Chapter 2: Briefing Over Beer

The Riverbottom Pub was a popular cop hangout, especially on Fridays. It was good for a few beers, the music wasn't bad, and – most importantly – there was a cigarette machine. There was also a moth-eaten buffalo head hanging on the wall near the dance floor, but Freddy was willing to forgive them that.

He was sitting in a booth with Holdaway, McKlusky, and Andrews, gulping down beers and munching on dry ribs and nachos.

"Okay McKlusky," said Holdaway, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth. "Whaddaya got?"

The computer operator put down her glass, and looked at her notes which were now stained with grease and barbecue sauce. "George "Dov" Dover is our guy," she reported. "He and Joseph Cabot did some time together back in 'fifty-two when they were small-time crooks. Both busted for petty theft, and records show they were cellmates. After that he became Joe's right-hand man. Managed to stay outta trouble too, cuz he worked more in the business side of organized crime and was never directly involved in Cabot's jobs."

"And you think the power passed to him?" asked Freddy.

McKlusky nodded. "By all reports he was next in the chain of command," she said. "With Joseph and Edward Cabot dead, he's the only one with the knowledge and experience to keep the business running. And even with that they're not in the best of shape."

"What d'you mean?" asked Andrews, speaking for the first time that night. A half-eaten nacho was hanging out of his mouth. Granted, Freddy was a sloppy eater himself, but this kid had the table manners of a fucking goat. One of his many charms that made him among the most annoying people on the planet, in Freddy's opinion.

It was Holdaway who answered him. "With the Cabots dead as fuckin' fried chicken, most of their connections are gone, man. They were on the way down anyway when Freddy got inside. The gang is weak. Most of the soldiers took off, except for a few still working for this Mr. Dover motherfucker."

"They've switched most of their company names too," McKlusky put in. "For example, Reservoir Trading Incorporated is now Turtledove Supplies. And they've abandoned all of their old warehouses."

Freddy peeled the cellophane off a new pack of cigs and lit up. "And what's the word on Vega?" he asked, blowing a stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

McKlusky and Holdaway exchanged glances. "No word yet," said McKlusky as she wiped her hands on a paper napkin. "He's still at large, and he could be halfway to Bermuda by now."

"Yeah, but what if he's still in LA and thinkin' of working for this Dov guy?"

"That ain't our job, Freddy," Holdaway pointed out. His voice was stern. "Our job is to get Dover, and stop them from regaining power and carrying out more fuckin' organized crime, man."

"I know, I know," said Freddy, waving his hands.

Holdaway gave him a long look, then turned to Andrews. "Right. So now we wait for the call. You ready to meet this motherfucker, Jeffrey?"

The rookie cop jumped at being addressed and nervously pushed his glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose. He swallowed thickly. "I dunno," he mumbled, and his face flushed.

Freddy rolled his eyes and glanced at Holdaway. "Jim…"

"How many times do I hafta tell you?" the older man snapped. "The answer is no, Newendyke. You can't go undercover thanks to that fuckin' article. Remember?"

"How can I forget?" replied Freddy sarcastically. "But that was printed over four fucking months ago."

Holdaway slammed his hand down on the table, causing McKlusky and Andrews to jump. "I don't care if it was four fucking years! They printed your name and picture, and identified you as a cop."

"It's a sh–"

"I know it's a fuckin' shitty picture, man. But we can't take any chances. And with Vega runnin' around somewhere, there's no way in hell you're gonna get this assignment. So just shut – the fuck – up! Andrews," he said, turning to glare at the other cop, who shrank back in his seat. "Are you fuckin' ready, kid?"

"I – well –" Andrews looked into Holdaway's face and appeared to deflate. "Yeah, I'm ready," he said softly.

"Good." The older man finished his beer and dropped a few crumpled dollar bills on the table. "Well I'm off. Dinner with the wife and kids tonight."

When he left McKlusky rolled her eyes. "God, Jim can be a real prick sometimes."

"Tell me about it," Freddy grumbled, shredding a napkin to pieces.

Earl Thomas Conley crooned the last few bars of "Holding Her and Loving You", and the next song on the juke box began with a few strums of a guitar: "Only You". McKlusky dropped a half-eaten rib back onto her plate. "It's our song!" she squealed. "Scuse me, boys." She jumped up and pranced over to where her husband Brad was talking to some of his buddies.

"Hey babe," he said cheerfully. "You done workin'?"

"Honey, you know it," said McKlusky, and dragged him to the dance floor as the other cops clapped and whistled.

Freddy turned away bad-temperedly. He was grateful to be back on field duty, but it was frustrating as hell to work on a case that had such close ties to Vega, without being allowed to investigate the bastard. He drained his beer and glared moodily around the room, noting that Andrews was watching him.

"Hey, man," said the rookie hesitantly. "Could I ask you somethi–"

"I'm leaving," Freddy said flatly. He threw some money on the table and stalked out of the pub, throwing his cigarette butt onto the sidewalk. It wasn't fair that the undercover job was going to this kid Andrews. He and Holdaway had prepped the young cop as best they could, but they all knew that Freddy was better at this sort of thing. He was a hell of a liar, if that was anything to brag about.

"Hey, wait a minute!" Christ, the kid had come out after him. Freddy ignored him and started to walk down the sidewalk. "Listen man, I know you wanted the undercover job –"

"No fuck."

"If it means anything, I think you should do it too. I asked Ferchetti to give it to you but he said no."

Freddy stopped still. He turned to Andrews, who was watching him anxiously, and all of his anger at this innocent-looking guy, with his ginger hair and thick plastic-rimmed glasses, dissipated. It wasn't the kid's fault that he had been first pick for this assignment. "You wanted to ask me something?" he said quietly.

The younger man's face broke into a smile. "Yeah. It's kind of –" He stopped, looking suddenly self-conscious.

"Listen, Andrews," said Freddy. "When I walked out of that pub I did so with the sole intention of getting properly drunk. You wanna come with?"

They walked down the road to a hole-in-the-wall bar that Freddy sometimes frequented whenever he wanted to be left alone. After a few drinks they were laughing together like old buddies. Andrews obviously couldn't hold his liquor, and neither could Freddy ever since his recovery.

"So tell me," Andrews slurred, spilling half his drink down the front of his shirt. "Ha! Okay, so tell me, what was it like workin' undercover? I mean, were you as fuckin' scared as I am now?" He let out a nervous giggle.

Freddy sobered up a bit at that question. "I dunno how scared you are now, Andrews," he pointed out, giving the question serious thought. He stared, frowning, at the counter. "For me, it was the scariest fuckin' thing I ever did. Every day I thought they'd find out. Everything – some little glance, some remark, everything – I thought it meant they knew who I really was."

Andrews was staring at him with his mouth open, hanging on his every word. With this kind of undivided attention, Freddy started to get more into it.

"I remember this one time, I got a call from Nice Guy. They were waiting for me outside. That was it, man. That was my last chance to back out, only at that point I couldn't, y'know? I couldn't go back – shit, I couldn't even go fuckin' sideways. I could only go forward. And I was fuckin' scared. So I looked in the mirror, and talked myself into walking out that door and getting into the car."

"Jesus." Andrews drained his glass and waved for a refill. "I'm sure glad it's not just me, man."

"I'd be more worried if you didn't feel nervous," Freddy remarked. "But you're safer than I was. We got visibility of the office interior, and there'll be people on the lower floors of the building. Holdaway and I will be watching the feed. And you'll be in and out of there in less than thirty minutes."

The rookie passed a hand over his face. "Still, Freddy. I mean, I know you an' Holdaway have been prepping me for this. But so many things can go wrong."

Freddy looked at the kid's miserable face. Shit, he'd never looked that scared when preparing for his job. Okay, maybe he had a few times, but never in front of anybody else. He squeezed the other guy's shoulder reassuringly. "You're ready. Don't pussy out on me now, Andrews. Besides," he grinned, "when are you ever gonna get the chance to pretend to be a criminal? When you're not shittin' bricks, it can be fun sometimes."

The young cop forced a smile. "Thanks man," he said, quietly hiccupping. They sipped their drinks. "Did you go see Irene?" asked Andrews.

Freddy looked into his glass. "Yeah."

"How'd it go?"

"I never want to do anything like that again," he admitted. "It was so awkward. All I did was make her upset. I mean, fuck, how do you talk to the wife of a guy who was killed in front of you?"

"I hear ya." They were broodingly silent for a minute, then ordered more drinks.

A/N: The Riverbottom Pub is a cop hangout mentioned in Tarantino's "Jackie Brown", starring Pam Grier. I bet our Reservoir Dogs would've loved to watch that one. If you remember, "Dov" is the guy Eddie was talking to on the phone as he drove to the warehouse after the robbery, as quoted in the first chapter.