Backup
Son of a bitch. What kind of an asshole accuses a guy's partner of being dirty? To his face? To his fucking face. I swear to God Lazzaro's got one of those mental defects. Tourettes, or something. Has the people skills of a diarrhetic skunk.
Fuck him. He'll keep an eye on Melcross. I'll stay away from her until this is all sorted out.
Starting to think I'd better make copies of my notes, for insurance. I'll do that tomorrow. In the meantime -- shit, man. Beston. Fucking....
Heading to a bar. Feel the need to get plastered.
----
Old Brownstone Apartments #100 - Vincent
Not particularly roomy, but well kept and furnished, this apartment is clearly home to a bachelor with a thing for neatness and order. Immediately visible through the doorway is the living room, where a couch and a recliner (both clad in sleek black leather) are situated before a decent-sized flatscreen mounted within the dark wood and glass of an impressive entertainment center. Stocked with a rather intimidating set of speakers, a DVD player, and a GameCube, at first glance, you'd never be able to tell that any of them had been used more than once. There isn't a smudge to be found on the television screen, or upon the glass coffee table in front of the couch. The carpet still bears faint vacuum cleaner lines. The kitchen is the same way - not a dirty dish or half empty bag of chips in sight.
In the bedroom, things are much the same as they are everywhere else, and black and tan seem to be running themes - the bed itself dressed in taupe sheets beneath a black comforter, with a wooden dresser holding whatever clothes the closet doesn't. It's the top of the dresser that hosts the most disorder anyone is likely to find in the apartment - an extra shoulder holster entangled with one that's probably supposed to be worn at the hip, with spare rounds and a pair of thinly-padded boxing gloves scattered through the folds of a rumpled dress shirt that hasn't seen the light of day for months. As sparsely decorated as the rest of the apartment, there's plenty of room for the black punching bag suspended from a stand-alone rig in one corner.
The entire apartment smells faintly of cologne. And in the kitchen and restroom, lysol.
Evening, and in the aftermath of a long double shift, Chris Rossi prowls the hallways of his apartment complex shedding mood and water in his wake. Dew, in truth: spilled from the six-pack that clashes discordantly in his grip. Jeans and T-shirt proclaim him off-duty; damp hair and clean jaw announce him bathed. Down the hall then, and to my lady's chamber. A pity that she's bald and male. "Lazzaro." A fist knocks, then is redisposed to the doorbell. "It's Rossi. You home?"
Vincent isn't quite as dapper. He hadn't really planned on going anywhere, to be honest, after having gotten off much earlier in the day, so that it's with a five o'clock shadow that he lounges across the length of his couch, book in hand - Collateral on the TV. Muted. His own jeans and t-shirt combo is, in slight contrast with the rest of him, is very neat and clean. So is his apartment. Business as usual, when he glances up over the couch back to his door. "It's unlocked, dickhead."
Ah, sweet nothings. The door bumps open around Rossi's twist. A glance wings at Vincent -- "Beer?" -- before he kicks it shut behind him, wrenching a can free to toss it at the lolled Texan. His own route takes him elsewhere; he sprawls without invitation across the neighboring recliner, loose-limbed and weary over the leather. "This," he comments, "has been a shitty week."
Vincent drops the book to catch the can with both hands - surprise squashed successfully in time to avoid a less appropriate reaction to having something thrown at him. "Yeah, sure." Crack. Hisss. Beer opened and sipped, Vincent sits up a little - socked feet stretched up over the couch as he presses his back into the corner between cushion and armrest. "Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. Tell me about it."
Chris grins at Vincent over the twist of his own can from the plastic; an expression of black humor, though it eases over the crackle of his own beer's opening. Four left. He drops them on the floor, indifferent to order. "Flu's got the squad gutted. How's it over on MA's side? --Talhurst finally bailed out."
"Not as bad. I keep a can of Lysol in my desk that's been making rounds through the office." Vincent replies shamelessly, beer shifted from right hand to left. "Oh yeah?"
"Melcross bailed him out." Chris contemplates his can. Drinks from it. Notes thoughtfully, "Wasn't sure he'd ever decide to leave. Figured the DA'd have to kick him out when he decided not to run the case."
Vincent's brows knit once that's had a minute to sink in. Beer forgotten. "Melcross?"
Chris lifts his beer in a toast. "The one and only. They're -- what's the phrase? BFF?" Mockery glitters in green eyes, directed elsewhere. Inwards. "Best Friends Forever -- every girl needs her gay guy."
Vincent's expression remains as it is - now for the look in Rossi's eyes, though he does, at least, take a sip of his beer before leaning to set it down on the glass of the coffee table. "I guess. He seemed to take pretty good care of her, back at the hospital."
"Yeah," says Rossi, couching his head against the recliner's back. He regards Vincent quizzically over the dew-stained hands. "You have a problem with hospitals, man?"
"Sick people bother me." Vincent replies. "I have a problem with sick people. Mostly it's that /I/ don't want to get sick. They're all...pale and depressing."
The other detective grins into his beer. "You're not the only one," he says, amusement struggling with charity. One knee hooks over the chair's arm, sprawling him wider, looser; eyelids droop to hood the chase of thought. "Anyway. --Figured she'd be pissed at me for arresting the guy. You're close with her, right?"
"Sabitha? Yeah. Pretty close, I guess." And there it is. Suspicion, etched hard and automatic into the black of Vincent's gaze.
"How close?" asks Chris, meeting black with level green.
"What, on a scale of one to ten? If you want to know something, ask, asshole. I know all about this game."
Chris stirs, crimping his mouth and brow into a frown. "She's scared." The beer loops, is lifted for a drink. "Think I scared her."
Vincent is making a concentrated effort to smooth his hackles, in the meanwhile - turning and leaning back for his beer with jaw set and glare polished to a harsh gleam by irritation.
Chris watches Vincent with a fellow cop's interest, automatically reading and weighing that irritation, ready to manipulate, to direct-- no. A brief shadow crosses his face; he focuses on his beer, and grimaces. "Anyway."
A sip of beer. A deep breath. And Vincent is suddenly patient for his effort. It's forced patience, but at least it's there. "Scared of what, Rossi?"
"That's what I can't figure out." Unspoken: /yet/. Rossi slides a thumb across metal, skating a broad, clear line across dew. "It's this case with Talhurst. There's something else, something bigger behind it. Probably a lot of money, and mutants -- Sabby's mixed up with it somehow." Green eyes scythe up. "She's scared of /something/, anyway. Someone."
"Melcross is pretty tough, Rossi." Gaze quiet and calculating across the length of the couch, Vincent's expression is guarded. Perhaps needlessly, but guarded all the same. "She wouldn't tell you anything?"
Lips twitch askew, half a smile, half -- something else. "She told me a lot," Chris says. "She told me she's scared. That's pretty significant itself, don't you think?"
"Yeah, I do. I'm not sure you do."
Brooding, pale eyes refocus. "Worried about her? I'll leave her out of it."
"Come on, Rossi. You have enough money, and you have enough drive, and you're going to find out where the leak started. If this is big, they know she hangs out with cops." Tone even and logical, face having changed little, Vincent is watching Rossi carefully, now. "You can't just leave her out of it. That's not how it works."
"The leak didn't start with her," says Rossi, slouching deeper still in his chair. Wariness skids across his face, carving his face into sharp-featured repose. "She just -- confirmed a little. Didn't tell me anything I didn't already know. Anyway, I'll stay away from her. They'll just figure she's pissed at me over Talhurst."
Vincent shifts - rolling halfway over to extract a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket - watching Rossi all the while, until he gets a lighter out of one of his front pockets, extracts a cigarette, and lights up - gaze flicking over to the table, where he tosses cigarette box and lighter in turn. "What do you think it is, and how are they involved? Best guess."
"Mutant training," says Rossi slowly, watching the operation of cigarette lighting with abstracted indifference. Beer suffices for him; he pillows it on his stomach, ignoring the small damp that bleeds darker color across blue. "To do ... I don't know. Nothing /good/, that's for sure. I think that's what it was: the Talhurst thing. Someone stole his face, attacked one of his friends."
Vincent takes a long drag on the cigarette - the stream of smoke that results exhaled at length before he looks back from the table to Rossi. "You want my advice, Chris? Forget about it. Let it die. You've got problems of your own."
The other man lurches in the chair, sitting up to the creak and whine of leather. "Let it--" Aborted as it is, the echo serves as much as an obsenity as the incredulous, "Fuck. Are you shitting me? It's a goddamn /case/."
Brows hooding low and dark over his glare, Vincent doesn't move, but to allow a slender trail of smoke to ease out the corner of his mouth. "If it's as big as you say, you're going to be out of a job, Rossi. Beston stinks."
Swift anger. Swifter still the acknowledgment that it wipes away, stark and bleak. "Besto-- keep your mouth off my partner, asshole." Baritone spins and glitters on its edge, hard. Rossi drops his feet to the floor, standing in a surge of temper. "What are you, rat squad?"
Vincent snorts. "I just pay attention, Rossi. It's my job. You think people don't know? It's not that uncommon. Plant a little evidence here. Look the other way there. Lose a pound or two of drug evidence in transit. It happens all the time. Every day, everywhere, and people know. /I/ know. Not my style, but..." Cigarette tugged from the corner of his mouth and gestured with, he just tilts his head back to follow Rossi's glare with his own. "The point is that they'll take him down to take you down. I've seen it happen before. Large scale corruption at its best."
A muscle jumps in Rossi's jaw, pacing the quick rhythm of heartbeat. For a second he pauses, poised on hostility; then the tight, tense frame is wheeling away, stalking a long-legged circuit around the apartment. "If IA had proof, they'd be hauling him in," he bites. "You'd better not be repeating this shit to people. --Fuck. What is /wrong/ with you, man?"
"I like my job, Chris. You know what the best way to keep it is? Follow the rules. Keep to yourself. Don't make friends, and don't get involved. Just do your job, and use your head." Teeth clenching back around his cigarette, Vincent pushes up onto his feet, shoulders squared bullishly after Rossi's question. "There are some things that can't be fixed in the world. You go after these people, and you're putting yourself in danger. They'll have you off the force, and then they'll have you killed, where you won't make as big of a mess. And how the /fuck/ are you going to protect Melcross then?"
Temper bucks, battling the ruthless hand on its bridle; hard by the kitchen's entrance, Rossi pauses to drive his free hand in its pocket, arm locking between body and wall. "Shit happens," he says on a teeth-bared grin, absolutely humorless. "Someone drops a piano on my head, you and Mikey take care of Melcross."
"You're an asshole, Chris. You do whatever the fuck you need to do, but if Melcross vanishes, this mutant training organization of yours is going to be the least of your worries, you got that?"
"If Melcross vanishes, I better be dead," says Chris, flatly. Eyes unfocus, blanking to thought. To speculation. "Something happens to me, tell Beston."
"Tell him what? Thanks for fucking up and giving them the ammunition they need? Hell, I'll buy him a card. Hallmark probably has one. 'Thanks for fucking over your partner, shithead.' with a frog and bear that's hung himself on the front." Having retreated into cynicism, Vincent stays where he is, glare sharp.
That serves to rouse Chris again, prodding anger to brilliance in the expressive face. "Beston's got my back," baritone snarls -- in the broad hand, metal slowly crumples, cringing to the fist's knot. "Can you say the same for Platt?"
"Good luck with explaining that one to God. Thanks for the beer." Beer in question lifted into a mocking salute on the edge of a forced, rakish grin, Vincent turns his back on Chris to stride for his kitchen.
The curse that follows Vincent into the kitchen is wordless, but expressive, ripped jagged from the throat. A fist thumps the wall, shivering into plaster. "Will you keep an eye on Melcross?"
"If she's there to keep an eye on." comes Vincent's disembodied answer - the sound of cabinets opening and glass clinking following shortly after.
"Don't let it get that far," rasps Chris, stalking back across the floor towards the door. Swears again. Spins back on a heel and stalks back to the kitchen. "/Lazzaro/. Mom wants you over for dinner."
"If you start it, I won't be able to stop it. This is in your hands." Curse and slam ignored, Vincent has exchanged beer for rum and coke, and he's not looking back up. "Call me next time you have a sit down."
Green eyes scald, drawn thin and lambent behind the veil of lashes, and then Rossi is away. Air whirls wildly, chasing itself through the apartment in his path; the door slams. Beer, abandoned on the floor, drips in inanimate contentment.
Vincent drops his half-finished cigarette into his half-finished beer, takes his new drink, and flops down on the couch once he's locked the apartment door. Book tossed aside, he unmutes the movie, and steps conveniently out of reality for the rest of the night.
[Log ends]
Rossi goes to Vincent to ask him for a favor, and proves yet again his ability to irritate pretty much anybody.
Fuck him. He'll keep an eye on Melcross. I'll stay away from her until this is all sorted out.
Starting to think I'd better make copies of my notes, for insurance. I'll do that tomorrow. In the meantime -- shit, man. Beston. Fucking....
Heading to a bar. Feel the need to get plastered.
----
Old Brownstone Apartments #100 - Vincent
Not particularly roomy, but well kept and furnished, this apartment is clearly home to a bachelor with a thing for neatness and order. Immediately visible through the doorway is the living room, where a couch and a recliner (both clad in sleek black leather) are situated before a decent-sized flatscreen mounted within the dark wood and glass of an impressive entertainment center. Stocked with a rather intimidating set of speakers, a DVD player, and a GameCube, at first glance, you'd never be able to tell that any of them had been used more than once. There isn't a smudge to be found on the television screen, or upon the glass coffee table in front of the couch. The carpet still bears faint vacuum cleaner lines. The kitchen is the same way - not a dirty dish or half empty bag of chips in sight.
In the bedroom, things are much the same as they are everywhere else, and black and tan seem to be running themes - the bed itself dressed in taupe sheets beneath a black comforter, with a wooden dresser holding whatever clothes the closet doesn't. It's the top of the dresser that hosts the most disorder anyone is likely to find in the apartment - an extra shoulder holster entangled with one that's probably supposed to be worn at the hip, with spare rounds and a pair of thinly-padded boxing gloves scattered through the folds of a rumpled dress shirt that hasn't seen the light of day for months. As sparsely decorated as the rest of the apartment, there's plenty of room for the black punching bag suspended from a stand-alone rig in one corner.
The entire apartment smells faintly of cologne. And in the kitchen and restroom, lysol.
Evening, and in the aftermath of a long double shift, Chris Rossi prowls the hallways of his apartment complex shedding mood and water in his wake. Dew, in truth: spilled from the six-pack that clashes discordantly in his grip. Jeans and T-shirt proclaim him off-duty; damp hair and clean jaw announce him bathed. Down the hall then, and to my lady's chamber. A pity that she's bald and male. "Lazzaro." A fist knocks, then is redisposed to the doorbell. "It's Rossi. You home?"
Vincent isn't quite as dapper. He hadn't really planned on going anywhere, to be honest, after having gotten off much earlier in the day, so that it's with a five o'clock shadow that he lounges across the length of his couch, book in hand - Collateral on the TV. Muted. His own jeans and t-shirt combo is, in slight contrast with the rest of him, is very neat and clean. So is his apartment. Business as usual, when he glances up over the couch back to his door. "It's unlocked, dickhead."
Ah, sweet nothings. The door bumps open around Rossi's twist. A glance wings at Vincent -- "Beer?" -- before he kicks it shut behind him, wrenching a can free to toss it at the lolled Texan. His own route takes him elsewhere; he sprawls without invitation across the neighboring recliner, loose-limbed and weary over the leather. "This," he comments, "has been a shitty week."
Vincent drops the book to catch the can with both hands - surprise squashed successfully in time to avoid a less appropriate reaction to having something thrown at him. "Yeah, sure." Crack. Hisss. Beer opened and sipped, Vincent sits up a little - socked feet stretched up over the couch as he presses his back into the corner between cushion and armrest. "Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. Tell me about it."
Chris grins at Vincent over the twist of his own can from the plastic; an expression of black humor, though it eases over the crackle of his own beer's opening. Four left. He drops them on the floor, indifferent to order. "Flu's got the squad gutted. How's it over on MA's side? --Talhurst finally bailed out."
"Not as bad. I keep a can of Lysol in my desk that's been making rounds through the office." Vincent replies shamelessly, beer shifted from right hand to left. "Oh yeah?"
"Melcross bailed him out." Chris contemplates his can. Drinks from it. Notes thoughtfully, "Wasn't sure he'd ever decide to leave. Figured the DA'd have to kick him out when he decided not to run the case."
Vincent's brows knit once that's had a minute to sink in. Beer forgotten. "Melcross?"
Chris lifts his beer in a toast. "The one and only. They're -- what's the phrase? BFF?" Mockery glitters in green eyes, directed elsewhere. Inwards. "Best Friends Forever -- every girl needs her gay guy."
Vincent's expression remains as it is - now for the look in Rossi's eyes, though he does, at least, take a sip of his beer before leaning to set it down on the glass of the coffee table. "I guess. He seemed to take pretty good care of her, back at the hospital."
"Yeah," says Rossi, couching his head against the recliner's back. He regards Vincent quizzically over the dew-stained hands. "You have a problem with hospitals, man?"
"Sick people bother me." Vincent replies. "I have a problem with sick people. Mostly it's that /I/ don't want to get sick. They're all...pale and depressing."
The other detective grins into his beer. "You're not the only one," he says, amusement struggling with charity. One knee hooks over the chair's arm, sprawling him wider, looser; eyelids droop to hood the chase of thought. "Anyway. --Figured she'd be pissed at me for arresting the guy. You're close with her, right?"
"Sabitha? Yeah. Pretty close, I guess." And there it is. Suspicion, etched hard and automatic into the black of Vincent's gaze.
"How close?" asks Chris, meeting black with level green.
"What, on a scale of one to ten? If you want to know something, ask, asshole. I know all about this game."
Chris stirs, crimping his mouth and brow into a frown. "She's scared." The beer loops, is lifted for a drink. "Think I scared her."
Vincent is making a concentrated effort to smooth his hackles, in the meanwhile - turning and leaning back for his beer with jaw set and glare polished to a harsh gleam by irritation.
Chris watches Vincent with a fellow cop's interest, automatically reading and weighing that irritation, ready to manipulate, to direct-- no. A brief shadow crosses his face; he focuses on his beer, and grimaces. "Anyway."
A sip of beer. A deep breath. And Vincent is suddenly patient for his effort. It's forced patience, but at least it's there. "Scared of what, Rossi?"
"That's what I can't figure out." Unspoken: /yet/. Rossi slides a thumb across metal, skating a broad, clear line across dew. "It's this case with Talhurst. There's something else, something bigger behind it. Probably a lot of money, and mutants -- Sabby's mixed up with it somehow." Green eyes scythe up. "She's scared of /something/, anyway. Someone."
"Melcross is pretty tough, Rossi." Gaze quiet and calculating across the length of the couch, Vincent's expression is guarded. Perhaps needlessly, but guarded all the same. "She wouldn't tell you anything?"
Lips twitch askew, half a smile, half -- something else. "She told me a lot," Chris says. "She told me she's scared. That's pretty significant itself, don't you think?"
"Yeah, I do. I'm not sure you do."
Brooding, pale eyes refocus. "Worried about her? I'll leave her out of it."
"Come on, Rossi. You have enough money, and you have enough drive, and you're going to find out where the leak started. If this is big, they know she hangs out with cops." Tone even and logical, face having changed little, Vincent is watching Rossi carefully, now. "You can't just leave her out of it. That's not how it works."
"The leak didn't start with her," says Rossi, slouching deeper still in his chair. Wariness skids across his face, carving his face into sharp-featured repose. "She just -- confirmed a little. Didn't tell me anything I didn't already know. Anyway, I'll stay away from her. They'll just figure she's pissed at me over Talhurst."
Vincent shifts - rolling halfway over to extract a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket - watching Rossi all the while, until he gets a lighter out of one of his front pockets, extracts a cigarette, and lights up - gaze flicking over to the table, where he tosses cigarette box and lighter in turn. "What do you think it is, and how are they involved? Best guess."
"Mutant training," says Rossi slowly, watching the operation of cigarette lighting with abstracted indifference. Beer suffices for him; he pillows it on his stomach, ignoring the small damp that bleeds darker color across blue. "To do ... I don't know. Nothing /good/, that's for sure. I think that's what it was: the Talhurst thing. Someone stole his face, attacked one of his friends."
Vincent takes a long drag on the cigarette - the stream of smoke that results exhaled at length before he looks back from the table to Rossi. "You want my advice, Chris? Forget about it. Let it die. You've got problems of your own."
The other man lurches in the chair, sitting up to the creak and whine of leather. "Let it--" Aborted as it is, the echo serves as much as an obsenity as the incredulous, "Fuck. Are you shitting me? It's a goddamn /case/."
Brows hooding low and dark over his glare, Vincent doesn't move, but to allow a slender trail of smoke to ease out the corner of his mouth. "If it's as big as you say, you're going to be out of a job, Rossi. Beston stinks."
Swift anger. Swifter still the acknowledgment that it wipes away, stark and bleak. "Besto-- keep your mouth off my partner, asshole." Baritone spins and glitters on its edge, hard. Rossi drops his feet to the floor, standing in a surge of temper. "What are you, rat squad?"
Vincent snorts. "I just pay attention, Rossi. It's my job. You think people don't know? It's not that uncommon. Plant a little evidence here. Look the other way there. Lose a pound or two of drug evidence in transit. It happens all the time. Every day, everywhere, and people know. /I/ know. Not my style, but..." Cigarette tugged from the corner of his mouth and gestured with, he just tilts his head back to follow Rossi's glare with his own. "The point is that they'll take him down to take you down. I've seen it happen before. Large scale corruption at its best."
A muscle jumps in Rossi's jaw, pacing the quick rhythm of heartbeat. For a second he pauses, poised on hostility; then the tight, tense frame is wheeling away, stalking a long-legged circuit around the apartment. "If IA had proof, they'd be hauling him in," he bites. "You'd better not be repeating this shit to people. --Fuck. What is /wrong/ with you, man?"
"I like my job, Chris. You know what the best way to keep it is? Follow the rules. Keep to yourself. Don't make friends, and don't get involved. Just do your job, and use your head." Teeth clenching back around his cigarette, Vincent pushes up onto his feet, shoulders squared bullishly after Rossi's question. "There are some things that can't be fixed in the world. You go after these people, and you're putting yourself in danger. They'll have you off the force, and then they'll have you killed, where you won't make as big of a mess. And how the /fuck/ are you going to protect Melcross then?"
Temper bucks, battling the ruthless hand on its bridle; hard by the kitchen's entrance, Rossi pauses to drive his free hand in its pocket, arm locking between body and wall. "Shit happens," he says on a teeth-bared grin, absolutely humorless. "Someone drops a piano on my head, you and Mikey take care of Melcross."
"You're an asshole, Chris. You do whatever the fuck you need to do, but if Melcross vanishes, this mutant training organization of yours is going to be the least of your worries, you got that?"
"If Melcross vanishes, I better be dead," says Chris, flatly. Eyes unfocus, blanking to thought. To speculation. "Something happens to me, tell Beston."
"Tell him what? Thanks for fucking up and giving them the ammunition they need? Hell, I'll buy him a card. Hallmark probably has one. 'Thanks for fucking over your partner, shithead.' with a frog and bear that's hung himself on the front." Having retreated into cynicism, Vincent stays where he is, glare sharp.
That serves to rouse Chris again, prodding anger to brilliance in the expressive face. "Beston's got my back," baritone snarls -- in the broad hand, metal slowly crumples, cringing to the fist's knot. "Can you say the same for Platt?"
"Good luck with explaining that one to God. Thanks for the beer." Beer in question lifted into a mocking salute on the edge of a forced, rakish grin, Vincent turns his back on Chris to stride for his kitchen.
The curse that follows Vincent into the kitchen is wordless, but expressive, ripped jagged from the throat. A fist thumps the wall, shivering into plaster. "Will you keep an eye on Melcross?"
"If she's there to keep an eye on." comes Vincent's disembodied answer - the sound of cabinets opening and glass clinking following shortly after.
"Don't let it get that far," rasps Chris, stalking back across the floor towards the door. Swears again. Spins back on a heel and stalks back to the kitchen. "/Lazzaro/. Mom wants you over for dinner."
"If you start it, I won't be able to stop it. This is in your hands." Curse and slam ignored, Vincent has exchanged beer for rum and coke, and he's not looking back up. "Call me next time you have a sit down."
Green eyes scald, drawn thin and lambent behind the veil of lashes, and then Rossi is away. Air whirls wildly, chasing itself through the apartment in his path; the door slams. Beer, abandoned on the floor, drips in inanimate contentment.
Vincent drops his half-finished cigarette into his half-finished beer, takes his new drink, and flops down on the couch once he's locked the apartment door. Book tossed aside, he unmutes the movie, and steps conveniently out of reality for the rest of the night.
[Log ends]
Rossi goes to Vincent to ask him for a favor, and proves yet again his ability to irritate pretty much anybody.