Craptastic Day
Bill is beginning to have serious sympathy for minimum wage workers and single mothers. Or anyone, really, who works two jobs.
He's fucking tired, he has too much shite to get done and not enough hours to do it in, and he absolutely, positively must be visibly doing his job on the weekends. The rest of the time he can sort of skate, stop by the station a couple of times a week, pick up new case files, and work on them at DBY or at home. He doesn't need to actually be present, much, to do his job. On the weekends, however, there is no way around putting certain things aside and getting out on the streets to do some investigation that's actually in-line with what the department is paying him for.
He is still a Vice Detective, no matter what little side projects he's chosen to undertake.
Like it or not.
He'd spent the first three hours of the night in the company of a series of sullen prostitutes with a history of being manhandled by their pimps -- Vice's equivalent of Domestic Violence. Bill isn't surprised to discover that the situation gets his hackles up just as readily as the more standard version. One of the things he hates about law in general is that it doesn't often allow for undefined factors. Like the fact that victims of domestic violence are often as hostile toward any sort of police involvement as the perpetrators are. And this is unquestionably domestic violence, except, under the letter of the law, it's not. And thus it's a no victim, no crime situation. Family law would allow charges to be filed by law enforcement personnel regardless of the willingness of the victim, if the law would allow that this particular dynamic falls under Family Law. Which it doesn't.
If the girl (or boy) involved refuses to testify, refuses to press charges, or wants to drop charges already filed, there isn't anything Bill can do about it.
The good news is, it lightens Bill's case load fairly quickly. The bad news is, too many of these girls (and boys) will end up on a coroner's table eventually.
It would be easy to tell himself that choosing not to do anything at all about being in a bad situation is the same as choosing to stay in said situation. Unfortunately, Bill knows better. He understands the psychology of domestic violence victims very clearly, and it just isn't that simple.
The fourth girl he's looking for evades him for a solid three-quarters of an hour. When he finally finds her, she's on her knees in an alley between an adult movie theatre and a delicatessan about a block off of the main drag.
He decides it would be impolite to interrupt, and leans against the wall outside the alley and smokes while he waits for her to finish up with her "appointment." He's got two more girls and one more boy to visit tonight pursuant to actual Vice cases. He expects all of them to pretty much blow him off (though not in the sense in which this one is currently blowing someone off). Clearing seven cases will look good as far as productivity goes, and will free up time in the upcoming week to look into the things he actually wants to look into, but...
Well, there's no sense in dwelling on it. Everyone makes choices. It isn't his job to make theirs for them.
The girl and her john emerge from the alley together just as Bill is thinking about lighting another fag. They're talking in low, fast voices, heads close together. The back of Bill's neck prickles uncomfortably at the sight of them. He can see the girl's face -- the furrow between her brows, the tight, angry set to her mouth -- but the bloke's got his back to Bill, unreadable except for his posture, which doesn't strike Bill as particularly hostile. Of course, it's hard to say from behind. Bill stays put, just watching, trying to put his finger on what, exactly, has got his hackles up.
Body language, he thinks, which makes sense, because these two are talking like they know each other, bodies comfortable in each other's space -- the hooker has her hand around the bloke's forearm -- and that doesn't resonate quite right for the sort of one-shot, furtive, anonymous-back-alley-blowjob thing.
"...wasn't what we agreed on, Rings, you fuck," she hisses, and her eyes flick in Bill's direction and widen slightly.
Bill hears the name and the gun comes out, no thought involved, while Rings is still turning to see what the girl is looking at. The girl's wide eyes get even wider, and she -- wisely -- steps away from Rings, her hands raising up into plain sight. For a moment, she looks like she might run, but it appears that staring down the barrel of Bill's 9 mm dissuades her from it.
Bill ignores her; he's no longer interested in her, but in him.
Rings had never carried, but Bill watches his hands anyway, because you just never fucking know. "Hands," Bill snarls, and Rings raises them both obligingly, his eyes narrowed into slits and fixed on Bill. He doesn't look afraid, precisely, but his eyes glitter with understanding.
The hooker's name is Caroline Mattingly. She, as opposed to Rings, looks like she's ready to piss herself. "Dude, it was just a fucking blowjob," she stammers.
Bill doesn't bother to look at her. "Bugger off, love," he says softly. Rings shifts slightly, and light reflects from his myriad piercings, but his hands stay up and empty.
"What?" she whispers, voice a breathy quaver. "He... he hasn't paid me."
Bill resists the urge to roll his eyes. At least he now knows why she's a fucking hooker; girl is felony stupid.
"Piss. Off. Now," he says, slowly and clearly.
For a moment, she just stands there, indecisive, though from Bill's perspective, there doesn't seem to be much to be bloody confused about. Stupid bint; when he finds her again -- which he will have to do tomorrow, he still has business with the brainless twit -- he's going to give her the talking to of her sodding life. Dumb hookers have a much higher mortality rate than smart ones, and the way it looks from where Bill's standing, she's due for the slab any day now.
"Don't make me say it again, you daft twat," he barks, and that finally does it. She turns tail and hauls arse, her heels click-clacking ridiculously on the pavement.
Rings looks at him for a few seconds, silent and grim, and Bill just looks back.
"How ya doin', MacKinnon," Rings says finally. "Long time no see."
"Into the alley," Bill says, and gestures with the muzzle of his gun for emphasis. Rings never had been terribly bright (smarter than the hooker, aye, but it's not like that's fucking hard), and his face and body immediately broadcast his intentions.
"Play nice," Bill hisses, and cocks the Sig deliberately, purely for the sound (it doesn't need to be cocked in order to fire), which is very loud in the silence hanging between them. "I get very fucking cranky when I have to chase people, Rings."
The moment hangs there, stretches, Rings poised on the balls of his feet, ready to flee, and Bill just waits for Rings to come to the conclusion that Bill has already reached. There isn't a snowball's chance in Hell that Rings can outrun Bill, and if Bill has to chase him, he's bloody well going to send the bugger home a few teeth shy of a full fucking grin. "Yeah," Rings says finally, and his shoulders relax as he settles himself. "I'll bet you do."
"Alley," Bill repeats, and this time Rings turns (hands going out on either side of his body to remain clearly visible from behind, he knows the drill) and takes the ten steps necessary to get them off of the sidewalk and into the protection of the space between buildings.
"That'll do," Bill says, and walks around Rings so that they're facing each other instead of having him turn. No telling what Rings has down the front on his pants, and Bill doesn't want to take the chance of having either of his hands out of sight for even an instant. He has no urge to be shot again any time in the near future.
"Going to arrest me?" Rings asks, and sound genuinely curious about it, and not terribly worried about the prospect.
It doesn't especially surprise Bill. Rings is out recreationally, that much is clear, and if he's carrying anything on him at all, it's probably not much. Personal use wont get you a felony charge, not with the stuff Rings deals, and Rings would be quite aware of that.
"Not today," Bill says. "I just want a little information."
Rings nods and makes an inexplicable gesture with both hands that reminds Bill oddly of Johnny. "Mind if I smoke," he asks, which only strengthens the association. He gives Bill a half-smirk. "I don't carry, MacKinnon, you know that."
"I know you didn't, which is an entirely different animal." Still, Bill fishes for a fag out of his own pack one-handed, lights it, and holds it out to Rings. He doesn't lower the gun.
Rings takes it, eyeing the gun a little warily, but apparently not worried enough to decline the offer.
"How do you know the bird," Bill asks, though he doesn't really give a rats arse. It's merely a starting point.
"We exchange services, on occasion," Rings says wryly, and takes a drag off the cigarette. "It's casual. This your beat now that you're not playing dealer anymore?"
Bill ignores the question. Truthfully, he only has two questions for Rings, but they're both fairly vital ones. It's best to ask other things, more open ended things, and hope Rings fills in the blanks himself. The less Rings actually knows about what Bill wants to know, the better. "You know her pimp?"
"Yeah, I've met him. Sort of a slimeball. Reminds me of Burelle, a bit." Rings smirks and drags on the fag again, and Bill resists the urge to smirk back at the idiot's transparent attempt to get under Bill's skin.
"Doesn't surprise me. He beats her up." Bill watches Rings' lip curl slightly at the information, and that doesn't surprise him either. Rings is a bit of an odd bloke, for a dealer. Never had cared much for violence.
Rings sucks on the cigarette contemplatively for a moment, then flicks it away. He gives Bill a long, serious look. "I've never had a problem with you, MacKinnon, and that's the truth. I still don't. You're doing your thing, I'm doing my thing, and I'd just as soon not get in one another's way. You aren't really interested in me; you've got bigger fish to fry. So tell me what you want to know, I'll tell you what I can, and I'll never tell a soul that we had this little chat. We can go our separate ways, return to our regularly scheduled programming, and maybe get lucky, and never see each other again."
Bill considers it. It would be pure folly to trust Rings, obviously. But maybe that doesn't matter. Or maybe it matters, but it's not as important as finding out what Bill wants to know. Maybe it doesn't matter one way or the other who Rings talks to about their "chat", because sooner or later, Dominguez is going to find out where Bill is and what he's doing, if he doesn't know already.
"Dominguez is cleaning house," Bill says. It's not really a question. It's the logical conclusion, considering recent events. Rings nods anyhow. "Am I on the list?" Rings nods again, and Bill isn't surprised, no, because he'd expected no less. Carver, especially, had been one of Domingez's favorites. But a knot of dread tightens uncomfortably in his belly, nonetheless. "What about the Bloom kid?"
Rings actually looks a bit surprised at the question. "Why do you care?"
"He's our only friendly witness," Bill points out, which is true, but isn't the only reason.
"Ah," Rings says. "Makes sense." He frowns for a moment, thinking. "I haven't heard that he is, but that doesn't mean he isn't. You know that. The big man is highly pissed at you." Rings catches Bill's gaze deliberately, as though trying to convey the seriousness of the situation. "It's a big hit, Bill. There will be a lot of people trying to collect on it. The kid... probably not as big as yours, but, like you said. He's the only witness friendly to the police. It would surprise me if there wasn't a hit on him."
"Anyone in particular I should be wary of?" Bill asks, but he already knows the answer, and it just makes him fucking tired.
"Everyone," Rings says simply.
He's fucking tired, he has too much shite to get done and not enough hours to do it in, and he absolutely, positively must be visibly doing his job on the weekends. The rest of the time he can sort of skate, stop by the station a couple of times a week, pick up new case files, and work on them at DBY or at home. He doesn't need to actually be present, much, to do his job. On the weekends, however, there is no way around putting certain things aside and getting out on the streets to do some investigation that's actually in-line with what the department is paying him for.
He is still a Vice Detective, no matter what little side projects he's chosen to undertake.
Like it or not.
He'd spent the first three hours of the night in the company of a series of sullen prostitutes with a history of being manhandled by their pimps -- Vice's equivalent of Domestic Violence. Bill isn't surprised to discover that the situation gets his hackles up just as readily as the more standard version. One of the things he hates about law in general is that it doesn't often allow for undefined factors. Like the fact that victims of domestic violence are often as hostile toward any sort of police involvement as the perpetrators are. And this is unquestionably domestic violence, except, under the letter of the law, it's not. And thus it's a no victim, no crime situation. Family law would allow charges to be filed by law enforcement personnel regardless of the willingness of the victim, if the law would allow that this particular dynamic falls under Family Law. Which it doesn't.
If the girl (or boy) involved refuses to testify, refuses to press charges, or wants to drop charges already filed, there isn't anything Bill can do about it.
The good news is, it lightens Bill's case load fairly quickly. The bad news is, too many of these girls (and boys) will end up on a coroner's table eventually.
It would be easy to tell himself that choosing not to do anything at all about being in a bad situation is the same as choosing to stay in said situation. Unfortunately, Bill knows better. He understands the psychology of domestic violence victims very clearly, and it just isn't that simple.
The fourth girl he's looking for evades him for a solid three-quarters of an hour. When he finally finds her, she's on her knees in an alley between an adult movie theatre and a delicatessan about a block off of the main drag.
He decides it would be impolite to interrupt, and leans against the wall outside the alley and smokes while he waits for her to finish up with her "appointment." He's got two more girls and one more boy to visit tonight pursuant to actual Vice cases. He expects all of them to pretty much blow him off (though not in the sense in which this one is currently blowing someone off). Clearing seven cases will look good as far as productivity goes, and will free up time in the upcoming week to look into the things he actually wants to look into, but...
Well, there's no sense in dwelling on it. Everyone makes choices. It isn't his job to make theirs for them.
The girl and her john emerge from the alley together just as Bill is thinking about lighting another fag. They're talking in low, fast voices, heads close together. The back of Bill's neck prickles uncomfortably at the sight of them. He can see the girl's face -- the furrow between her brows, the tight, angry set to her mouth -- but the bloke's got his back to Bill, unreadable except for his posture, which doesn't strike Bill as particularly hostile. Of course, it's hard to say from behind. Bill stays put, just watching, trying to put his finger on what, exactly, has got his hackles up.
Body language, he thinks, which makes sense, because these two are talking like they know each other, bodies comfortable in each other's space -- the hooker has her hand around the bloke's forearm -- and that doesn't resonate quite right for the sort of one-shot, furtive, anonymous-back-alley-blowjob thing.
"...wasn't what we agreed on, Rings, you fuck," she hisses, and her eyes flick in Bill's direction and widen slightly.
Bill hears the name and the gun comes out, no thought involved, while Rings is still turning to see what the girl is looking at. The girl's wide eyes get even wider, and she -- wisely -- steps away from Rings, her hands raising up into plain sight. For a moment, she looks like she might run, but it appears that staring down the barrel of Bill's 9 mm dissuades her from it.
Bill ignores her; he's no longer interested in her, but in him.
Rings had never carried, but Bill watches his hands anyway, because you just never fucking know. "Hands," Bill snarls, and Rings raises them both obligingly, his eyes narrowed into slits and fixed on Bill. He doesn't look afraid, precisely, but his eyes glitter with understanding.
The hooker's name is Caroline Mattingly. She, as opposed to Rings, looks like she's ready to piss herself. "Dude, it was just a fucking blowjob," she stammers.
Bill doesn't bother to look at her. "Bugger off, love," he says softly. Rings shifts slightly, and light reflects from his myriad piercings, but his hands stay up and empty.
"What?" she whispers, voice a breathy quaver. "He... he hasn't paid me."
Bill resists the urge to roll his eyes. At least he now knows why she's a fucking hooker; girl is felony stupid.
"Piss. Off. Now," he says, slowly and clearly.
For a moment, she just stands there, indecisive, though from Bill's perspective, there doesn't seem to be much to be bloody confused about. Stupid bint; when he finds her again -- which he will have to do tomorrow, he still has business with the brainless twit -- he's going to give her the talking to of her sodding life. Dumb hookers have a much higher mortality rate than smart ones, and the way it looks from where Bill's standing, she's due for the slab any day now.
"Don't make me say it again, you daft twat," he barks, and that finally does it. She turns tail and hauls arse, her heels click-clacking ridiculously on the pavement.
Rings looks at him for a few seconds, silent and grim, and Bill just looks back.
"How ya doin', MacKinnon," Rings says finally. "Long time no see."
"Into the alley," Bill says, and gestures with the muzzle of his gun for emphasis. Rings never had been terribly bright (smarter than the hooker, aye, but it's not like that's fucking hard), and his face and body immediately broadcast his intentions.
"Play nice," Bill hisses, and cocks the Sig deliberately, purely for the sound (it doesn't need to be cocked in order to fire), which is very loud in the silence hanging between them. "I get very fucking cranky when I have to chase people, Rings."
The moment hangs there, stretches, Rings poised on the balls of his feet, ready to flee, and Bill just waits for Rings to come to the conclusion that Bill has already reached. There isn't a snowball's chance in Hell that Rings can outrun Bill, and if Bill has to chase him, he's bloody well going to send the bugger home a few teeth shy of a full fucking grin. "Yeah," Rings says finally, and his shoulders relax as he settles himself. "I'll bet you do."
"Alley," Bill repeats, and this time Rings turns (hands going out on either side of his body to remain clearly visible from behind, he knows the drill) and takes the ten steps necessary to get them off of the sidewalk and into the protection of the space between buildings.
"That'll do," Bill says, and walks around Rings so that they're facing each other instead of having him turn. No telling what Rings has down the front on his pants, and Bill doesn't want to take the chance of having either of his hands out of sight for even an instant. He has no urge to be shot again any time in the near future.
"Going to arrest me?" Rings asks, and sound genuinely curious about it, and not terribly worried about the prospect.
It doesn't especially surprise Bill. Rings is out recreationally, that much is clear, and if he's carrying anything on him at all, it's probably not much. Personal use wont get you a felony charge, not with the stuff Rings deals, and Rings would be quite aware of that.
"Not today," Bill says. "I just want a little information."
Rings nods and makes an inexplicable gesture with both hands that reminds Bill oddly of Johnny. "Mind if I smoke," he asks, which only strengthens the association. He gives Bill a half-smirk. "I don't carry, MacKinnon, you know that."
"I know you didn't, which is an entirely different animal." Still, Bill fishes for a fag out of his own pack one-handed, lights it, and holds it out to Rings. He doesn't lower the gun.
Rings takes it, eyeing the gun a little warily, but apparently not worried enough to decline the offer.
"How do you know the bird," Bill asks, though he doesn't really give a rats arse. It's merely a starting point.
"We exchange services, on occasion," Rings says wryly, and takes a drag off the cigarette. "It's casual. This your beat now that you're not playing dealer anymore?"
Bill ignores the question. Truthfully, he only has two questions for Rings, but they're both fairly vital ones. It's best to ask other things, more open ended things, and hope Rings fills in the blanks himself. The less Rings actually knows about what Bill wants to know, the better. "You know her pimp?"
"Yeah, I've met him. Sort of a slimeball. Reminds me of Burelle, a bit." Rings smirks and drags on the fag again, and Bill resists the urge to smirk back at the idiot's transparent attempt to get under Bill's skin.
"Doesn't surprise me. He beats her up." Bill watches Rings' lip curl slightly at the information, and that doesn't surprise him either. Rings is a bit of an odd bloke, for a dealer. Never had cared much for violence.
Rings sucks on the cigarette contemplatively for a moment, then flicks it away. He gives Bill a long, serious look. "I've never had a problem with you, MacKinnon, and that's the truth. I still don't. You're doing your thing, I'm doing my thing, and I'd just as soon not get in one another's way. You aren't really interested in me; you've got bigger fish to fry. So tell me what you want to know, I'll tell you what I can, and I'll never tell a soul that we had this little chat. We can go our separate ways, return to our regularly scheduled programming, and maybe get lucky, and never see each other again."
Bill considers it. It would be pure folly to trust Rings, obviously. But maybe that doesn't matter. Or maybe it matters, but it's not as important as finding out what Bill wants to know. Maybe it doesn't matter one way or the other who Rings talks to about their "chat", because sooner or later, Dominguez is going to find out where Bill is and what he's doing, if he doesn't know already.
"Dominguez is cleaning house," Bill says. It's not really a question. It's the logical conclusion, considering recent events. Rings nods anyhow. "Am I on the list?" Rings nods again, and Bill isn't surprised, no, because he'd expected no less. Carver, especially, had been one of Domingez's favorites. But a knot of dread tightens uncomfortably in his belly, nonetheless. "What about the Bloom kid?"
Rings actually looks a bit surprised at the question. "Why do you care?"
"He's our only friendly witness," Bill points out, which is true, but isn't the only reason.
"Ah," Rings says. "Makes sense." He frowns for a moment, thinking. "I haven't heard that he is, but that doesn't mean he isn't. You know that. The big man is highly pissed at you." Rings catches Bill's gaze deliberately, as though trying to convey the seriousness of the situation. "It's a big hit, Bill. There will be a lot of people trying to collect on it. The kid... probably not as big as yours, but, like you said. He's the only witness friendly to the police. It would surprise me if there wasn't a hit on him."
"Anyone in particular I should be wary of?" Bill asks, but he already knows the answer, and it just makes him fucking tired.
"Everyone," Rings says simply.