I havta detect...things (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mick_barrett)
Apr. 22nd, 2007 03:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
r_vecchio“No, Ma! I’m not sayin’ that. I’m saying- no, why can’t Frannie do it? In a coupla days, yeah. She can’t need that long to- it’s the Police Academy, Ma, not a fashion show. She can spare a few minutes, I’m sur- I’m working! Look, I am the real detective here, okay? I havta detect…things. Frannie’s not- yeah, I know, I know. Two cops is somethin’ to be proud of, gotcha. But listen, an hour away from the mirror is not gonna ruin her career. Ma! No! I got work to do. I have cases that just came in. What is it? It’s uh, a uh, this runaway uh, politician man an- I-”
The sigh rattles his chest.
“Fine. I said fine! Okay.”
He grabs a chewed up pencil from the pot on his desk and puts lead to paper.
“Gimme the list.”
“Pork chop, Vecchio?”
“Shut up. No, not you, Ma, you keep going. Yeah, yes I’ve written down the veal.” He covers the speaker with his fingers and glares at Huey. “Shouldn’t you be dabambam-shhh-shing off with your partner somewhere?”
The sigh rattles his chest.
“Fine. I said fine! Okay.”
He grabs a chewed up pencil from the pot on his desk and puts lead to paper.
“Gimme the list.”
“Pork chop, Vecchio?”
“Shut up. No, not you, Ma, you keep going. Yeah, yes I’ve written down the veal.” He covers the speaker with his fingers and glares at Huey. “Shouldn’t you be dabambam-shhh-shing off with your partner somewhere?”
Huey looks highly unimpressed. “It’s bad-dam-bam-pssshhhh,” he corrects, even throws in a fake drumroll with his hands for effect, grinning from ear to ear.
“Pssshhhh?” Ray wrinkles his nose. “What kinda funky-assed cymbals do you use? It’s dabambam-ssssshhh. Like the sound of the ocean.”
“Nah, no, you’re wrong, Vecchio. I’ve always done it like psssshhhh.”
“Why?”
“’Cause that’s the sound a cymbal makes.”
“Why not just hit the cymbal?”
“I do.”
“You just told me- five? Why do we need five? You do know those cost close to ten bucks each, Ma? You’re gonna wipe me outta my savings - told me you pssshhhh it.”
“Not when I got the real deal I don’t. And anyway, you gotta tell a joke first.”
“Yeah? Well, that’s easy,” Ray smiles but the smirk is in his eyes, “‘cause I’m lookin’ at one right now. Dabambam-shhh! Beat it.”
Jack’s eyebrows climb his forehead, face twisted half in amusement, half in offence. “Somebody forgot to take their happy pill this morning.”
“You want this pencil shoved where the sun don-”
Huey legs it when Ray rises from his chair, waving his pencil around like he’s brandishing a weapon.
“Rump steak, fine.”
He looks at the list.
“How much meat do we eat? Jesus. Sorry, Ma. Yeah, I got it. See ya later.”
As soon as the phone is back in its cradle, he’s up and tugging his suit jacket on over his shoulders. For once, he doesn’t actually have a build up of cases, so an evening in front of the TV, chips, popcorn and the Bulls, is awaiting him with open arms and Ray’s not gonna complain.
“Vecchio?!”
“Urgh…” He turns back round and plasters an innocent look on his face. “Sir?”
“Jefferson. You’re not leaving until I see that report in my hands.”
“Not my case, sir. He’s Kowalski’s.”
“Kowalski’s not here. Therefore it makes it your case.” Welsh has that hard, no-nonsense tone, the clipped voice that Ray’s only used to hearing from Inspector Thatcher. And he may be dumb enough to fall for his Ma’s guilt-trip tactics but he knows better than to cross his lieu when he’s got a face half full of thunder already.
“I’ll go…” he trails off, points at Kowalski’s desk and his feet follow his fingers.
“Yeah, you’ll go. And I’ll go,” Welsh jerks a thumb behind him, “and hope I get the report before I die of old age. Some time this year would be nice, Vecchio.”
“You got it, Lieu,” Ray nods, running his hands over the piles of loose sheets, open manila folders, stacks of evidence photographs covered in donut fingerprints. And what looks like a wolf lick…
He pulls a face at that and picks it up with thumb and forefinger, holding it far away from him and dropping it at the edge of the desk.
“How can he work like this?” He mutters under his breath, sorting through reports with Kowalski’s distinctive scrawl all over it, hoping against hope that he’ll find the Jefferson one filled in. He squints at the mess then lifts his gaze to his own desk.
It’s practically a mirror image.
“Oh.”
Least he doesn’t have Dief drool over his paperwork.
And it’s really weird how that actually saddens him a little.
He shakes it off though, concentrates of chips and popcorn and the Bulls and finally, finally sifts through enough junk to find the Jefferson report.
Filled in.
Score!
He scans it, adds a couple of full-stops because he doubts one long paragraph is going to please Welsh and signs on the dotted line. Snapping the file shut hard in his haste, he knocks an envelope off the desk and it lands on the floor with a snap.
He grunts, leans down to pick it up and tosses it back onto the desk, right side up.
Ray.
Huh.
Well…that could mean either of them, right?
It was on Kowalski’s desk.
But it’s easy to get them muddled, right? One looks isn’t gonna harm anyone.
Right?
He sticks the report under his arm and looks down at the note peeking out the top of the unsealed envelope. Slipping his fingertips inside, he pulls it out real careful like it might disintegrate at his touch and opens it discreetly.
Watch the show. Pretty sure you'll meet and recognize me there. Meet me Hard Rock Hotel Chicago, room 302 afterwards. I really need to talk to you, Ray. I need your help.
He frowns at the handwriting, trying to match it. Bells are ringing in the back of his mind but can’t think of anyo-
“VECCHIO?!”
“Right away, sir.” He takes the note with him, tucks it against his palm as he hands Welsh the report. “Signed and sealed. This year.”
Harding doesn’t say a word at that, just picks up the folder and spreads it on his desk, immediately picking up the phone and punching in a speed dial number with his pinkie finger. As it rings, he looks up at the detective still standing in his office, who is currently running his nails along the crease of a small piece of paper over and over.
“You’ll go…” he points at the door.
“Oh. Yeah, sir. I’ll go…” Ray turns back, “…this way.”
He figures he should just put the note back, stick the envelope in the middle of a pile of papers and let Kowalski find it on his own.
Unless he already has. The envelope was already open…
But from the look of it, Ray doesn’t even think it was sealed in the first place.
This is weird.
Resolving to put it back where it belongs, he grabs the mail and shoves the note back inside. But instead of withdrawing an empty paw, and having done with it, his fingers wrap around a ticket and pull out both note and newfound…evidence.
ROCK. ON. OUT.
Exclamation mark. Exclamation mark.
Rock concert tickets?
Why would somebody leave Kowalski rock concert tickets and ask him for help? It doesn’t make any sense.
As far as Ray knows at least, Kowalski isn’t buddies with any rock legends, Polish or otherwise and the only guy Ray’s ever seen with a guitar is-
“Mick, God.” Ray thumps his forehead and re-reads the note.
“You moron. Jeez, Mi- huh, Chris…” He flips the ticket over, looks at the talent list on the back. “Chris Scryer…Scryer.” Feels strange on his tongue.
Pocketing the envelope, contents safely inside, he grabs his coat off the hook and makes a beeline for the exit. Dewey’s coming up the stairs as Ray passes.
“Where’s the fire?”
“They got phones in California, Dewser?”
Tom laughs to himself and Ray can feel the joke bubbling up, (“No, they got-”) so he spins on the step and carries on out of the precinct before Dewey has even got to the punch line.
He yanks his cell out and dials home, opening the Riv door one-handed. It takes an age for the line to connect.
“Frannie? Pucker up, sis ‘cause it’s time to kiss the butcher again. Tell Ma I won’t be home for dinner.”
He hangs up and floors it, the screech of rubber tires drowning out his final retort.
“Dabambam-shhhhhhhhhhhhh.”
“Pssshhhh?” Ray wrinkles his nose. “What kinda funky-assed cymbals do you use? It’s dabambam-ssssshhh. Like the sound of the ocean.”
“Nah, no, you’re wrong, Vecchio. I’ve always done it like psssshhhh.”
“Why?”
“’Cause that’s the sound a cymbal makes.”
“Why not just hit the cymbal?”
“I do.”
“You just told me- five? Why do we need five? You do know those cost close to ten bucks each, Ma? You’re gonna wipe me outta my savings - told me you pssshhhh it.”
“Not when I got the real deal I don’t. And anyway, you gotta tell a joke first.”
“Yeah? Well, that’s easy,” Ray smiles but the smirk is in his eyes, “‘cause I’m lookin’ at one right now. Dabambam-shhh! Beat it.”
Jack’s eyebrows climb his forehead, face twisted half in amusement, half in offence. “Somebody forgot to take their happy pill this morning.”
“You want this pencil shoved where the sun don-”
Huey legs it when Ray rises from his chair, waving his pencil around like he’s brandishing a weapon.
“Rump steak, fine.”
He looks at the list.
“How much meat do we eat? Jesus. Sorry, Ma. Yeah, I got it. See ya later.”
As soon as the phone is back in its cradle, he’s up and tugging his suit jacket on over his shoulders. For once, he doesn’t actually have a build up of cases, so an evening in front of the TV, chips, popcorn and the Bulls, is awaiting him with open arms and Ray’s not gonna complain.
“Vecchio?!”
“Urgh…” He turns back round and plasters an innocent look on his face. “Sir?”
“Jefferson. You’re not leaving until I see that report in my hands.”
“Not my case, sir. He’s Kowalski’s.”
“Kowalski’s not here. Therefore it makes it your case.” Welsh has that hard, no-nonsense tone, the clipped voice that Ray’s only used to hearing from Inspector Thatcher. And he may be dumb enough to fall for his Ma’s guilt-trip tactics but he knows better than to cross his lieu when he’s got a face half full of thunder already.
“I’ll go…” he trails off, points at Kowalski’s desk and his feet follow his fingers.
“Yeah, you’ll go. And I’ll go,” Welsh jerks a thumb behind him, “and hope I get the report before I die of old age. Some time this year would be nice, Vecchio.”
“You got it, Lieu,” Ray nods, running his hands over the piles of loose sheets, open manila folders, stacks of evidence photographs covered in donut fingerprints. And what looks like a wolf lick…
He pulls a face at that and picks it up with thumb and forefinger, holding it far away from him and dropping it at the edge of the desk.
“How can he work like this?” He mutters under his breath, sorting through reports with Kowalski’s distinctive scrawl all over it, hoping against hope that he’ll find the Jefferson one filled in. He squints at the mess then lifts his gaze to his own desk.
It’s practically a mirror image.
“Oh.”
Least he doesn’t have Dief drool over his paperwork.
And it’s really weird how that actually saddens him a little.
He shakes it off though, concentrates of chips and popcorn and the Bulls and finally, finally sifts through enough junk to find the Jefferson report.
Filled in.
Score!
He scans it, adds a couple of full-stops because he doubts one long paragraph is going to please Welsh and signs on the dotted line. Snapping the file shut hard in his haste, he knocks an envelope off the desk and it lands on the floor with a snap.
He grunts, leans down to pick it up and tosses it back onto the desk, right side up.
Ray.
Huh.
Well…that could mean either of them, right?
It was on Kowalski’s desk.
But it’s easy to get them muddled, right? One looks isn’t gonna harm anyone.
Right?
He sticks the report under his arm and looks down at the note peeking out the top of the unsealed envelope. Slipping his fingertips inside, he pulls it out real careful like it might disintegrate at his touch and opens it discreetly.
Watch the show. Pretty sure you'll meet and recognize me there. Meet me Hard Rock Hotel Chicago, room 302 afterwards. I really need to talk to you, Ray. I need your help.
He frowns at the handwriting, trying to match it. Bells are ringing in the back of his mind but can’t think of anyo-
“VECCHIO?!”
“Right away, sir.” He takes the note with him, tucks it against his palm as he hands Welsh the report. “Signed and sealed. This year.”
Harding doesn’t say a word at that, just picks up the folder and spreads it on his desk, immediately picking up the phone and punching in a speed dial number with his pinkie finger. As it rings, he looks up at the detective still standing in his office, who is currently running his nails along the crease of a small piece of paper over and over.
“You’ll go…” he points at the door.
“Oh. Yeah, sir. I’ll go…” Ray turns back, “…this way.”
He figures he should just put the note back, stick the envelope in the middle of a pile of papers and let Kowalski find it on his own.
Unless he already has. The envelope was already open…
But from the look of it, Ray doesn’t even think it was sealed in the first place.
This is weird.
Resolving to put it back where it belongs, he grabs the mail and shoves the note back inside. But instead of withdrawing an empty paw, and having done with it, his fingers wrap around a ticket and pull out both note and newfound…evidence.
ROCK. ON. OUT.
Exclamation mark. Exclamation mark.
Rock concert tickets?
Why would somebody leave Kowalski rock concert tickets and ask him for help? It doesn’t make any sense.
As far as Ray knows at least, Kowalski isn’t buddies with any rock legends, Polish or otherwise and the only guy Ray’s ever seen with a guitar is-
“Mick, God.” Ray thumps his forehead and re-reads the note.
“You moron. Jeez, Mi- huh, Chris…” He flips the ticket over, looks at the talent list on the back. “Chris Scryer…Scryer.” Feels strange on his tongue.
Pocketing the envelope, contents safely inside, he grabs his coat off the hook and makes a beeline for the exit. Dewey’s coming up the stairs as Ray passes.
“Where’s the fire?”
“They got phones in California, Dewser?”
Tom laughs to himself and Ray can feel the joke bubbling up, (“No, they got-”) so he spins on the step and carries on out of the precinct before Dewey has even got to the punch line.
He yanks his cell out and dials home, opening the Riv door one-handed. It takes an age for the line to connect.
“Frannie? Pucker up, sis ‘cause it’s time to kiss the butcher again. Tell Ma I won’t be home for dinner.”
He hangs up and floors it, the screech of rubber tires drowning out his final retort.
“Dabambam-shhhhhhhhhhhhh.”
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Date: 2007-04-22 06:51 pm (UTC)The punk with the dyed pink hair looks back at him with such an innocently confused expression that Ray almost feels guilty.
"'Cause if you do, I suggest you move out of my way," he snarls, shoving his police badge in the rocker's face and pushing his way through the crowd still trying to find their seats. The show is about to start and Ray hasn't even found his row yet.
Anyone would've thought Ray'd be in seventh heaven right now, the place is literally packed with women. Everywhere where he looks, blondes, brunettes, redheads, most of them dressed...to catch the eye and boy, has Ray's eye been caught a good few times already. But he's in cop mode - dammit! - and doesn't have time for window shopping. Not that he's sure he wants to anyway.
Say rock concert to Ray and he envisions pre-pubescent teens bopping to some screaming loon on stage, who's battering his fellow band member over the head with an electric guitar. He's sees aged "rock stars" clinging onto their youth by covering their entire bodies with satanic tattoos and wearing skin tight trousers.
…
He's never been to a rock concert before.
And though he may have received the meanest looks of disapproval when he turned up in his work suit, everybody is actually kinda…normal looking.
And all Ray has to do is wave his ticket around and his smug expression doesn’t look one little bit out of place.
‘Cause his seat?
Golden.
And as he finally slumps into it, loosens his tie and slips off his jacket, (subtly removing his badge so it's out of view), he turns his gaze to the dark stage and wonders what exactly he’s expecting to see.
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Date: 2007-04-22 10:34 pm (UTC)When the band starts it's like a wave of sound hits row after row of spectators and then there's nothing, he can't see a thing 'cause the goddamn guy in front is up on his feet, arms in the air, performing what can only be described as the most embarrassing thing Ray has ever seen.
Most (generous) people would call it...dancing.
And then it's like he's fallen through the ground, everyone is higher than him, and the words have started, so loud Ray can't understand them right away and then he's up, being jostled about and staring wide-eyed at the stage.
Turn up your radio love is king
Everything will be beautiful
Turn up your radio forget that sting
Everything will be beautiful
And that.
Is. Mick.
On the stage.
Singing. And playing. And looking really, really good.
And the women? Ray glances around, the only still figure in a sea of movement. The women are crying out, whooping and wolf-whistling, an older lady is screaming at Mick, even a few guys look like they're enjoying this far too much than they should be.
Chrrrrriiiiiiiiiiisssss! You huuuunnkk!
Whoooooooooo!
Ohmigod, ohmigod, is he hot or WHAT?? Ohmigod, ohmigod ohmigod!! He's so hot, he's so HOT!! I LOVE YOU SCRYEERRRR! Ohmigod, ohmigoooooooddddd, he's so h-
Ray glares at the woman next to him but she completely ignores him, eyes fixed on the singer.
This is what Ray's supposed to help with..?
He looks back between Mick and the fanatic woman, who, oh God, is wiggling under her shirt, trying to unhook her br- and Ray tears his eyes away pretty quick, diverting them back to Mick again.
Only it's not the Mick Ray knows. Or thought he knew. It's Chris Scryer. And Ray's never seen this guy before in his life.
no subject
Date: 2007-04-23 12:52 am (UTC)Until he realises that's just about THE most uncool thing to do and goes back to simply moving to the rhythm.
Talking of breasts...
He sneaks a glance to his left and woah! Okay. The chick has finally succeeded in her quest to...free herself of her unwanted "support giver," as Ray is now referring to it in his head, and is waving it around her head like a lasso, and yelling pretty much the same litany she'd graced Ray's ear with before.
Ohmigod, ohmigod, he's soooooooooooooooooooo-
"HOT?" Ray pipes up loudly, pleasant smile on his lips.
"DUUUHHHH!"
And she turns back to the stage, ignoring him again.
Ray gets to feel affronted for about three and a half seconds before the noise dies down and his own eyes are drawn to the platform. Some people sit but Ray stays upright, tips his head a little and listens.
Mick's singing is so heartfelt, affectionate, and Ray decides he's either one hell of a good actor or those lyrics mean something to him. It's so easy to get lost in a song like this, a voice like that. Seeing an acoustic in his hands is more like it though. This is a Mick that Ray can remember and it brings back a whole bunch of other things too. Things he'd forgotten about, conversations they'd had, Mick singing and playing on the beach after Joey'd spent a futile afternoon trying to show Ray how to wax a board just right. Feelings that-
"You're soooooooooooo HOOOOOOOOOTTTTT!!!!"
Ping!
Right in the middle of the song!
Ray has no words...
He turns to the "unsupported" woman who's just sprung up next to him, keeps his eyes above her neckline and gapes at her, mouth open.
She, however, is jumping up and down - Ray groans and covers his eyes - trying to see where her bra landed.
no subject
Date: 2007-04-23 09:42 pm (UTC)The woman waves her arms around, trying to catch "Chris's" attention and Ray drops into his seat, mortified. That woman is just humiliating herself and she doesn't even give a damn. What is it about rock music that makes the entire female population swoon?
Upon further reflection (and more screaming) Ray decides it might have more to do with the rock star than the music.
"CHHRRIIIISSSSSS!! OVER HEEERRREEE! MWAH MWAH MWAAAAAHHH!!!"
When the woman still hasn't shut up, Ray growls and crosses his arms, tucking his chin against his chest. Ray Vecchio gets undercover work with the mob, hookers (classy ones but still) and bullets at every turn. Mick Barrett gets fame, rock concerts and women throwing themselves at him.
And he's not even a cop anymore!
How is that fair? How? How?!
"I LOOOOOVEEEE YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!"
"Shut up!" Sigh.
no subject
Date: 2007-04-23 11:09 pm (UTC)Even if prime beef is on special.
When it sounds like the music might be ending, the audiance start stamping their feet and yelling for more, and Ray suddenly feels like he's slap bang in the middle of a tornado, shaking walls, movement in every direction. He can feel the vibrations from the band and falls easliy into the beat clapped by hundreds of spectators.
Encore.
Encore.
My God. If Mick leaves the stage without singing at least one more song he is going to be lynched. People want more, hell, Ray wouldn't mind more and he's hoping Mick'll deliver. 'Cause if the woman next to him is anything to go by (is weeping a natural reaction when a rock concert ends?) he's going to be leaving well before people have heard enough of him and his songs.
no subject
Date: 2007-04-26 10:01 pm (UTC)"Ha! That's the kid I threatened!" Ray exclaims happily, pointing to the man spinning around with his guitar. He leans over to the woman next to him, who's still wiping the tears from her eyes, and speaks loudly over the music. "I threatened that guy, heh," he grins, pulling his tie back from his jacket and slinging it loosely around his neck.
-ut isn't going to help him. Staggering along the row, tossing out superficial apologies here and there for stepping on people's toes, he finally makes it to the exit and takes another look at the note.
Hard Rock Hotel. Room 302.
Taking a deep breath of the cool Chicago air, he digs his car keys out of his back pocket and heads to the Riv.
no subject
Date: 2007-04-27 09:12 pm (UTC)Ray double takes, surprised gaze coming to rest on the doorman outside the hotel, propping open the entrance from him. If Ray hadn't spent the last five years of his life with Fraser as his best friend and had to stare at the uniform for hours on end, he could have easily mistaken this guy for a Mountie. Bright red outfit, shiny buttons, belt. The only thing that gives him away are his white gloves and the distinct lack of Stetson.
"Cheers."
He makes it into the lobby before he lets out the snigger that had been threatening to escape and gets a frown from the receptionist as a result.
So he might not actually be a guest here but they don't know that right? He laces his gait with an air of confidence, saunters right up to the elevator and punches the button, nobody suspecting a thing.
This is swish. Man, it reminds Ray of the sort of digs he used to stay at back in his mob days. Glittering floors, bronze-plated walls, mirrors reflecting the clean twinkling lights stuck to the ceiling like stars on a black velvet night sky.
Inside the elevator, it's just as nice. He's immediately met with infinite Ray's, more and more and more, in every direction he looks he can see himself. He makes great use of that on his way up to the eighth floor, checking himself out, straightening tie, collar, suit jacket, covering up the faint tension bubbling up inside. It's been a long while since he's seen Mick face to face. Sure, a reunion can only be a good thing, right, but he can't stop the nerves from peeking through.
The ping arrives before he's ready and he's outside room 302 even quicker. He sniffs, looks down at his hands, checks the note one last time and knocks out a neat little tune on the door, his own version of perfect body, perfect skin, there is no perfect anything since that lines been stuck in his head ever since he left the concert.
no subject
Date: 2007-04-28 01:06 am (UTC)Are on a city corner or a downtown subway train when the door swings open and Chris - Ray blinks - Mick is standing there with a smile on his face.
He matches it with a huge one of his own and turns the hold Mick has on him into a quick, manly hug.
“Mick! Hey, wow,” he laughs. Had Ray really missed this guy? Yeah, guess he had.
Slapping him on the back, he pulls away and takes a look around the hotel room. Impressive. One night probably costs more than Ray makes in a week.
He takes a couple of steps inside, casting Mick a sidelong look, excitement behind his eyes.
“Duuuuuude,” he grins, slurring his Chicago accent to mimic Mick and Joe’s, “this place is awesome!” Turning to his friend again, he looks him over, eyebrow arched. Sleeveless white shirt, jeans, boots. “You stepped outta Rollingstone, or something?”
no subject
Date: 2007-05-01 11:15 pm (UTC)A double king size, at least, clean and slick. And apart from the obvious Hard Rock connotations, whoever designed the room has pretty good taste.
Turning around, he flops down and bounces a bit on the mattress.
"Hey, nice," he nods, impressed, then points a finger towards the wardrobes, at a smaller knee-level cupboard. "Try there, bet ya ten dollars it's in there." Ray's a pro when it comes to hotel rooms and mini-bars.
"You pour," he adds, looking directly at Mick as he tugs the note out of his jacket pocket, "and then you can explain exactly what this is supposed to mean."
no subject
Date: 2007-05-02 10:38 pm (UTC)That might have something to do with the fact that a kid, that he kno- knew, that Joey knew, is dead. He tips back his drink in one go, the scotch burning a hot trail straight down his throat, pooling in his gut, warm and fiery. Looking down at the empty glass, he listens to the story, tuning one ear to cop and leaving the other fixed firmly on friend, so he gives himself the best chance to hear everything Mick's saying, spoken and unspoken.
He twirls the glass, so the light catches at different angles, before he leans down at sets it on the floor.
Overdosed to death.
Fuck.
More than a decades worth of police work under his belt and his stomach still turns at descriptions of victims, let alone seeing the end results.
He thinks about offering words of...what? Condolence? Should he apologize? How the hell's that going to help? What can a few words change? Nothing. Kid's still dead whether Ray says sorry or not.
Only thing that going to help is catching the bastards who did it, he figures, resting his elbows on his knees and squinting up at Mick. They have a suspect, and even if Ray needs a little more convincing that this Mankell kid wouldn't touch drugs with a ten-foot barge pole, he's prepared to take Mick on his word for now.
"So how're we gonna get our evidence?" Ray finally asks, clasping his hands and looking back up at his friend with a confident expression. He's in this now and hoping like hell Mick's got some idea about where to start.
no subject
Date: 2007-05-06 10:57 pm (UTC)Undercover work. That's one thing Ray understands. And the fact that, even after all these years, Mick trusts him enough to ask for help, out of everybody he could've gone to...well, let's just say the warm fuzzy feeling in the pit of his stomach has relatively little to do with the scotch he's just downed.
"I played the recorder when I was a kid if that helps," Ray offers with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood. He leans back and opens his hands, palms up. "What d'you need?"
no subject
Date: 2007-05-10 09:59 pm (UTC)Only problem is, Ray has no idea why Mick's doing this. Sure, the Mankell kid died but Mick said he can't do this on this own. In fact, this is the first time in Ray's life he's seen Mick alone. And he can't see Joey missing out on a free trip to Chicago, rock star lifestyle, girl groupies...Which means there's definitely something Mick's not telling him. Yeah, Ray made detective for a reason.
"See that?" Ray claps a hand on Mick's back, gives it a pat. "I got it," he assures him. There's a slight pause as Ray pulls his hand away. "Once you tell me where Joe is."
no subject
Date: 2007-05-15 01:53 am (UTC)His hand very quickly makes its way onto Mick's back again, not quite a hug, but what Ray hopes is a comforting action, a reminder that hell, Joey might not be there but Ray is, and they'll get these sons of bitches if it's the last thing they do.
"'Course he's gonna be okay," Ray echoes after a long, silent pause. "It's Joey." And somehow, that simple explanation actually seems to make sense.
no subject
Date: 2007-05-18 09:16 pm (UTC)Even if what is to come isn't so much fun.
"So where's this office then?" Ray asks, heaving himself up with a quiet groan. He's getting too old for this dancing lark.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-14 11:14 pm (UTC)He's not planning on using it but if these guys - this Osgood - can overdose a kid to death without battering an eyelash, then they sure as hell won't think twice about getting rid of two guys about to hit middle age.
"Just in case," he assures Mick, tucking the weapon into the back of his belt. He unhooks his badge whilst he's at it, slips it into his jacket pocket so it's not on show. This isn't entirely legal, breaking and entering, so he doesn't really want to advertise that he's a cop who bends the law for his own benefit.
He's all business by the time he's straightened out his collar and smoothed his sleeves.
"I got the Riv downstairs. Let's get this hunt on the road, huh?"
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Date: 2007-06-17 07:31 pm (UTC)"For luck," he claims, another stifled laugh escaping. Mick and women. That's a never-ending barrel of fun.
All set, he joins Mick and slings a friendly arm over his shoulder, peering down at the gun with raised eyebrows. "You got a license for that?" he teases.
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Date: 2007-06-21 09:25 pm (UTC)"Take yesterday for example, I'm out in the Riv, minding my own business and this hot woman starts hounding me for an interview and my autograph and offering to..." he smirks, shoots Mick another knowing look over his shoulder, "...give me things. For free." He hits the bottom stair and waits for Mick to catch up, gives him a cheeky grin so he knows his mocking is done with affection, of a sort. "Man, it's a tough life, huh?"
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Date: 2007-06-24 09:15 pm (UTC)Holding the door open for Mick, he follows him out the back and checks for other people. It seems clear enough, although he already knows, with a place as big as this, that there are a fair few blind corners to turn before they get to the relative safety of the Riv.
"I could even sell my story about Chris Scyer," he continues thoughtfully. "Spread a couple of rumors, earn my millions."
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Date: 2007-06-28 07:43 pm (UTC)"About how he secretly invited a young, innocent, good-looking fan," he points to himself, grinning widely, "up to his hotel room after his debut show."
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Date: 2007-06-30 12:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-17 08:00 pm (UTC)This is all good, this is fun but this isn't what they've come out to do. And if they're going to get the job done, they'll need a plan. So far, all Ray knows is that he's going to be breaking into some guys office to get some kind of information. He's got no clue what he's supposed to be looking for.
"I suppose finding a signed confession that Osgood overdosed this kid to death is a little too much to hope for?" He asks, his tone dry as he slides into the driver's seat.
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Date: 2007-07-25 11:31 pm (UTC)Mick's a different story though. He doesn't know why Mick is different (If asked, he'd claim it's down to the fact that he actually likes listening to this guy sing. He's got a voice that makes even Ray sink back into his chair and feel all fuzzy in his stomach), he just knows that he is. No threats of violence here.
Well, maybe not real threats.
"Well, honey, if you really wanna know what I do in the back there," he chucks a thumb over his shoulder to the backseat, "I'll show you later tonight."
He can keep a straight face for about thirty seconds before the corner of his mouth turns up in a cheeky smile.
"You better hope everything goes just swell down at the office 'cause if it doesn't? This baby is our getaway car." He gives Mick a pointed look. "And we're not exactly inconspicuous."
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Date: 2007-10-14 10:13 pm (UTC)He almost sounds convinced.
"By the time we come out, we will be deep wells of info. Over-flowing wells," he corrects. It's for Joey, after all, so 'information' is the least they can get. Kicking some badass...asses straight to fucking Broadway would suit Ray better but he'll work with what he's given.
With a quick glance in the rearview mirrow, he swings the Riv across the junction and jerks his head over to Mick. "Check the glove box, I should have a camera in there. I like evidence I can touch." And show people.
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Date: 2007-10-17 12:14 am (UTC)The engine dies down slowly, leaving Mick's chuckling hanging in the air.
"Sign my breasts?" Ray snorts, in his best Marilyn Monroe impression, pouting his lips in his friend's direction as he shoves open the driver's side door.