Chapter 9: Long Beach Mike

"Hey kid, I did my part already. I got you on the inside, and I backed you up a long fucking way. Isn't that enough?"

"Nope," said Freddy.

They were sitting in the basement suite that the man known as Long Beach Mike called home. It was even messier than Freddy's apartment, decorated with the detritus accumulated from a life of crime. Antique clocks vied for place on the walls with photographs of Hollywood stars and dusty oil paintings. The mismatched tables sported a jumble of picture frames, lacquered boxes, silverware, and electronics. Unclaimed, forgotten mementos from thousands of jobs stretching back through the years.

Holdaway had been quick to locate Long Beach Mike, and due to Freddy's previous acquaintance with the criminal, Ferchetti had given him permission to conduct the interview – on the condition that he bring along the rookie, Jeffrey Andrews, to "show him the ropes". Knowing that he was lucky to even be doing fieldwork at this point, Freddy had agreed to the terms. Marvin's old friend had driven the car, chatted about his first month with the Detective Bureau, and generally been a goddamn nuisance the entire trip.

Right now Andrews was perched nervously on the edge of a polished maple chair, eyes behind thick lenses flicking back and forth between the other two men. Freddy wouldn't have been surprised if he took out a pencil and started to take notes. Even in plainclothes he had "cop" written all over him.

"Look Freddy, I like you. But you've gotta understand my situation. I've been identified by my old crowd as a sell-out, getting your ass onto Cabot's team. And now you tell me one of Cabot's boys is on the loose?" Mike ran a hand over his balding head. "Christ, kid, I can't get involved in this. You understand that."

Freddy smiled. "I understand that there's a psychopath runnin' loose, and that we got no leads – except for you. C'mon, Mike," he said in his friendliest tone of voice. "You know everything that happened in Long Beach. Vega had a fake job there as a dockworker. Just tell me about the foreman, this Matthews guy."

The older man shook his head. "No can do, Freddo. Just because the Cabots are dead doesn't mean that everyone who worked for 'em just up and disappeared. I've already done enough to antagonize 'em. I just want to be left alone."

"Don't preach that shit to me, Mike," said Freddy amicably. "You came to us because you were knee-deep in a situation that you couldn't handle. So we helped you out, like friends do." His smile faded, voice suddenly turned to steel. "The fact is, you owed Joe Cabot more money than the state lottery, and your only way out was to side with the cops. Face it Mike, you're a turncoat, a traitor, a motherfucking sell-out. We own your ass now. You're in no position to make demands."

Long Beach Mike sighed deeply and looked down at his scarred and calloused hands. He didn't look like a guy with a long and colourful history of armed robbery. Sitting in a brocade armchair with his feet in mismatched slippers, he looked like a tired old man.

"Holdaway's been teaching you, huh?" Mike observed. He was quiet for a moment. "The man you're looking for is Danny Matthews. Handled a lot of cover-ups for Cabot's boys. Since Joe's death they transferred the warehouse to new ownership, and he's been living in Inglewood."

Freddy stood up, and Andrews followed suit. "Thanks, Mike," he said quietly. "Appreciate it."

"Might not help you, though," the old crook remarked. "Chances are Vega left LA in the dust a while back."

"I'm not so sure," said Freddy, but did not elaborate. He extended his hand, and the other man shook it. He had stared at the scar on Freddy's face when they first arrived, but hadn't asked any questions. He was a good guy. A crooked bastard, but still a good guy.

Andrews opened his mouth to say something, but Freddy shook his head, and they left the basement in silence. Andrews managed to hold his tongue until they got into his Chevy. "That's it?" he asked.

"That's it," Freddy confirmed, winding down the window and propping his elbow on the sill.

"I think we could've gotten more outta him," Andrews was saying as he pulled away from the kerb. "A guy like that – he's gotta know about nearly every illegal operation in the city, if not the state."

Freddy reclined in his chair and lit a cigarette. "Probably. But a guy like that won't tell you everything unless he's suicidal. Sooner or later word will spread that he's a police informant and – bam! – no more Long Beach Mike. And finding some motherfucker who will sell out his buddies ain't no walk in the park. Once you have him in your back pocket, you gotta be careful about it, and only ask him what you need."

Andrews was nodding his head like a fucking idiot. Freddy was getting sick of the kid treating him like some veteran big shot cop. Sure, he'd been undercover, but he managed to get himself shot in the head, and god knows how many cops and civilians killed. Freddy was definitely no hero.

"So now we find this Danny Matthews," said the younger man. "You think he'll be of any help to us?"

"Maybe. Think about it. Vega escapes from the hospital with nothing. No proper clothes, no money, no anything. His employer is dead and the rest of the gang is in hiding, tryin' to figure out what the fuck to do and how much they've been compromised. Vega only just got out of jail, so his contacts are null and void. Where can he go for help?"

"And you think he went to Matthews?"

Freddy tapped ash out of the window. "The only people the motherfucker's seen since his release, who haven't gone underground, are the ones associated with his fake job. They have to put up a legitimate front, right? So if Vega got outta the hospital and found out that the Cabots were dead, he mighta gone to his old employer."

Andrews was frowning. "Yeah, but he moved."

"Doesn't mean Vega wouldn't know how to find him," said Freddy impatiently.

The other cop fell silent. About fucking time. Freddy found his thoughts drifting to another occasion he'd ridden shotgun in a car with the windows rolled down. Larry had just gone over the job layout with him, and then unsettled the hell out of him by that cold-blooded monologue on how to handle people who made trouble.

"...cut off one of his fingers. The little one. Then tell him his thumb's next. After that he'll tell you if he wears lady's underwear."

Then –

"I'm hungry. Let's get a taco."

Christ, how could a guy like Larry be such a ruthless motherfucker? Freddy had read the profile – juvenile problems stemming from a background of abuse and alcoholic parents. Parents divorced at age three, mother dead at age eight. But this guy had been a pro. More than that, he'd been a likeable guy, a good guy. He'd stood up for Freddy against Joe, and what had he gotten in return? A bullet in the chest, and the knowledge that his friend had been working to bring them all down.

Freddy took a long drag on his cigarette, trying in vain to think about something else. He wished to god he had never taken that job. He wished he was still a naïve motherfucker like Andrews who believed that cops were good and robbers were bad and there was no middle ground. But he wasn't.

The headache was sudden and so intense that Freddy found himself fighting down nausea.

He bent over until his head was nearly between his fucking knees, and Andrews' panicked voice asking him what was the matter sent pain slicing through his skull. Fumbling in his pocket for the jar of pills, twisting off the cap somehow, spilling capsules all over the floor of the car. Grab two and shove 'em into his mouth. No water, so it's dry-swallow and close his eyes, keeping his head down, concentrating on his breathing… If Ferchetti ever saw him like this he would lose his job.

"Freddy? You okay, man?"

"Shut the fuck up," Freddy grated out between his teeth. Andrews obeyed, thank god, and Freddy pressed his hands against the sides of his head. Squeeze out the pain. This wasn't the worst headache he'd experienced. It would fade soon.

Twenty minutes later Freddy was leaning back in the car seat, pale and clammy but otherwise recovered. They were sitting in the parking lot of the police station, and Andrews was looking at him as if he were a bomb about to go off.

"I'm all right now," Freddy managed to say. Andrews looked sceptical, but was smart enough to not say anything. "Just a headache," Freddy explained. Andrews nodded, and they got out of the car.

Freddy straightened his clothes, and they walked towards the door of the station. "And Andrews?" he said quietly. The younger man turned to face him. "You tell anyone about this, and I swear to fucking god I'll blow you away. That ain't no joke. Got it?"

Andrews swallowed. "Sure, Freddy. I got it."

A/N: I got Larry's background information (abuse, parents, etc.) from the "Background Check" deleted scene, freezing a shot of the computer screen when it shows his profile. Apparently our Mr. White has an aversion to cats. And headaches are a common problem after suffering a brain injury such as, oh I don't know, a bullet to the head.