Vecchiofest Challenge by Giulietta
ETA: I have now done an audio version of this fic. You can find a link to it, and various possibly helpful blitherings about said audio, here.
Um. The formatting on this is kind of weird, but it is intentionally so, so bear with it. And though it is weird, it should not actually be illegible, thought it very well may turn out that way. Let me know how your browsers handle it, 'mkay?
Vecchio POV, gen, 2625 words (am I glad there's no word limit).
Then one day Zuko died, and Ray turned around and found Frankie smirking at him. Smoking a cigar. Scumming up the neighborhood. Slamming his face into the pavement.
Ray thinks he lost half his sanity then. The rest -- well, he waited a few years to lose the rest.
[Disclaimer: Even though dS chose not to talk explicitly about RayV's time in Vegas, I still don't own this.]
Little Ray
Ray sits on a mattress that
doesn't squeak, wearing
silk pajamas and two pairs
of wool socks, and shivers.
It wasn't supposed to be
like this.
"You found the cop?"
Langoustini asks. Everybody
in the room knows it's not
a question that needs
answering. When the Bookman
wants somebody found, they
get found.
Still, sometimes he needs to
ask, just to ask. Just so
they'll be glad they were
prompt about doing their jobs,
and keep doing it.
It was supposed to feel -- good.
Like he'd finally quit being Little
Ray, the kid who shrinks back in
corners when Frankie comes over
with a basketball under his arm;
like maybe people'd finally figure
out that he's grown up and lost the
pudge; like he'd finally acquired a
working set of knuckles, all his own,
to hit anybody he wants with. Even
Frankie. Even Mr. Zuko. They're small
fry, next to the Bookman.
"We got him," Marcus confirms.
He's the nervous one, the one who
thinks ass-kissing'll actually help
him out. With some people, it actually
might. With Langoustini, it's just
entertaining; Marcus's just another
loyal idiot, and they come a dime a
dozen. One of these days, Marcus'll
get himself arrested, which mainly
means he's going to get himself killed.
Armando can't afford to risk anybody
talking. Most people know that. Marcus
will learn -- eventually.
That's what he thought'd happen when he
went to the Academy, too. He thought a
badge'd give him superpowers, make him
suddenly be able to grab all the Zukos
by the collar and flush 'em out of town.
He figured he'd have a whole police force
behind him, because the stuff that was happening
had to be illegal. It couldn't be legal,
if it made women cry, and good men shoot their
neighbors. And the Chicago P.D.'s got to be
bigger than the Zukos, or whoever he's scared
stupid enough to listen to him.
Ray was wrong.
"All right, then, Marcus," Langoustini says.
"Why don't you bring him in? We've got business
to discuss."
Marcus makes that asinine bow, like he always
does, and heads out of the office. There's a
scuffle outside the door, but it's brief; Marcus
is a big guy, and he doesn't have any reserve
about throwing his weight around. Besides, Marcus
couldn't have found Sandoval all by himself
-- there's got to be somebody else out there,
holding the guy while Marcus punches him.
Sandoval's got nowhere to go.
The cops can't touch Zuko; Ray knows
that now. After a couple years on the
force, he figured out that they can't
touch anybody: not Zuko, not
Willy Warfield, not even Frankie.
Frankie's just this kid, just like Ray,
not much muscle on him, and anybody who
had the guts could've beat the crap out
of him.
Nobody ever had the guts. And the P.D.
had more than most people -- it could
catch the little fish -- but every Zuko
they caught, they threw back. Ray got
used to it, after a while. He didn't like
it -- nobody liked it -- but he got so
he could live with it, anyway. He died
a little, trying to convince himself
that the good guys lose, sometimes; but
he accepted it. The guys clapped him on
the back and bought him a drink, the time
he let Charlie slip through his fingers
without a fuss.
Then one day Zuko died, and Ray turned
around and found Frankie smirking at him.
Smoking a cigar. Scumming up the neighborhood.
Slamming his face into the pavement.
Ray thinks he lost half his sanity then. The rest
-- well, he waited a few years to lose the rest.
Sandoval's a smart cop -- one of the smartest,
or he wouldn't be here -- but when it comes to
knowing when he's lost a fight, he's the stupidest
shit to walk the earth. He's got a swollen jaw, fat
lip and bloody nose -- a respectable shiner, too.
Too bad no one'll ever be able to admire it.
He's still kicking. Kicking, punching -- hell, he
even gets his teeth into it, before Marcus decides
he's had enough of that and slugs him. "Let him
breathe, Marcus," Langoustini commands quietly, and
Marcus promptly drops Sandoval on the floor. He lies
there, gasping and holding his ribs, bleeding onto
the carpet. "Sandoval," Langoustini says, rising
and walking over to him. "Congratulations. You've
managed to worry me."
Sandoval coughs twice, but doesn't say anything else.
The rest, he saved for Benny to lose for him.
Benny's the most annoying man on earth -- but
he's also been chilling up in Runamukluk, where
probably people don't even have mobs. They
have bullies, sure, and sea otters instead of basketballs
-- but Benny just walked right up to Zuko and touched him
where he lived. Nobody who knows mobs would ever do that.
It was amazing, like everything else Benny does. It was
also frightening as hell. And Benny almost died from it.
He learned a lesson, though -- and Ray, he forgot one.
He forgot that he's a nobody; always was, always will be.
"You've been looking into some things,
haven't you?" Langoustini asks. He doesn't
threaten; not yet. He doesn't yell, because
he never yells. He never needs to. "Following
some leads, finding some problems. Pulling
some strings." He leans in close. Sandoval
doesn't look back. "You know, I'm disappointed
in you, Sandoval. You forgot something very
important." He taps Sandoval's chest, and Sandoval
chokes; probably a broken rib. "In Vegas? I hold
all the strings. I know when somebody's pulling
on 'em."
If you can't beat 'em, join 'em -- and then beat 'em from the inside.
That was the plan, or so Ray thought. Normal people can't take down a
mob; the cops can't take down a mob; but mobs take down other mobs all
the time. Take the rules out of the picture, and nobody can use 'em
against you, right? Then it's just who's bigger, who's faster. Everything's
fair again.
"So you think something's not adding up," Langoustini
continues. "Something's not working out right. You've got
-- what? -- a hunch, an inkling, that I put old Vinny down.
You're almost certain it was my gun. You're almost certain
it was me. I've got motive. Your only problem is that I've
got a witness saying I was at my casino that night, and
if I tried to get from the casino to Vinny's and back home
somehow, I would've run into some trouble. Cop trouble, to
be precise -- somebody ratted me out, told you guys what
I was planning. And nobody's got any record of that."
Sandoval's being smart, again, keeping quiet. He's hoping
Armando'll tell him something he doesn't know, if he stays
quiet, doesn't look surprised. Well, he'll get what he wants.
It won't do him any good, but he'll get it.
When Ray got into this, he thought he'd be like Frankie -- smug, smirking,
driving everybody crazy by pretending to be a good guy and chuckling while
he pounds people's lives into dust. He thought he'd be the big guy, finally;
he thought he'd be able to tell his bodyguards jokes -- good ones, because
Frankie had no sense of humor, unlike Ray -- and they'd laugh, and whoever
he's busting would squirm in his own sweat until Ray put him out of his misery.
Offered him a deal. Let him go with a warning. Whatever.
What he didn't expect was how everybody expects him to keep up the stuff
Langoustini was doing before he died. So Ray's robbing banks, and
then wiring the money back on the condition that they keep quiet about it;
he's hacking into people's savings accounts, hanging onto the money until
it's missed, and then sending it back. He's living a secret under a secret,
and it's draining, is what it is. And he can't pretend to be a good
guy on top of pretending to be a bad guy, so he's turned out more like old
Mr. Zuko: quiet, slimy, slick, but honest about being a bastard.
Or something near it, anyway.
"The funny thing is, the cops didn't find anybody
there; but in the morning, Vinny was dead. That feels
funny to you. You think that they should've caught somebody.
They'd have seen him going in, they'd have seen him coming
out, whoever it was. And yet -- nobody. They saw nobody."
Langoustini knows this story. He knows this by heart. He knows
where the holes are.
"Then you got a tip. And somebody said the cops did get
me. Somebody said Armando Langoustini's really dead."
Sandoval jerks, and his head comes up -- and it nearly makes
Langoustini lose his thread, because this kid's young.
He's young, and he's furious, and he's too stupid to lie down
and give up. He still thinks he's walking out of here alive. He
still thinks the good guys have an inherent advantage, instead
of a disadvantage. And he thinks he's got himself a clue.
He has no idea what he's got.
He also didn't expect the cops down here to be completely clueless
about the undercover gig. FBI never tells cops anything.
Langoustini gets down on one knee, so Sandoval can see him without
straining, and forces himslf to keep his cool. "Look at me," he tells
Sandoval. "Look at me. Real carefully."
Ray thinks about Benny a lot, since he left to be
Langoustini. He wonders how he's dealing with whoever
they've sent in to cover for him, if maybe he's given
up completely and shipped himself back to the Yukon.
"You see me? Do you see me?" And Sandoval's eyes widen.
He gets it.
He wonders if Benny's gotten himself into any
more trouble with Zuko, or somebody like him,
and gotten himself roughed up again. Or worse.
Now that he's got that across, he's got to do the hard part.
"Do I look dead to you?" he demands, and Sandoval shakes his head
as hard as he can.
Mostly, he wonders what Benny'd do if he
was here in Vegas. He knows some of it
already: Benny'd find out about Armando
Langoustini's rep within the the first
two days, probably, and come down to
shake Langoustini's peaches. And then
he'd find Ray, instead.
Until today, Ray pretty much knew what
came after that, too.
"All right. Good." Langoustini straightens up, waves Marcus
over. "And I don't intend to get killed over somebody like Vinny,"
he tells Sandoval firmly, who doesn't know what to make of that.
Until today, Ray thought that he'd
explain how he's been playing Good
Samaritan on the side, And Benny'd
be surprised and quietly pleased,
and they'd go back to Chicago and
find some new and exciting way to
endanger their lives.
Langoustini gives Sandoval a level look, not looking away for
even an instant, keeping his game face on. Sandoval's suddenly
looking a lot less worried, and he shouldn't be -- but in
Sandoval's world, cops don't kill other cops. Not on purpose.
He's expecting some sort of master plan, something that's going
to get him out of here. He's doing the impossible; he's expecting
Langoustini to give him a hand up.
Armando wishes he still lived in that world.
But today -- today, Ray did something he couldn't take back. Something he can't
fix. Something he doesn't have power over. Something nobody has power
over.
"Take him out back," Armando orders flatly, holding Sandoval's eyes.
He hates the way Sandoval doesn't flinch.
There's a body in the sand out back. It's never gonna walk again.
And maybe Ray was panicking. Maybe there was some other way to keep his cover from
being blown. Maybe he could've let a fellow cop go back home.
Maybe this was the only way.
Either way, it was a mistake.
Sandoval flinches when Marcus grabs him under the armpits, but that's
just because of his ribs. He's not kicking, or punching, or anything --
he's waiting. He's not even waiting for death; he's waiting for a miracle.
Armando doesn't deal in miracles. He never said he did.
Two, three days from now, there'll
be a funeral in the city. There'll
be a flag over a coffin -- an empty
coffin, like Louis's, because no
one'll ever find the body. They'll
play taps. They'll fold the flag
into a triangle, and they'll hand
it to Sandoval's ma -- maybe his wife.
People get married younger these days.
Ray knows this. He's a cop. He's seen
this, way too many times. He's one of
them.
His palms are sweaty, even though he feels calm. He can hear the thud
of Marcus's size twelve shoes as he clomps down the staircase; the lighter
tap of one of the girls, who must've lured Sandoval in. He can hear Nero
excusing himself on his way up.
He can hear the back door opening.
He can't hear Marcus cocking the gun, but he doesn't need to. He knows it's
happening; Marcus is prompt. Marcus is always prompt.
Only what kind of cop kills another cop? What kind of cop kills
another cop because the fibbies didn't know what else to do? What
kind of cop doesn't think for three seconds before --
And then there's a shout -- Sandoval's finally caught on, much
too late -- and a shot. And another shot. And another.
And then silence.
If Benny were here,
he'd know what to do.
He'd have some
harebrained idea
that'd never work in
a million years, but
he'd make it work.
It'd almost break Ray's
cover, but not quite.
It'd almost get them
both killed, but not
quite.
But Benny's not here. And this is what Ray does.
Nero's face is blank. He's heard more than he wants to hear.
"Your buttermilk, sir?" he says mildly, setting the tray on
Armando's desk.
Armando swallows. He's calm. He just feels a little sick. "Not --
not today, Nero, thanks," he says, andgets out of there as fast as
he can.
Ray forgot the one smart thing he learned as a cop: he is nothing. He's Little
Ray. Without the Mountie, he's as bad as Zuko -- worse, because he can't handle
being what he is. He can't handle power. He can't handle being helpless, either.
Because he's nothing. And he always will be.
Armando slams his bedroom door shut behind him and paces up and down the length of the room. He grips his hair with both hands. He rips off his moustache. He throws the telephone directory across the room.
It takes him three hours to find Ray Vecchio; three hours to remember who he is. And even when he does, he can't figure out exactly when he stopped being Langoustini, didn't feel the mob fall off like he always does, can't feel the edge between where he starts and Langoustini begins.
He wants out. He wants his old pinstriped pajamas and his drafty room in Chicago and his ma's cooking. He wants his old partner back.
Instead, he rocks back and forth on his bed, shivering, and tries to disappear. Little Ray used to try and disappear. He used to curl up in the dark closets and listen to glass bottles smashing in the kitchen, and pretend that he was just another piece of dark in a big sea of it, so no one would ever find him. And whenever his Pop flung open the door, there was always a split-second when he thought it'd actually worked.
Some things never change.
Um. The formatting on this is kind of weird, but it is intentionally so, so bear with it. And though it is weird, it should not actually be illegible, thought it very well may turn out that way. Let me know how your browsers handle it, 'mkay?
Vecchio POV, gen, 2625 words (am I glad there's no word limit).
Then one day Zuko died, and Ray turned around and found Frankie smirking at him. Smoking a cigar. Scumming up the neighborhood. Slamming his face into the pavement.
Ray thinks he lost half his sanity then. The rest -- well, he waited a few years to lose the rest.
[Disclaimer: Even though dS chose not to talk explicitly about RayV's time in Vegas, I still don't own this.]
Little Ray
Ray sits on a mattress that
doesn't squeak, wearing
silk pajamas and two pairs
of wool socks, and shivers.
It wasn't supposed to be
like this.
"You found the cop?"
Langoustini asks. Everybody
in the room knows it's not
a question that needs
answering. When the Bookman
wants somebody found, they
get found.
Still, sometimes he needs to
ask, just to ask. Just so
they'll be glad they were
prompt about doing their jobs,
and keep doing it.
It was supposed to feel -- good.
Like he'd finally quit being Little
Ray, the kid who shrinks back in
corners when Frankie comes over
with a basketball under his arm;
like maybe people'd finally figure
out that he's grown up and lost the
pudge; like he'd finally acquired a
working set of knuckles, all his own,
to hit anybody he wants with. Even
Frankie. Even Mr. Zuko. They're small
fry, next to the Bookman.
"We got him," Marcus confirms.
He's the nervous one, the one who
thinks ass-kissing'll actually help
him out. With some people, it actually
might. With Langoustini, it's just
entertaining; Marcus's just another
loyal idiot, and they come a dime a
dozen. One of these days, Marcus'll
get himself arrested, which mainly
means he's going to get himself killed.
Armando can't afford to risk anybody
talking. Most people know that. Marcus
will learn -- eventually.
That's what he thought'd happen when he
went to the Academy, too. He thought a
badge'd give him superpowers, make him
suddenly be able to grab all the Zukos
by the collar and flush 'em out of town.
He figured he'd have a whole police force
behind him, because the stuff that was happening
had to be illegal. It couldn't be legal,
if it made women cry, and good men shoot their
neighbors. And the Chicago P.D.'s got to be
bigger than the Zukos, or whoever he's scared
stupid enough to listen to him.
Ray was wrong.
"All right, then, Marcus," Langoustini says.
"Why don't you bring him in? We've got business
to discuss."
Marcus makes that asinine bow, like he always
does, and heads out of the office. There's a
scuffle outside the door, but it's brief; Marcus
is a big guy, and he doesn't have any reserve
about throwing his weight around. Besides, Marcus
couldn't have found Sandoval all by himself
-- there's got to be somebody else out there,
holding the guy while Marcus punches him.
Sandoval's got nowhere to go.
The cops can't touch Zuko; Ray knows
that now. After a couple years on the
force, he figured out that they can't
touch anybody: not Zuko, not
Willy Warfield, not even Frankie.
Frankie's just this kid, just like Ray,
not much muscle on him, and anybody who
had the guts could've beat the crap out
of him.
Nobody ever had the guts. And the P.D.
had more than most people -- it could
catch the little fish -- but every Zuko
they caught, they threw back. Ray got
used to it, after a while. He didn't like
it -- nobody liked it -- but he got so
he could live with it, anyway. He died
a little, trying to convince himself
that the good guys lose, sometimes; but
he accepted it. The guys clapped him on
the back and bought him a drink, the time
he let Charlie slip through his fingers
without a fuss.
Then one day Zuko died, and Ray turned
around and found Frankie smirking at him.
Smoking a cigar. Scumming up the neighborhood.
Slamming his face into the pavement.
Ray thinks he lost half his sanity then. The rest
-- well, he waited a few years to lose the rest.
Sandoval's a smart cop -- one of the smartest,
or he wouldn't be here -- but when it comes to
knowing when he's lost a fight, he's the stupidest
shit to walk the earth. He's got a swollen jaw, fat
lip and bloody nose -- a respectable shiner, too.
Too bad no one'll ever be able to admire it.
He's still kicking. Kicking, punching -- hell, he
even gets his teeth into it, before Marcus decides
he's had enough of that and slugs him. "Let him
breathe, Marcus," Langoustini commands quietly, and
Marcus promptly drops Sandoval on the floor. He lies
there, gasping and holding his ribs, bleeding onto
the carpet. "Sandoval," Langoustini says, rising
and walking over to him. "Congratulations. You've
managed to worry me."
Sandoval coughs twice, but doesn't say anything else.
The rest, he saved for Benny to lose for him.
Benny's the most annoying man on earth -- but
he's also been chilling up in Runamukluk, where
probably people don't even have mobs. They
have bullies, sure, and sea otters instead of basketballs
-- but Benny just walked right up to Zuko and touched him
where he lived. Nobody who knows mobs would ever do that.
It was amazing, like everything else Benny does. It was
also frightening as hell. And Benny almost died from it.
He learned a lesson, though -- and Ray, he forgot one.
He forgot that he's a nobody; always was, always will be.
"You've been looking into some things,
haven't you?" Langoustini asks. He doesn't
threaten; not yet. He doesn't yell, because
he never yells. He never needs to. "Following
some leads, finding some problems. Pulling
some strings." He leans in close. Sandoval
doesn't look back. "You know, I'm disappointed
in you, Sandoval. You forgot something very
important." He taps Sandoval's chest, and Sandoval
chokes; probably a broken rib. "In Vegas? I hold
all the strings. I know when somebody's pulling
on 'em."
If you can't beat 'em, join 'em -- and then beat 'em from the inside.
That was the plan, or so Ray thought. Normal people can't take down a
mob; the cops can't take down a mob; but mobs take down other mobs all
the time. Take the rules out of the picture, and nobody can use 'em
against you, right? Then it's just who's bigger, who's faster. Everything's
fair again.
"So you think something's not adding up," Langoustini
continues. "Something's not working out right. You've got
-- what? -- a hunch, an inkling, that I put old Vinny down.
You're almost certain it was my gun. You're almost certain
it was me. I've got motive. Your only problem is that I've
got a witness saying I was at my casino that night, and
if I tried to get from the casino to Vinny's and back home
somehow, I would've run into some trouble. Cop trouble, to
be precise -- somebody ratted me out, told you guys what
I was planning. And nobody's got any record of that."
Sandoval's being smart, again, keeping quiet. He's hoping
Armando'll tell him something he doesn't know, if he stays
quiet, doesn't look surprised. Well, he'll get what he wants.
It won't do him any good, but he'll get it.
When Ray got into this, he thought he'd be like Frankie -- smug, smirking,
driving everybody crazy by pretending to be a good guy and chuckling while
he pounds people's lives into dust. He thought he'd be the big guy, finally;
he thought he'd be able to tell his bodyguards jokes -- good ones, because
Frankie had no sense of humor, unlike Ray -- and they'd laugh, and whoever
he's busting would squirm in his own sweat until Ray put him out of his misery.
Offered him a deal. Let him go with a warning. Whatever.
What he didn't expect was how everybody expects him to keep up the stuff
Langoustini was doing before he died. So Ray's robbing banks, and
then wiring the money back on the condition that they keep quiet about it;
he's hacking into people's savings accounts, hanging onto the money until
it's missed, and then sending it back. He's living a secret under a secret,
and it's draining, is what it is. And he can't pretend to be a good
guy on top of pretending to be a bad guy, so he's turned out more like old
Mr. Zuko: quiet, slimy, slick, but honest about being a bastard.
Or something near it, anyway.
"The funny thing is, the cops didn't find anybody
there; but in the morning, Vinny was dead. That feels
funny to you. You think that they should've caught somebody.
They'd have seen him going in, they'd have seen him coming
out, whoever it was. And yet -- nobody. They saw nobody."
Langoustini knows this story. He knows this by heart. He knows
where the holes are.
"Then you got a tip. And somebody said the cops did get
me. Somebody said Armando Langoustini's really dead."
Sandoval jerks, and his head comes up -- and it nearly makes
Langoustini lose his thread, because this kid's young.
He's young, and he's furious, and he's too stupid to lie down
and give up. He still thinks he's walking out of here alive. He
still thinks the good guys have an inherent advantage, instead
of a disadvantage. And he thinks he's got himself a clue.
He has no idea what he's got.
He also didn't expect the cops down here to be completely clueless
about the undercover gig. FBI never tells cops anything.
Langoustini gets down on one knee, so Sandoval can see him without
straining, and forces himslf to keep his cool. "Look at me," he tells
Sandoval. "Look at me. Real carefully."
Ray thinks about Benny a lot, since he left to be
Langoustini. He wonders how he's dealing with whoever
they've sent in to cover for him, if maybe he's given
up completely and shipped himself back to the Yukon.
"You see me? Do you see me?" And Sandoval's eyes widen.
He gets it.
He wonders if Benny's gotten himself into any
more trouble with Zuko, or somebody like him,
and gotten himself roughed up again. Or worse.
Now that he's got that across, he's got to do the hard part.
"Do I look dead to you?" he demands, and Sandoval shakes his head
as hard as he can.
Mostly, he wonders what Benny'd do if he
was here in Vegas. He knows some of it
already: Benny'd find out about Armando
Langoustini's rep within the the first
two days, probably, and come down to
shake Langoustini's peaches. And then
he'd find Ray, instead.
Until today, Ray pretty much knew what
came after that, too.
"All right. Good." Langoustini straightens up, waves Marcus
over. "And I don't intend to get killed over somebody like Vinny,"
he tells Sandoval firmly, who doesn't know what to make of that.
Until today, Ray thought that he'd
explain how he's been playing Good
Samaritan on the side, And Benny'd
be surprised and quietly pleased,
and they'd go back to Chicago and
find some new and exciting way to
endanger their lives.
Langoustini gives Sandoval a level look, not looking away for
even an instant, keeping his game face on. Sandoval's suddenly
looking a lot less worried, and he shouldn't be -- but in
Sandoval's world, cops don't kill other cops. Not on purpose.
He's expecting some sort of master plan, something that's going
to get him out of here. He's doing the impossible; he's expecting
Langoustini to give him a hand up.
Armando wishes he still lived in that world.
But today -- today, Ray did something he couldn't take back. Something he can't
fix. Something he doesn't have power over. Something nobody has power
over.
"Take him out back," Armando orders flatly, holding Sandoval's eyes.
He hates the way Sandoval doesn't flinch.
There's a body in the sand out back. It's never gonna walk again.
And maybe Ray was panicking. Maybe there was some other way to keep his cover from
being blown. Maybe he could've let a fellow cop go back home.
Maybe this was the only way.
Either way, it was a mistake.
Sandoval flinches when Marcus grabs him under the armpits, but that's
just because of his ribs. He's not kicking, or punching, or anything --
he's waiting. He's not even waiting for death; he's waiting for a miracle.
Armando doesn't deal in miracles. He never said he did.
Two, three days from now, there'll
be a funeral in the city. There'll
be a flag over a coffin -- an empty
coffin, like Louis's, because no
one'll ever find the body. They'll
play taps. They'll fold the flag
into a triangle, and they'll hand
it to Sandoval's ma -- maybe his wife.
People get married younger these days.
Ray knows this. He's a cop. He's seen
this, way too many times. He's one of
them.
His palms are sweaty, even though he feels calm. He can hear the thud
of Marcus's size twelve shoes as he clomps down the staircase; the lighter
tap of one of the girls, who must've lured Sandoval in. He can hear Nero
excusing himself on his way up.
He can hear the back door opening.
He can't hear Marcus cocking the gun, but he doesn't need to. He knows it's
happening; Marcus is prompt. Marcus is always prompt.
Only what kind of cop kills another cop? What kind of cop kills
another cop because the fibbies didn't know what else to do? What
kind of cop doesn't think for three seconds before --
And then there's a shout -- Sandoval's finally caught on, much
too late -- and a shot. And another shot. And another.
And then silence.
If Benny were here,
he'd know what to do.
He'd have some
harebrained idea
that'd never work in
a million years, but
he'd make it work.
It'd almost break Ray's
cover, but not quite.
It'd almost get them
both killed, but not
quite.
But Benny's not here. And this is what Ray does.
Nero's face is blank. He's heard more than he wants to hear.
"Your buttermilk, sir?" he says mildly, setting the tray on
Armando's desk.
Armando swallows. He's calm. He just feels a little sick. "Not --
not today, Nero, thanks," he says, andgets out of there as fast as
he can.
Ray forgot the one smart thing he learned as a cop: he is nothing. He's Little
Ray. Without the Mountie, he's as bad as Zuko -- worse, because he can't handle
being what he is. He can't handle power. He can't handle being helpless, either.
Because he's nothing. And he always will be.
Armando slams his bedroom door shut behind him and paces up and down the length of the room. He grips his hair with both hands. He rips off his moustache. He throws the telephone directory across the room.
It takes him three hours to find Ray Vecchio; three hours to remember who he is. And even when he does, he can't figure out exactly when he stopped being Langoustini, didn't feel the mob fall off like he always does, can't feel the edge between where he starts and Langoustini begins.
He wants out. He wants his old pinstriped pajamas and his drafty room in Chicago and his ma's cooking. He wants his old partner back.
Instead, he rocks back and forth on his bed, shivering, and tries to disappear. Little Ray used to try and disappear. He used to curl up in the dark closets and listen to glass bottles smashing in the kitchen, and pretend that he was just another piece of dark in a big sea of it, so no one would ever find him. And whenever his Pop flung open the door, there was always a split-second when he thought it'd actually worked.
Some things never change.