Guns."

Andrews laughed and stood up. "No shit. Anyway, it was good to finally meet you, man."

Left alone again, Freddy sat at Holdaway's desk and tried to return to work. Just forget about Jeffrey Andrews, and Marvin Nash, and Derek, and Irene. Sure, he said he'd see her later, but he didn't fancy a meeting with the widow of a man tortured by the psychopath he should have killed. Once this shit with Vega was over, then he could think about paying Mrs. Nash a visit. Maybe.

He lit a fresh cigarette as he continued to flip through the background information on Vega. Apparently Toothpick Vic's older brother Vincent Vega had been a suspected hitman working for gangster Marsellus Wallace. He'd been found dead in the apartment of champion prize-fighter Butch Coolidge, just four days after the robbery. Coolidge was still wanted for questioning, but couldn't be found.

Freddy pushed the file away. Both Vega brothers were a couple of crooked bastards, it seemed. He looked down at the smirking mug shot of Vic Vega, Toothpick Vic, Mr. Blonde. Then he whipped out his handgun and pressed the muzzle to the photo. Pulled the trigger.

The hammer fell back on an empty chamber.

A/N: Jeffrey Andrews was the original name in the script for Marvin Nash. A lot of people think the events of Pulp Fiction and Reservoir Dogs took place on the same day, which is why there aren't any cops around in Pulp Fiction. I've gone along with that idea, with the hit by Vince and Jules and the Bonnie Situation taking place on the day of the robbery (during the Super Sounds of the Seventies Weekend), and the Butch/Marsellus sequence occurring a few days later (on a Thursday, according to Maynard).

Questions? Comments? Leave a review!