Chapter 10: Night Wanderings

Freddy knew it had been too good to last. Captain Ferchetti had called him into his office, sat him down, and explained that he had been very generous with Freddy, letting him visit a prison inmate and question Long Beach Mike. But that was enough fieldwork for now, and he ought to stay behind his desk for the next little while. Rest and recuperate and all that shit.

Of course, Freddy hadn't taken this fatherly advice very well, so their civil conversation had escalated into a heated argument until Frankie basically shouted at him to go home and get some rest. And so it was that Freddy, feeling rebellious and itching to escape his apartment, had set off for a long walk on the streets of LA.

Andrews had gone with another cop to visit the foreman, Danny Matthews, and Holdaway had called Freddy's cell phone in the afternoon to tell him what they'd found out. Freddy's hunch had been right. Vega had visited Matthews three months ago, asked for money and gotten it, but not before Matthews got a good look at the car he was driving – not his old Coupe, and obviously a stolen vehicle. They were trying to locate it right now. Nobody was optimistic that they would find it, but Freddy had a feeling Vega was still hanging around LA. It was just the sort of calm psycho thing he would do.

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and walked down the street. It was dark now, but he wasn't paying attention to where he was going anyway. It thus came as a complete surprised when he looked up and saw a bar on the street corner. And not just any bar: Smokey Pete's. He was in Gardena.

Freddy's legs were trembling as he stepped inside. True to its name the bar was filled with cigarette smoke. He sat at the bar and ordered a drink, and the red lighting alone was enough to bring him back to the night he had met Larry.

They had been sitting at a table by the dance floor. Eddie had introduced him to Joe as "our Mr. Orange", and Freddy had shit a pile of bricks as Joe asked him questions: where was he from, who did he know, how'd he meet Nice Guy Eddie, had he done time, shit like that. Then Joe had asked if he'd done armed robbery before. Freddy had rattled off his rehearsed answer: he'd robbed a few gas stations, sold some weed, and held the shotgun as he and Long Beach Mike pulled down a poker game in Portland. Nice Guy Eddie called Mike up then and there to check it out, Freddy waiting dry-mouthed with fear, and the old crook had come through and backed him up. And then it was time. Freddy had told the commode story.

That meeting had been Freddy's chance to make an impression on Joe. He'd chosen his clothes carefully: not his regular plaid shirt and faded jeans, and definitely not his Speed Racer t-shirts. He had to be accepted by these guys. He had to be confident. He had to be fucking cool. The leather jacket became a costume for him, dressing the part of a young street tough wanting to make it big. And the ring, of course. Pete Kricher's old wedding ring. He remembered Holdaway's words: "Married men get more respect, Newendyke. Know why? Cuz it means at least one bitch is willing to put up with you. It also means you're probably gettin' some every night."

After delivering the commode story he'd felt exhilarated. He'd been in the zone, confident, cocky even. But that was okay; he was supposed to be the rookie ready to start playing with the big boys. And then Joe had told him he was in. Over the first hurdle; now he had to get to work. When Joe had lumbered off to the boy's room, and Eddie had left to settle the tab, Freddy was left alone with the enigmatic Mr. White.

"You like sports, White? Football, baseball?"

They had both been smoking, sitting elbow to elbow and sharing an ashtray.

"Sure. Football never interested me. Bunch of guys runnin' around in fuckin' leotards. But baseball – now that's a real American sport."

Then Mr. White had let slip that he liked to bet on the games. Made watching it more exciting, with a little money on the line.

"You ever win?"

"A few times. Matter of fact, I won last night."

"Yeah?"

"Brewers. Made a killing off 'em."

"Shit, only a guy from Wisconsin would bet on the Brewers."

"Yeah, but when it pays off, it pays off big time."

Chatting about the Milwaukee Brewers, Freddy had concentrated on keeping his head, staying slick, hiding his excitement. You couldn't help but respect the older guy. He was obviously a pro, but he was easy to talk to – and was clearly warming to him. A good sign. Their conversation came to an end when Eddie returned and told Freddy it was time to go. And that was that. Riding shotgun in Eddie's car, Freddy couldn't wait to see Holdaway and tell him the good news.

"Hey, buddy. You want another drink?"

Freddy looked up, blinking in confusion. The bartender was looking at him expectantly.

"Yeah, gimme another." The doctors had warned him to stay away from alcohol, but that hadn't stopped him from having the occasional beer. The only time he'd gotten properly drunk since the coma, he'd smashed up his apartment, but that memory wasn't stopping him tonight.

Freddy sighed and sipped his second drink. He'd been so fucking ignorant four months ago, standing in this very bar, performing for Joe and Eddie and Larry. He'd been a stupid little motherfucker, hadn't had a fucking clue how it would all end. Hadn't known that the robbery would get all fucked up, or that he'd go through the worst physical pain of his life, bleeding and thrashing against a child's carseat. That he'd shoot a civilian, a woman. Or that he'd end up betraying a friend, one of the best men he'd ever known.

"Come on pal, we gotta go."

"Not now… It fucking hurts, Larry."

"I know. But you can't stay out here in the car. I'll help you. It's only a few steps."

Terrible pain in his belly. Legs buckling underneath him. Voice wavering out of control.

"I can't! I can't do it…"

"Stand up, kid. C'mon, stand up."

"I killed her, Larry… I can't believe I killed someone. Oh, shit…"

"Hey, it's okay –"

"I fucking shot her, man…"

"Don't think about that. Just walk for me. Can you do that?"

Step after painful step –

"Just hold on, kid. Hold on."

– then a pause while Larry kicked the door open.

"Look where we are… Look where we are, we're in a warehouse–"

"Larry… She had a baby, man… She had a baby."

Freddy sighed and picked up his drink. "To Larry," he whispered, and emptied his glass. He signalled to the bartender to bring him another. Shit, he was gonna get drunk tonight. It wasn't fair, him still being here. He'd killed an innocent woman. He'd betrayed Larry; he should have died. Larry should have killed him properly. Countless murders to Lawrence Dimick's name, and he couldn't kill a man who'd already been shot twice.

His thoughts became less turbulent after the third drink. Alcohol affected him more acutely since his head injury. The doctors had mentioned something about the blood-brain barrier, but Freddy hadn't been listening. He'd been no lightweight before, so this was fucking embarrassing, seeing things after only three fucking drinks. And he had to be seeing things, because Larry simply couldn't be sitting next to him at the bar.

Freddy stared at the arm leaning on the countertop, trying to get it properly in focus. Larry's right arm had a tiger tattoo on it, and so did this one. Or did it? Squinting in the red light, Freddy realized that the tattoo was a snake, not a tiger. And Larry's arm had never been that pale or slender. And Larry had certainly never worn nail polish.

Looking up, Freddy got a look at the real owner of the arm. A cute little Oriental chick wearing a cute little dress. About as physically far from Larry as you could get. She looked over, and caught him staring at her. The music was pounding in his ears. The alcohol was making him light-headed and reckless. He smiled. The girl smiled back.

Freddy's cell phone rang, forcing them to stop checking each other out. "Shit," he muttered, fumbling in his jacket pocket. He quickly paid for his drinks. With an apologetic look at the girl, he edged past her and made for the door.

The night air was cold, and Freddy cursed as he took out the phone. "Yeah?"

"Hey Freddy, man. It's Jim."

"What's up?" asked Freddy, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand. "It better be damn important."

"It is damn important. You know the car Vega was driving?"

Freddy stopped in his tracks. He was instantly sober.

"…It's been spotted."

"I'm on my way," said Freddy, already waving down a cab.

A/N: The little description of what happened when Freddy met Joe (where he was from, where he'd done time, he'd robbed some gas stations, etc.) is from the original script. The last two lines of "memory dialogue" are from the movie, of course. Questions? Comments? Leave a review!