Chapter 11: Radio Waves
"Pass me a smoke, will you? Shit, you got me worried now."
Freddy dug a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and threw it across to Holdaway. The older man caught it deftly.
"Nothing's gonna happen, Freddy," he said as he lit up.
Freddy laughed. "Who're you tryin' to convince?"
They were sitting in the room Holdaway called his "study", but which was actually just a place for the guy to kick back and chill after a day at work. There were stacks of CD's, sports posters covering the walls, a couple of overstuffed chairs, and a desk buried somewhere under a mountain of incomplete paperwork. Freddy and Holdaway were sprawled in the chairs drinking beer and listening to music, with the police radio sitting on the table between them.
Freddy had been blowing smoke rings to hide his nervousness, but apparently Holdaway had picked up on it. Vega's car had been found in the underground lot of an apartment complex, where they believed he was staying under a fake name. Cops were waiting there right now to apprehend him when he showed up. Freddy, of course, had been ordered to stay behind. To make sure that he didn't run off or do anything stupid, Holdaway had invited him over to his place to listen to events as they unfolded over the radio.
So far nothing had happened, but the silence made Freddy more nervous than ever. He took his gun out of its holster and ran his hand over the smooth metal. His fingers twitched into action, and automatically he checked the weapon, the familiar sequence of mechanical movements calming him somewhat.
Holdaway looked up and nearly choked on his cigarette. "Put that fucking thing away, man!" he exclaimed, coughing. "One of the kids could walk through the door and see you. What's the matter with you?"
"Sorry, Jim." Through the door of the "study" Freddy could hear the three little Holdaways squealing over the TV, which seemed to be playing some sort of cartoon show. He could also hear Mrs. Holdaway washing the supper dishes, banging pots and pans as if they were fucking bongo drums. This was one noisy household.
"You were real lucky to get on this case, my man," remarked Holdaway as he cracked open two more beers. "Frankie didn't wanna give it to you. Thought it might be too personal."
"Yeah? What'd you tell him?" Freddy asked, accepting his drink. He'd known for a long time that Holdaway had been the one who convinced Frankie to put him on the case.
Holdaway shrugged. "Said you knew more about Vega than anyone else. Said you wouldn't be doin' no street work, not after just getting outta the hospital. You'd only be workin' as a researcher, and maybe an adviser, you know? Said no way would you make this personal, cuz you were too damn smart for that. Dunno if he believed me or not."
"You really said all that?" asked Freddy, gratified.
"Yeah, I fuckin' did. I knew how much this meant to you, all right? So don't you make me a fuckin' liar, Newendyke."
Freddy looked thoughtfully at the dusty bottle in his hand. "Thanks, Jim," he said quietly.
The other man nodded. "Anytime. Hell, if it was up to me you'd get a fuckin' medal for what you did. But it ain't up to me."
"Yeah, Frankie Ferchetti wasn't too impressed by my testimony," Freddy remarked. "And I don't blame him. The job became a fuckin' mess, Jim." He stopped himself before he could say anything more. "Mess" was an understatement. Dead cops, dead robbers, dead civilians… dead woman in the car. Lying in the back and covered in blood, he'd been thrashing against a carseat. She'd been a mother, for Christ's sake. The others he could blame on Vega being a fucking madman and causing the job to crash and burn. But the woman was his fault, nobody else's. There were at least two little kids who had lost parents that day.
Holdaway seemed to notice his dark mood. In any case, he coughed and said lightly, "Frankie wanted to put you back on patrol, but I managed to convince him it'd be too stressful for you."
Freddy forced a smile, wrenching his thoughts away from the dark paths they were taking. "More stressful than this?" He gestured at the police radio, and they both laughed.
"At least you're back to normal now, Freddo," Holdaway remarked. "Shit, back on the job after a fuckin' bullet to the head. Now that's dedication." Freddy glanced away; he hadn't told him about the headaches. In fact, nobody knew how serious they really were. Except Jeffrey Andrews, but that kid was too fucking scared of him to say a word, thank god.
"Kids!" Mrs. Holdaway bellowed, her voice carrying over the music, the banging pots, the cartoon show, and the children shrieking. "Time for bed!"
There was instant uproar from the junior Holdaways.
"Aw, Mom!"
"Couldn't we just stay –"
"– show's not over yet!"
"Excuse me," said their father through gritted teeth, and pushed himself up from his chair. He marched over to the door of the study, yanked it open and stuck his head out. "Listen to your mother!" he roared like a fucking dinosaur. "Now go to bed!"
There was some mutinous muttering, then footsteps and slamming doors indicated that the children had done as they were told. Freddy had to hide a smile as Holdaway came stomping back, looking pissed as hell and wearing his "All American Dad" t-shirt.
"Sorry 'bout that," he huffed as he threw himself back into his chair. "Fuckin' kids…"
Freddy grinned, ignoring the dirty glare that his friend shot his way.
Holdaway's eyes narrowed further; he remembered something. "I ever tell you what else went down in LA the day of the robbery?" he asked.
"Nope." Freddy lowered his bottle and leaned forward to listen. Anything to distract him from that fucking silent radio.
"It was fucked up, man. Bright and early, some neighbours in an apartment reported hearing gunshots, and we find three guys full of holes. Professional job, bullets all over the fuckin' place. Then we get a call, someone saw a car driving down the street in broad daylight with blood splattered all over the inside of the windows. That was a bust – couldn't find the car any fuckin' where. And then a bunch of pissy coffee shop customers phone in yakking about a couple who stole their wallets, and some black guy who talked 'em down at gunpoint. And all this in the morning."
Freddy blinked, trying to process the idea that such fucked-up stuff had been happening while he had been on the job. "Holy shit."
"Uh-huh." Holdaway nodded. "The triple homicide mighta been ordered by Marsellus Wallace, but we couldn't pin it on him. Hell, it could've been done by the other Vega brother. Y'know, Vincent, before he got blasted to Kingdom come."
They were companionably silent for a moment, then: "There's somethin' I wondered about Vega." Holdaway's voice was quiet and thoughtful, and Freddy looked at him questioningly, motioning for him to continue. "It's been – what? – three months since he escaped? Well why the fuck did he stay in LA all that time?"
Freddy ran a hand through his hair. "I think he's been lying low, recovering, building up his strength, that sort of thing. Also, he did four years for Cabot, and they fuckin' owe him. I think he might've been hangin' around hoping that one of Cabot's top people would take over the business and hire him back."
"Hell, we haven't heard shit from them," said Holdaway. "Cabot's goons, they've been layin' real low. Probably in a fuckin' panic, figuring out what to do. And with Joe and Nice Guy dead, there's no clear-cut leader anymore. Not that we know of, anyway."
He was interrupted by a sudden burst of static. The police radio crackled into life: "Vega's in sight. Repeat, Vega is in sight."
Instantly the two of them were out of their chairs, crouching by the table and practically gluing their ears to the radio's speakers. It was about twenty years old, and the voices were tinny and distorted, but it was still serviceable. Freddy's spilt beer was soaking into the carpet, but they didn't notice.
"We're moving in," the voice murmured, and for a minute they listened anxiously to the crackling static, not daring to breathe. Freddy absently butted out his cigarette on the table leg.
From the radio came muffled voices, then garbled shouting – and ringing gunfire. Freddy and Holdaway stared at each other in horror. Something had gone terribly wrong, but they couldn't hear shit. It was complete chaos.
"Officer down, officer down!" the voice screeched out, suddenly intelligible. Even warped by the ancient radio, it carried a note of panic. "Request backup… Repeat, request backup… Vega is fleeing on foot…"
Freddy didn't wait to hear any more. He was on his feet and sprinting for the door.
"Freddy!"
He stopped and turned to face Holdaway, his hand already on the doorknob. His friend was still kneeling by the radio.
"I gotta go, Jim," he said urgently, shifting his feet, unable to stand still. "He can't get away. He just can't –"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down, Freddy. Wait a minute." Holdaway raised his hands in a placating gesture, attempting to sound reasonable.
"Fuck that," Freddy spat. "I'm done waiting. I know what this psychopathic motherfucker can do, and I'm not gonna just sit here and let him fucking escape all over again."
And with that he turned the knob, threw the door open, and dashed out into the hall. He could hear Jim shouting at him to come back, but he was determined. It was time to take down Vic fucking Vega.
A/N: God Freddy, don't do anything stupid. Anyway, some people believe that the events of Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction took place on the same day, and this explains why there aren't any cops in Pulp Fiction. Also, in a deleted scene Holdaway was indeed wearing an "All American Dad" t-shirt. And I did pause the movie and check for a wedding ring, just to make sure. Interesting family man. He's got to be the coolest dad ever.