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.”
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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.