Chapter 9: Homecoming

Freddy strode into Holdaway's office, banging the door closed behind him. "What was so important that I had to come in right away?" he demanded, ignoring the stares of the other men in the room.

Holdaway crossed his arms and grinned. "What's the matter, Newendyke? Were you on a date?"

"Maybe," said Freddy with a twisted smile. Holdaway rolled his eyes and snorted in disbelief. "C'mon, Jim. It's my motherfuckin' day off."

"I told him to call you in." Freddy turned to see Captain Frankie Ferchetti leaning against the wall. Fuck. Was he off the case? Was this about the headaches? Andrews was occupying one of the chairs in front of Holdaway's desk and Kelvin was standing nearby. They all looked serious and strangely apprehensive. "Why don't you sit down?"

"Okay," said Freddy slowly, taking the empty chair beside Andrews and looking from one face to another. "Someone mind telling me what's goin' on?"

Frankie nodded at Andrews, who licked his lips nervously and polished his glasses on his shirt. "I was called in today by Dov," he explained. "He said he wanted to show me the ropes, and took me to lunch with Teddy. While we were there, Dov got a call on his cell phone. It…" He hesitated and looked at Frankie for help.

The Captain crossed his arms. "Freddy, you sit there and hear us out, all right?" At Freddy's nod, the older man gave him a piercing look. "It was Vega."

Freddy's skin went cold. His heart was pounding in his ears. His throat was dry as sandpaper. They were all staring at him as if expecting him to say something, but he couldn't think of anything to say. He noticed that he was gripping the arms of the chair very hard. And that was odd, because he was having trouble seeing straight.

Frankie nodded at Kelvin, who slid a tape into the player on Holdaway's desk. "Jeff was wearing a wire, and this is what we got," he said, pressing the Play button.

There was a hiss of static, and the faint babble of voices and chink of cutlery on plates. A busy restaurant, a family place. Then Freddy heard the squeak of a chair as someone sat down, and then Dov's voice: "Well Teddy, you won't believe it but an old friend of ours is in town."

"Yeah?" said another voice, a younger man, sounding indifferent. "Who called?"

"Toothpick."

"Really?" The Teddy guy sounded much more interested now. "What'd he say?"

There was the loud click of a cup on a table. "He wants to meet with us, see about getting his old job back. He'll be coming by the office a week from Friday." There was a pause, then, "Maybe you'd like to come along too, Paul."

"Sure," said Andrews, alias Paul Mullen, doing an admirable job of sounding oblivious. "Who is this guy anyway?"

"You ain't heard of Toothpick Vic?" asked Teddy incredulously. "Shit, the guy's a fucking legend."

Freddy stood abruptly, knocking over his chair. Kelvin switched off the machine, an anxious look on his sallow face. "That's pretty much it," said Frankie quietly. "We thought you should know."

Freddy turned and walked to the window, leaning his hands on the sill to look down. All of those people passing by on the sidewalk, completely ignorant of the drama playing out a few storeys above them. "So what are we gonna do to get this guy?" he asked, forcing himself to sound calm. He turned and leaned back against the sill.

Frankie and Holdaway exchanged glances. "Jeff is going to be in the office next Friday, and so are Dov, Teddy, and the rest of the gang. Jeff found out that they'll be planning their next few operations. They've collected nearly all of the debts owed to the Cabots, and on that Friday they'll be pitching ideas for jobs and paying out. Everyone's going to be there, and the dirty money too, so that's when we're going to move in. With any luck, Vega will be with them when we make our move."

"That's it?" Freddy demanded. They had to be fucking kidding. "You're going to round up the gang and just hope that Vega is there? With any luck? Fuck that, this is our chance!"

Captain Ferchetti frowned. "We've spent weeks scraping up evidence against Dov and the others. For once we can put this gang out of business, Freddy. We're not going to risk our opportunity to take down an entire gang for just one man. That's ridiculous."

Freddy started pacing. "This is fucked up," he said under his breath. "Vega is a psychopathic killer. He's more dangerous than any of those guys."

"Apprehending Vega isn't our primary goal," said Frankie levelly.

"Then make it a separate operation," Freddy urged, pleading with the older man. "We know where Vega's going to be, and when. We only need a few guys, I can lead the team –"

"No, Freddy." The tone of Ferchetti's voice brooked no argument. "Look. Holdaway persuaded me to let you take part in this, against my better judgment. But if you even think of going after Vega without orders, you're off the case. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir," Freddy said to the floor.

"Good." Frankie's expression softened. "Kid, go home and get some rest. And I want you to make another appointment with Dr. Moss."

Freddy glared at Ferchetti and left the office, brushing rudely past his colleagues on his way to the stairs. He hated Dr. Moss. That nosy sick-minded psychoanalytic bastard asked him about everything from how often he prayed to how his sex life was. Freddy had made it a point not to answer any questions he perceived as being particularly stupid, which was usually all of them. What exactly was he supposed to say? He could just picture it now: "Gee, doc, my sex life is just peachy. Holdaway set me up with a Swiss stripper called Sandy when I got out of the hospital. Then I fucked a Marilyn Monroe look-alike in the backseat of my car. And now I've slept with the widow of a cop who was killed in front of me when I was working undercover. How 'bout you?" Yeah fucking right.

He walked down the street, still seething. People took one look at the pissed-off expression on his face and the firearm at his side and stepped out of the way. There was no fucking way he was going to see the psychiatrist again. Shit, he didn't need a fucking psychiatrist. He needed a fucking shotgun with Vega in his sights. The guy was fucking insane, responsible for who knows how many deaths, and had ruined countless lives. His. Irene's. A sick motherfucker like him felt absolutely no remorse, and would kill again. Service with a smile.

Freddy arrived back at his apartment no calmer than when he had left the station. Why couldn't these idiots see how necessary it was to get Vega once and for all? He fumed as he stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower, turning the faucet to make the water as hot as he could bear. It felt like needles in his back.

He slammed the wall with his hand and cursed. Then he leaned his hands against the wall and ducked his head, allowing the water to stream over his hair and down his face. Finally calming down, Freddy found his thoughts wandering to Irene and what they'd done. She was attractive, no argument there, but she was Marvin's widow. Her husband had died because of him. And she had a little kid for fuck's sake. He idly wondered what Dr. Moss would make of all of this if he really did tell him. Probably order him to go to another motherfucking confession.

She had given him her number, but if he had any sense he'd just throw it away and forget about her. They'd shared a raw fuck, and that was all there was to it. Move on.

Freddy turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, toweling his hair. He pulled on jeans and a t-shirt, and turned on the CD player before looking around at his apartment: stacks of comics and magazines, empty cans, cereal boxes, takeout containers, floors of untreated wood, and a lamp without a shade standing pathetically in the corner. This was no place for a woman. He sifted through the stuff on his table in a vain attempt to clean the place up a bit, but soon gave up. Right now, the best thing to do would be to get piss-drunk.

The doctors had advised against imbibing any alcohol, although in face of his complaining they had allowed that he could have the occasional beer – socially, mind you. Freddy was very aware of the effects his injury had on his alcohol tolerance. Whereas before he'd been able to hold his own in any crowd, now a couple of drinks had him drunk as a drowned mouse. It had taken a while to get used to it.

But Freddy still vividly remembered the last time he'd gotten stone drunk in his apartment. Actually, he didn't remember much about what exactly he'd done that night, but he remembered waking up the day after with an elephant of a hangover to an apartment that looked like a motherfucking hurricane had hit.

Lying on the cold grainy floor, Freddy had attempted to reconstruct events. He had been very depressed back then. The scars on his arms had been red and inflamed. He'd been taking medication, but the night before it had been wearing off. And that was when he'd gone through every inch of his house and dug up every bit form of booze he could find. A couple cases of beer, some bottles of cheap wine, and every form of hard liquor known to mankind. After the first few drinks he hadn't become very discriminating, mixed up everything into a vile cocktail, and poured it down his throat. Staggering around the apartment, he'd opened the knife drawer in the tiny kitchen. But he was over-enthusiastic and it fell to the floor, knives and spoons and spatulas scattering everywhere. No, he'd thought, he wasn't going to try to kill himself again. Holdaway had said – what'd he say? – that he'd been trying to take the easy way out. And he was no coward… And then his eyes had landed on the baseball bat.

Freddy shook his head, grinning bitterly at the memory. That was the last time he'd do that. Surely there was some other way to deal with this mess than get fucking plastered and destroy his personal property. Maybe he could go to the shooting range and work out some of his feelings – but that didn't feel right. He wanted to talk to someone. He needed someone to ground him, to take his mind off this fucking Vega business.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, and slowly pulled out the crumpled piece of paper he found there. It was Irene's phone number. She'd given it to him this morning. He stared at it for a long time, then picked up the receiver. Dialed the number.

"Hey Irene? It's Freddy."

A/N: Oh yes, our favorite badass is back in town. I don't know why I like crazy Mr. Blonde so much.