TITLE: That Shotgun Shine (1/?) AUTHORS: Paige Caldwell, David Stoddard-Hunt CATEGORY: S, C/o, A KEYWORDS: M/S, T/C, mytharc RATING: NC-17, in parts SETTING: Follows "The Truth" (XF), and "The Army of One" (S) SUMMARY: Desperate times beget desperate measures. ARCHIVE: Take first, ask later, but please do ask. DISCLAIMER: Characters within are the property of either 1013 and Chris Carter or HBO and David Chase. Both flavors used with neither permission nor profit. FEEDBACK: paigecaldwell@hotmail.com, dmstoddardhunt@yahoo.com WEBSITES: http://www.geocities.com/mattersofbelief http://www.cchg.net/paige ********************* "I disagree, Scully. It works on any number of levels." His fingers tested the tensile strength of the steering wheel. "Yeah," she chuffed. "Except on any of the sane ones." Outside, the taupe blur of post-harvest farmland began to give way to a blue-gray blur signaling the approach of the Appalachians. "Not to mention that it's just plain wrong!" As always, the swirl of red hair managed to capture his peripheral vision. Her glare scorched across his cheek for a moment, another red swirl announced his reprieve, the glare glancing off to melt the passenger's side window. Red. It had seemed a big deal at the time. "Don't be stupid, Mulder. If they want to find us, changing my hair color isn't going to throw them off our trail for a second." End of discussion, if not argument. By comparison, the present argument had been going strong for nearly the entire trek across the heartlands. "There ought to be a luxury tax on 'right' and 'wrong,' nowadays," he muttered. Scully ignored the sarcasm. "You know what these people are like. You profiled them on a daily basis with Violent Crimes. You worked to put them in prison, Mulder, and now what? You want to ally with them?" She managed not to yell, but only just. "Yeah, I do know. I know exactly what they're like," he replied in a strained monotone. The silence that followed was not a lull, but an overpressure building, its whine encroaching painfully on their inner ears. "I know exactly what I'm proposing, Scully. And, no, I don't really like it," Mulder's voice hardened as it rose,"but we don't have much of a goddamned choice, do we?" She flinched as if he'd raised his hand to her. Silence descended again, but with some of the pressure released. Mulder noted the rise and fall of her chest as it calmed and tried to match his breathing with hers. When next he spoke, his tone was mild, his voice cracked. "We need allies, Scully. People with influence and power. I'm not pretending that we can trust them. I'm content just to find people whom we can be fairly sure haven't been co-opted." As argument cooled to discussion, her rigid posture relaxed and then sagged in exhaustion. "We have to minimize our risk of exposure. We can't risk utilizing contacts in the government or the military, even Bill," a rueful chuckle from both of them at that, "because we know that all but the lowest echelons of each have been corrupted." "So," she replied, eyebrow and voice arched, "premise: we have to avoid corrupt organizations. Therefore, you, mister profiler..." Sensing where she was going with this, he began shaking his head. "...conclude that we should approach organized crime." His sigh was laced with equal parts exasperation and self mocking humor. After a pause to bask in her own wit, Scully continued, "It's a pretty safe assumption that the corruption of state governments is widespread as well." Her breath fogged the view out of the side mirror. Reflexively, she wiped away the condensation, reestablishing her surveillance of their surroundings. A grim smile played across his lips as, against titanic odds, they began once more to work as a team. "Okay, look. What we know so far is that infiltration has taken place primarily in governmental and quasi-governmental agencies," Mulder said, placing a sarcastic stress on the reference to FEMA. Scully returned a small smile, keeping to herself the thought that they shared the strangest lot of in-jokes. "Infiltration of the private sector can't be summarily ruled out," Mulder continued, "although the only evidence we have for this so far is of consortium front companies." "True, but evidence suggests that their strategy is based on a rather conventional, almost simplistic business model." She moved a quarter turn to face him, anger and reticence now put aside, mostly forgotten. "Mmm, hmm. Put their own people," Mulder's brow rose at the term, "into organizations having a rigid power rata in which policy level decisions emanate not from the very top, but from the levels just below. Take over the power behind the scenes. Not the cabinet secretaries, but their deputies and department heads, the ones you rarely see or read about. These are the people they've targeted. They did the same thing at the Bureau, and it's safe to assume they've done likewise in the other intelligence agencies and in the military." "Taking over key positions of influence, but with low visibility," Scully summed up, neatly tying his ramblings into a tight bow. "Right! It affords them the greatest amount of power and reach with the fewest number of actual plants. A great strategy if, as I believe they still are, you're outnumbered by your opponent." When she added nothing, he continued. "We need to adopt the same strategy. Just like them, we're outnumbered." Her derisive snort at his gross understatement earned a genuine chuckle for the first time in hours. "Okay, so we're a bit more outnumbered than they are," he said, pointing to her and then to himself, ticking off each by unfurling fingers. "The principle is the same, though. We need to gain an ally who is in a position of influence and control, at or near the head of a power rata such that orders from this ally will not be questioned by anyone in the organization, merely followed. Someone, perhaps, whose influence reaches around the world." Scully snorted again. "Yee-ah. The underworld." In response, he sniffed and looked pointedly at the empty stretch of road ahead. "Mulder, there have to be other options. What about public exposure? The Washington Post? New York Times? Hell, what about Congress?" "Congress is too diffuse an organizational structure to be effective for their purposes, so it's unlikely to be under their control. We could approach them. You're right, Scully. But what I fear is that they have placed operatives on the Hill who can alert them to or even neutralize possible trouble makers. They don't have to use Congress' power. They only have to make sure it isn't used against them. And as for the press?" He shook his head, his jaw slack. "What makes you think they'd listen to "Spooky" Mulder, the fugitive F.B.I. agent, more than they would have before?" Spotting a speed trap just beyond, Mulder began slowing gradually. They could ill afford even the most minor brush with the law, now. She turned to look at the state policeman napping in the cruiser as hey passed. In his direction, but intended for Mulder, she started, "I'm just trying to find an alternative..." He interrupted her more forcefully than intended. "Been there, done that, Scully. Do you really think I'd blithely forge an alliance with organized crime?" Through an effort of will, he softened his tone. "If you can find a more palatable option, I'd be glad, no, thrilled to go with that." Scully took in a heavy breath and sat on it, centering, steeling herself for a debate in which her usual rhetoric could be punctuated with a death sentence. Every fiber of her being, though, told her that this was a debate she simply must win. Her long, measured exhale continued to settle them both, bringing them closer toward one another emotionally and intellectually. Her instinct was, as he well knew, to work through approved channels,to gather the resources of legitimate authority and to root out the cancer devouring it from within. Yet, she could predict Mulder's objections, could hear them, in fact, with startling clarity amid the panicked jumble of her own thoughts. If they ventured within the bounds of legitimate authority, they could never be certain of whom their enemies were, nor their allies, if they managed to stay alive at all. Of course, their enemies needn't risk martyring them. The best course of action from their point of view might just be to have both Mulder and Scully back on the federal government roster, alive and in view, but marginalized, as they'd tried to do with the X-Files. They'd failed, then. Barely. Even with the resources they'd amassed for this rainiest of days, life was increasingly difficult. The Honda was inconspicuous enough, andpaid for in cash. But the registration would expire in October. They'd need to have solid new aliases in place by then in order to re-register it without raising suspicion. In days past, they could have accomplished this with little more than a phone call. "If only the Gunmen..." Scully started, immediately regretting it. Mulder's face crumpled. They drove in silence for a long while, passing from Kentucky, through West Virginia and into Virginia without a word, each lost in private memories of the strange, endearing trio. Near Roanoke, they picked up 81 north. "If only the Gunmen." Neither one was willing to have that as an epitaph. Scully resumed the conversation as if it had never been interrupted. "I assume you have a certain contact in mind, Mulder?" He nodded. "I trust you have your reasons for the choice, but I don't see that it matters. These people are killers. It's part of their code, their ritual." "I'm counting on that, Scully." She stared at him, astonished. "Think about it," he offered. "What are the hallmarks of a ritual gangland killing?" "Single shot," she recited the Quantico lecture mechanically, "point blank range to the back of the neck." Amusement danced in his eyes as he watched her make the connection. "Perfect!" He bounced in his seat in a dour imitation of glee. "Perfect? Is not the word I'd have chosen." "What word would you have chosen, then? Peachy? Awesome? Come on, Scully. For a plan borne out of desperation, you'd have to admit that the way this part of it fits is pretty cool." "Neat, Mulder. That's what I'd choose. A little too neat. And a rather slim perch for a plan of this magnitude and risk, don't you think?" He laughed. Now that they were out of the mountains and onto the interstate, they were swinging into high gear. "This is just a bonus, Scully. No training necessary." It was woefully weak. But weak was all that they had, nowadays. After an interval, Scully spoke, the weariness evident in her voice. "What can you tell me about the people you've chosen to approach?" Mulder removed a zip disc from his jacket pocket and tossed it on the seat beside him. Scully stared at it warily, as if by picking it up all the troubles and danger ahead of them would come crashing down all at once. Eventually she loaded the disc into her laptop and began to read, asking questions occasionally, and then, only for clarification. "So, who's actually in charge? The uncle or the nephew?" Mulder's answers, "Nephew," were equally succinct, letting Scully take in as much information as possible without intervention on his part. He needed to have her insight, pure and unadulterated. "Why this family and not one of New York's Five?" "Too large, too bureaucratic. With this one, if the nephew accepts us, we're in. Things get accomplished." "Why will he accept us? What have we got to give him?" "Information." "Information? You're going to aid and abet a criminal enterprise?" "We don't have much of a choice, Scully. Besides, legitimate authority is becoming *the* criminal enterprise of all time." She thought about arguing that point but let it drop. Besides, the possibility that he was right was too monstrous to comprehend. "And just where are you going to garner this information, Mulder? We can't saunter into the Hoover and access the mainframe anymore." "Don't have to. Langly taught me a few things about getting in through the back door of a public website." "And you think he's just going to accept what you choose to share? Why wouldn't he just reach out and take what he wants?" Mulder stared at her wryly. "You know damned well what I mean, Mulder." "I'm betting that he'll respect the boundaries of the deal. It's another part of their code, Scully. Honor. If the deal is information on what the Bureau knows about his Family in exchange for logistical support, my guess is that he'll respect that. Ultimately, if that's what he says the deal is, then that's what it will be." "Your guess is," she scoffed. "Mulder? What's to say that this... this sociopath of yours won't just kill us?" "Nothing. He might. They might. Scully, I don't know what to say about that. It's a definite risk. I just don't see any other way." Finally, exhausted of both energy and objections, Scully relented. "All right, I'm in. So, where are we headed?" The smug smile she'd expected failed to appear. "North Caldwell, New Jersey." Even though he'd argued the point for hours and had finally won her over, he looked nervous. This frightened her every bit as much as did the thought of the people they were soon to approach. The thin gray ribbon of the Pennsylvania Turnpike stretched out ahead of them, an ashen-skinned yellow-brick road leading them straight to a warped Oz. Scully pored over the information in the zip disc throughout the better part of western and central Pennsylvania. As the landscape began to flatten out into farmlands just west of the Susquehanna, she voiced one more, utterly reasonable fear. "Mulder, I hope you have a bright idea about how to make the initial approach. Because I have a sneaking suspicion that these aren't people who take kindly to strangers showing up on their doorstep," Scully said dryly, "let alone strange ex-FBI agents peddling alien conspiracy theories. We might not even get past the front gate, alive anyway." "S'okay, Scully. I think I have an 'in.'" *************** Outside of the Bada Bing! Club Lodi, New Jersey "...What the fuck, Janice? Last week it was Jesus. The week before that it was Buddha or some shit. And now it's fuckin' aliens?" -end, 1/?- TITLE: That Shotgun Shine (2/?) AUTHORS: Paige Caldwell, David Stoddard-Hunt ********************* Transcript, surveillance report: NDNJ docket #29710132002 Subject: any and all occupants of one cherry red Chevrolet Suburban, NJ Lic# KY9-683 Agents in place: Lubrano, Iannarulli Lodi, New Jersey 13 October 2002, 16:40 Lubrano: Papa Bing exiting the club, cell phone in hand. He's heading for the car. Lubrano: Whoa! Awwwwwwww, nice. He flipped us his best regards. Iannarulli: [unintelligible] motherfuck, ain't he? Lubrano: Ready with the directional mike? Iannarulli: Check. Lubrano: On my... shit! Mark! Now, now, now! A. Soprano: "What?" Lubrano: I missed him coming around that fat fuck of a vehicle. Iannarulli: Ssssh! Ssssh! Shut up, damnit! A. Soprano: "Aw, Jesus Christ, I don't believe dis shit. I mean, what the fuck, Janice? Last week, it was Jesus. The week before that, it was Buddha or some shit. And now it's fuckin' aliens? " Lubrano: Oh, man. "Janice." It's his sister. Iannarulli: You don't [unintelligible] sure. Lubrano: No? Just look at him! Only his whack-job sister makes him this nuts this fast. See? He nearly threw the fucking cell into the road. A. Soprano: "You what? To my house? The house your niece and your nephew call home? You call dem back and tell 'em no." A. Soprano: "Aw, stop with the tears. Jesus. C'mon! Stop with the tears a-ready. All right. I'll meet with them. Just meet. No more than that. You're welcome. What? No. No! You hear me? I'll hear them out. Dat's it." Lubrano: Shit, Der Bingle looks pissed. [laughs] Hey. Heads up, heads up. He's headed this way. What the? Whoa!" [sound of impact] Lubrano: Son of a bitch! He threw the fucking cell phone at us. Son of a bitch! Iannarulli: [laughs] *************** Home of Tony and Carmela Soprano North Caldwell, New Jersey "Tony?" Carmela's yell drifted up the sweeping staircase and into the curtained dark of the master suite. "Some FBI agents here to see you." Since both children had gone to live on campus, Meadow at Columbia and AJ at HMI, Carmela had become less circumspect in references to her husband's true profession. Tony Soprano shifted his bulk under the ornate spread to peer at the glowing red numbers on the clock. 11:43. Nearly noon. He collapsed back onto the pillow, allowing himself a small smile. Agent Harris. Arriving at lunchtime. Tony suspected that he'd developed a taste for Carmela's manicotti. "No surprise there," he rasped, lurching out of bed and lumbering into the bathroom. Harris' macaroni jones could wait at the door at least until Tony had brushed his teeth. ***************** Carmela Soprano, Mulder noted, was immaculately dressed after a certain fashion, turned out in shades of precious metal. His eyes did an inventory from the ground up. Coppery pumps, cream silk pants, gilded rope belt, form fitting beige top with a twenty-four carat decolletage that included, to his amusement, a small gold cross. Even her hair was lacquered and shot through with streaks of platinum, bronze and brass. From the look of her, Mulder smiled to himself, heavy on the brass. A 'gilt-y' pleasure. He almost grinned outwardly, inappropriately, at his own pun, but fortune smiled upon him. Or, more accurately, sneered. Mulder found himself staring into a pair of tiny beads, depthless ebony without shine. "Can I help you, Agent?" Even in a bathrobe, Tony Soprano made an imposing, threatening figure. From behind her husband's broad shoulder, Carmela smirked at Mulder, and whispered "here, Tony," reaching around to hand him a cup of coffee. "Mulder." He regrouped quickly, offering a hand that was studiously ignored. "And this is my partner, Dana Scully," he indicated her with the spurned appendage. "Carmela, maybe Agent Scully would enjoy some of your famous manicotti." The word that came out of his mouth was "manigott." "Tooo-ny," his wife whispered, suddenly alarmed. Inviting a federal agent into their foyer without a warrant was an unnecessary risk. Inviting her in for the noon meal was heresy. If this little tableaux became known among his associates, even in the slightest, it could mean disaster, mutiny. Yet, until that time, in this family, as with his other one, Tony Soprano had the final word. "Miss Scully, would you like to join me for some coffee?" Carmela said with what seemed to be genuine good cheer. "I just made a fresh pot." Although Scully remained impassive, Mulder noted her nostrils flare at the presumptive sexism in the offer. She looked to him for support, only to receive a shrug. With a tight smile, she followed the other woman into the kitchen. "We'll leave the men to their business," Carmela said pleasantly as they departed. Mulder winced. When he looked back at the mob boss, he found Tony Soprano smiling, amused at Mulder's discomfort. "She's not used to bein' a second banana, I'm guessin'." The larger man turned and leaned back slightly, his gaze following Scully in her customary tailored black as she disappeared into their kitchen. Unlike Mulder moments before, Tony made no effort to hide his appraisal of the small redhead. "Partner, heh?" He sipped his coffee, the first signs of life lilting in his eyes. Mulder said nothing. Tony put his coffee cup down on a mahogany hall table and jerked his head at a doorway and a descending flight of stairs beyond. He pulled open a drawer from the table and reached inside, opening a small box. Mulder hesitated, relaxing only after Tony withdrew three fat cigars. Tony proffered one of the three, which Mulder politely refused, and headed downstairs into the basement. "State your business, Agent Mulder." There was no trace of a smile left on his face, in his voice, anywhere. "And make it quick. I'm not in the habit of invitin' federal agents into my home on social calls." He lit the cigar, taking a long drag to get it started. "Your sister Janice tells me that she's spoken with you?" "Yeah." He flicked the match into a small, sand filled bucket littered with matches and butts. "And?" "And nothing. She gave me some load of horseshit about aliens. Now, if that's what you're going to tell me, then you're wasting both our times." "Sir, my partner and I have put our lives at risk coming here to speak with you." "No shit, Agent." "No, no. That's not what I meant." "Yeah? You sure about that?" Tony maneuvered his bulk between Mulder and the stairwell. To Mulder's credit in the mobster's eyes, he didn't flinch. "I meant that there are those in government, including some in the Bureau, who would like to see us silenced. We have uncovered evidence of an ongoing conspiracy at all levels of government..." "I'll silence you myself if you don't come to the point. Janice said you were a bright fuck, a college boy. Surely you can come to a fucking point." Mulder shifted subtly on his feet, a change noted by the man opposite him. "As you're no doubt aware, you are the object of intense interest among certain sections of the Bureau. While Scully and I are in your presence, we are at risk of detection by those elements, or by those to whom they report." "Detection." "Yes, sir." "No shit," said Tony sourly, turning back toward the stairs. "Look, we know that the Bureau ran audio surveillance here, Mr. Soprano." "The fuck did you say?" Now it was Tony's turn to be set back on his heels but only momentarily, not long enough for Mulder to press his advantage, only to regain equilibrium. "This can't be news to you." "I'll ask you again." His voice was soft, but his body language roared its threat. "What did you just say?" "They bugged your house. The F.B.I. C'mon, you've known about this for at least the past month." Tony's scowl draped from his cigar for nearly a minute, before softening into a mildly impressed "ah." "You're bullshittin' me. You got coyunes, a full set, I'll give you that. Just don't bullshit me like that again, you get me?" Mulder's expression became, if anything, more firmly set. Tony exploded. "If you're bull shitting me, you and your partner are gonna be far worse than just fuckin' at risk, you got me, College?" Mulder was relieved that his reply didn't betray just how nervous he felt. "Until about a month ago, you had a gooseneck worklamp down here in the basement. Over there, somewhere." Mulder pointed vaguely. "Isn't that right?" Tony began to pace. "Yeah? So what? It's a workbench. Most workbenches have a light of some sort. Lucky guess." "Agreed, most workbenches probably do have some sort of light. But, 'most' didn't get thrown out about a month ago." "Wrong!" Tony thundered. "I'm the only one that uses that lamp, and I wouldn't have thrown it out. I..." In mid-rant, the mob boss' train of thought seemed to stall, if not his tendency to pace. "Meadow." "What?" Mulder let out a rush of air with the question. "Not what. Who. Meadow. My daughter? Jesus, what kind of sloppy records do you guys keep down there, Agent Mulder?" Mulder realized that this wasn't the first situation in which he'd beenasked that question nor, in point of fact, was it the most dangerous. "Meadow took the fuckin' thing back to Columbia with her a couple of weeks ago." Something darker crossed Tony's features. "How long?" Mulder shook his head, honestly bewildered. "Jesusfuckingchrist! HOW LONG?" "I'm not quite sure. Not long. The first transcripts to make it to your file appeared a little under two months ago." "Two... Those cocksuckers! Fuckin' Agent Harris. 'We didn't have to come by, Tony. We coulda just called, Tony.' Well, fuck him. Fuck him! I'm gonna want to read the warrant on this one, I'll tell you that right now." Tony paced some more, the tip of his cigar glowing sulfurously. "You got any more you care to share with me on this, Agent?" It was not a request. With so much on the line, however, Mulder refused to give an inch. "There's more, yes." Tony rounded on him, a bull pawing the dirt, waiting. "Are you willing to hear me out?" Mulder threw his one, thin gauntlet. Tony took a deep drag on the cigar and exhaled the smoke carelessly in Mulder's direction. Another drag, and still another. Even through the thickening haze, Mulder could tell that Tony Soprano was smiling again. Mulder smiled, too, for the first time since pulling up the long driveway. "Then I think we can do business." **************** "Are you insane?" Carmela asked, the shrillness of her voice more cutting than the knife in her hand. She was an expert at mincing both onions and her husband's thin layered certainty. "You're willing to do business with two FBI agents?" "Former FBI agents," Tony corrected her as he shuffled towards the refrigerator. Opening the door, he pulled out a carton of milk and began drinking. He didn't bother to use a glass, a symbolic gesture to remind his wife that he owed her no explanations. But Carmela wasn't about to be intimidated. He might be the boss of northern New Jersey, but when it came to decisions that might affect her family, he was just a belly bulging husband trying to assert his authority in a bathrobe. "Fine," she seethed. "You want to jeapordize the safety of your children... over what? Janice's latest epiphany about the fate of mankind? Jesus, Tony..." Tony wasn't sure what ephiphany meant, but judging by Carmela's tone it probably meant a brain fart. And to a certain extent, she was right. Janice had a history of bringing trouble into the family, whether it was her Hindu crapola or a bullet between the eyes of her fiancee. Of course, whacking Richie Aprile was more of a solution to the problem, one that often made him grin and occasionally chuckle out loud. No matter what, Janice was a Soprano. No one... not FBI or that stupid prick brother of a former mob boss pushed a Soprano around. "Are you listening to me, Tony?" Tony glanced over at his wife, the corners of his eyes lifting with amusement at the poised knife in her hand. Carmela might be a Soprano only by marriage, but she was still a fighter. He loved that quality about her, despite the fact that most of her fights had to do with him. Well, more to the point, where he was dipping his cannoli these days. "Oh, I'm listenin'," he said, "I'm just not hearin'." "Well, listen to this." Carmela placed the knife on the cutting board and wiped her hands on a towel. "This better not have anything to do with some bizarre sexual fascination you have for Agent Scully." Tony slammed the milk carton down. "Jesus Christ! You think that all I'm interested in is a piece of FBI ass?" "I'm not saying that you are," corrected Carmela. "I'm just reminding you that there are consequences, Tony ... serious consequences to your attraction to powerful women." He had heard this before, not from his wife but from his psychiatrist, Dr. Melfi. It had something to do with his mother being too fucked up in the head to love and nurture him. Or something that sounded just as gay. What did make an impression was the impact of the women he had come to depend upon. When it came to strength of character, Jennifer Melfi outranked most of his capos. But when it came to strength of will, no one could compare to his Carmela. Tony gave her a half-joking, half-appreciative grin. "Trust me, Carm, I'm livin' that reminder every day." -end, 2/?- TITLE: That Shotgun Shine (3/?) AUTHORS: Paige Caldwell, David Stoddard-Hunt ************************* Rest Away Motor Lodge Bloomfield Avenue Verona, New Jersey There was just no way to achieve a fully satisfying slam with a cheap, balsa wood motel room door. Nevertheless, she tried. Once, twice, three times. "I get it, Scully! I get the damn picture. You're pissed off," he yelled over the din. She'd fumed in total silence, arms tightly crossed over her chest, during the entire drive to the motel. "Instead of taking it out on this defenseless piece of... of plywood, why won't you just talk to me?" Mulder waited a heartbeat, two, just to make sure she wasn't going to go for a fourth slam before he reached for the door knob to let himself in. Four feet in front of him, Scully stood, hand slightly outstretched, chest heaving, eyes arcing with electricity. "Damnit, Mulder! Are you nuts?" Scully marched defiantly right up to his chest, backing away only to prowl around the room like a caged tigress. Mulder imagined he could see the steam trailing her like an overheated wake. Of course, it could have been haze from the greasy walls of the motel room. Emancipation from the financial shackles of expense reports and Bureau auditors had not raised the level of their accommodations in the least. "I thought we'd reached an understanding, Scully. I thought we'd agreed that, in spite of the risks, we really have no other option here. Are you backing out on me? Nothing has changed since we discussed this in the car, except that we've successfully gained entrance into the target family. And he's listening." Scully eyed the tops of the furniture in the room as she paced, picking up motel bric-a-brac, hefting each piece to determine its suitability as either anchor or projectile. "Did you look at his eyes, Mulder? Did you? Soulless. He'd as soon kill you as breathe. Kill us both. And then what?" From an excess of wretched experience, he recognized the onset of his body's progressive responses to threat. The tingling in his scalp, a galvanic "D.E.W." line. The flexing of palms and soles of feet, symptomatic of other, subconscious preparations toward fight or flight. Mulder knew as well the responses to come as the threat level heightened. Contraction of the long muscles of the thigh, which, if not released, would eventually knot painfully in the middle of his back. Finally, at the moment the threat became reality, danger made kinetic, he would become loose limbed, fluid, acting on informed instinct. "What the hell were we thinking? What the hell was I thinking agreeing to this?" One day, perhaps, just for his own edification, he would codify these responses, put word and number to theory. Bounding upon him uninvited and then away like a frightened deer, the thought occurred that "color coding" this system would likely be in bad taste. But where was the threat here? This was Scully, for Christ's sake, literally the only real ally he had in the world. Whatever shreds remained of the Temple curtain of his soul, weren't in his keeping but in hers. What they shared was beyond love, deeper, desperate and primal. She was his salvation in a universe of infinite possibilities in which all but one seemed turned in upon him. If Scully was a threat, then he was lost. "I know we need help, Mulder, and that, even then, it's an uphill battle. But, with this? We're just buying trouble. Not even you can expect to come back from the dead on a regular basis. If they kill us, then colonization is a fait accompli. What kind of future will that leave for... for... the children?" Mulder knew that she had one specific child in mind, but could not, had not, in fact, been able to speak of him in weeks. Scully's energy seemed to wilt at the mere thought of their helpless son. "Scully, it's a process. Tony Soprano is as wary of us, at this point, as we are of him. But, he's listening, which is more than I expected." She flared at that admission, so he hurried to cover, moving on. "We just have to establish our bona fides, build trust." "There isn't any trust to build, Mulder!" Scully shouted, flinging the ashtray softly onto the bed. Mulder smiled briefly at the realization that, even in the throes of anger, Scully's basic nature would always tend toward moderation and reason. "...listening to me?" She had hold of him, now, by both ears. What was that he'd been thinking about her moderate nature? "Ow! Yes!" He shrugged out of her grasp. "I'm listening." "But are you hearing me?" Her voice took on a pleading note that riveted his attention. Panic wasn't simply unusual with Scully. It was, to his knowledge, inconceivable. Until now. Something more was going on than met the eye, Mulder realized. "Scully?" He reached out to touch her shoulder comfortingly and she flinched. "Did something happen between you and Carmela Soprano that I should know about?" She was only a foot in front of him, but her stare was miles away. "It's a nice kitchen, big," she began," with lots of windows and light." She sputtered to a halt. "C'mon, Scully," he prodded, "you're scaring me." She shook her head, reassuring him and clearing her own thoughts. "It started off blandly enough, with small talk," Scully said, taking a deep breath, before continuing. Mulder was relieved to see a little bit of the fire come back to her face. "She did just as her husband had ordered." ************** "How do you take it, Miss Scully?" Carmela asked, pouring steaming coffee from a glass carafe into two small porcelain cups, turning to hand one to Scully and placing her own on the counter of the crescent shaped island in the center of the room. "With cream, please," Scully replied as her host opened the refrigerator door. "Oh! Is that soymilk? May I have some of that, please?" "Really?" Carmela's expression revealed teeth brilliantly well cared for. "You drink this?" Scully looked down at the counter with a mere wisp of a smile, saying "Well, just in my coffee." Carmela stared at her, surprised. "You ought to meet my daughter, Meadow. Went off to Columbia and came back with more than just an education. A new outlook on life and a whole list of demands to go with it. Soymilk was among the least worrisome." Scully lifted the cup to her lips and sipped gingerly. "I hope it's still good," Carmela said, staring pointedly at her. Scully tried to cover a cough, holding a hand up to forestall Carmela's concern. "No, no. It's fine." "I'd never even heard of soy milk until Med came home from school on a laundry run and acted very affronted that we didn't stock any," she chuckled at the memory. "You're the first person outside of Med's crew whom I know that drinks the stuff." "Actually, I used to drink my coffee black," Scully offered. "I started drinking it this way a couple of years ago. Doctor's orders." Carmela raised her manicured eyebrows at this, but Scully said nothing further. She took up station directly across the island from where Scully sat, taking a sip of coffee and busying herself with preparations for that night's gravy, pulling Roma tomatoes from a glass bowl and peeling each one with precise strokes. "So, are you married?" she asked, indicating both the foyer and Mulder with a glance. "No." Scully's curt reply was automatic. For a time, there was just the metallic snick of the peeler as it stripped the skin off of the tender red flesh of the fruit. From elsewhere in the house rose the muffled sound of men's voices. Scully was unable to decipher any of what was being said. As a distraction, she found herself speaking. "Not officially, anyway." "How long have you known him?" Carmela dumped the skinned tomatoes into a pot of water simmering on the stove, washed and dried her hands and, grabbing a knife from the block, began dicing a dozen garlic cloves. "Ten years, more or less," Scully replied, watching as Carmela scooped the garlic onto the knife blade and deposited it into a small sauce pan to roast in hot oil. "We were partners at the Bureau." Carmela looked up, unsmiling. "And now?" "And now we're just partners." A voice, familiar to Carmela and discernable to Scully as other than Mulder, roared from below, "how long?" Scully started, recomposing herself with effort. Carmela continued to chop peppers, the impact of her knife on the butcher's block as solid and resounding as a woodsman's axe. "You Catholic, Miss Scully?" "What?" Carmela gestured down toward Scully's collarbone. Scully reached up unconsciously, taking the small gold ornament into the protective shell of her fist. She looked up at Carmela, nodding mutely. "Practicing?" Another nod. From down in the basement, they could hear Tony continuing to shout. "Look," Carmela said, "I don't know what you and your... your 'partner' have come to see Tony about, nor do I want to know. But, I can tell you that my husband takes his business dealings very seriously, Miss Scully. He doesn't react well" Carmela said, lining up another pepper under the gleaming knife's edge, "to being played for a fool." From below, the men's voices had ceased. The sudden silence made Scully all the more uneasy. "So, as a fellow practicing Catholic, you'll understand how serious I am when I say that, for your sake, I pray to God that that's not what you and your partner are here to do." With one decisive stroke, Carmela split the pepper in half and began to gut the seeds from inside. *************** "That's not what we're trying to do, Scully. You know that." "It doesn't matter what we know, Mulder, only what he believes." Mulder's phone shrilled, startling them both. After staring at it for several rings, Mulder said, "It's him. We'll know in a second whether he takes us seriously or not." He pressed the on button and held the phone away from his ear so that they could both hear the voice on the other end. It spoke without preamble. "Be ready in an hour. We'll pick you up." "We'll meet you," Mulder challenged. "Just tell me where." "Where ain't important. Just be ready in an hour. There are some people I want you to meet." The connection ended. Scully looked aghast. "Could be worse, Scully. He could have said that he was taking us for a little ride," Mulder joked lamely. "It's not funny, Mulder. None of this is funny! You're joking around with our lives! This isn't some television show. This man gets what he wants and nothing, not the law, not morality, not man nor God gets in his way. I should never have agreed to this plan. It's idiotic, crazy! Your lunacy is going to get us both killed!" She spun smartly on a heel and stormed to the back of the small room. The sink and mirror, Mulder knew, were situated outside the actual bathroom. The room itself was barely large enough for the toilet and stand up shower. His warning about the claustrophobic exile she was heading for died with the report of a sharp and, he suspected, very satisfying slam. In the silence that followed, her accusations of recklessness echoed in his soul. Had he miscalculated? Scully had certainly summed up Tony Soprano correctly, he realized. Under a thin veneer of bonhomie lay a core of ruthlessness as hard, sharp and black as obsidian. Doubt began to eat away at his well-reasoned resolve. Was Scully's parting shot as accurate? It would certainly be ironic at this late date for his many detractors to finally be proven right. Ironic and, quite possibly, fatal. He had to consider the possibility seriously. Their lives depended on it. To the air in the empty room, he voiced one of his deepest, oldest fears: "Am I nuts?" ***************** Office of Jennifer Melfi, M.D., Ph.D. Bloomfield Avenue Montclair, New Jersey "I don't know. What do you think? Are you?" "Aw, Jesus! There you go with the questions again. What the fuck? Didn't they teach you any of the answers up there at Tufts?" Tony groused. "You're the expert on who's crazy and who's not. You tell me!" Jennifer Melfi tilted her head to one side, which diverted Tony's attention from her slender legs. She was a looker, this one, from her gray suit to her suede pumps. She dressed smart. Sexy. But what held Tony's fascination were her eyes. She tried to hide them behind a pair of wire rim glasses, but there was no disguising the window to her soul. In them, he saw intelligence. Compassion. Beyond the hazel depths, he saw hope. "Answers only come to those willing to hear them," she responded in a neutral tone. "It could be that you are finally in a position to listen, to consider possibilities that you wouldn't necessarily have considered before." "Is that the best you got?" "No, but this opportunity may be the best you're going to get," Dr. Melfi offered. "Are you talking about these Feds?" asked Tony. "Because if word of this gets out..." "From what you tell me, these two agents are no longer employed by the FBI," she said. "What does that tell you?" "That they're either stupid fucks or smarter than I think." Tony answered, scratching the side of his head. The question was nagging at him like a mosquito bite. The harder he scratched, the more irritating it became. "Anthony, what it tells you is that they have more at risk," Dr. Melfi explained. "It tells you that they are motivated by something stronger than ordinary fear." "This alien abduction bullshit," groused Tony. "Like I have time to worry about little green men in my line of work." "Waste management?" The question never caught Tony off guard. Although she had explained doctor-patient confidentiality during their first session, he had little faith in legal mumbo jumbo. So he spoke in a language she was sure to understand. Truth by innuendo. It worked, but only because both of them made a conscious effort not to jeopardize the other. Besides, Dr. Melfi was Italian. She lived by the old rules. Honor. Decency. Integrity. Three years ago he had come to her office because of panic attacks. He had expected little... a prescription for Prozac and the back door. But this woman didn't turn him away. Even in their most heated moments, where he insulted her profession or lashed out at her personally, she didn't flinch. She was the cool voice of reason. He wanted to fuck her. Who wouldn't? Of course, she had dismissed his attraction with some psychobabble about transference. But that didn't stop him from wanting her, or wanting his mistress to dress like her.... Be like her... A strong woman. What had Carm said about his attraction to powerful women? How fucked up was he to be totally in love his wife yet still crave others? "Anthony?" "Waste management," agreed Tony. He casually crossed one leg over the other knee and picked lint off the cuff of his slacks. "What about it?" "Nothing," she said, shrugging. "But I don't think your occupation is what they're interested in." "Then what is it?" Dr. Melfi lowered her glasses to give him a directed gaze. Her eyes sparkled like emeralds. "The fact that you have no fear." ******************* Rest Away Motor Lodge Bloomfield Avenue Verona, New Jersey Scully had her gun drawn as Mulder opened the door. Standing unfazed in the open doorway was a tall, broad shouldered man with a ponytail, dressed in a silk shirt and dark slacks. Though squarely in the sights of Scully's three-point stance, he said nothing, merely gestured calmly out toward the parking lot. As the man turned and walked toward the stairwell, both Mulder and Scully noted the butt of his gun protruding discretely from the waistband of his pants. This would be their only introduction to Furio Giunta, Soprano family enforcer. Scully scanned the lot trying to select the car that had come for them. There were two possibilities, one Lincoln, one Cadillac, both black, both wrong. As they drew up along side a red Chevy Suburban, Tony Soprano got out of the passenger's side door. Scully was clearly astonished, looking back and forth between the mob chieftain and the truck. "What?" Tony looked at her curiously. "Wait! Lemme guess. You thought I was gonna roll up in a black stretch, didn't you?" He chuckled and, wanting to share this amusement, glanced over at Furio who just smiled dutifully and shrugged. "You been watching too many movies, Agent Scully," Tony said, opening a door for her. "Winda rolls down, a voice says 'get in' ?" Scully nodded once. "Oh, that's beautiful!" he crowed, light mood in contrast to his heavy features. Tony helped Scully up into the truck. Even though his smile seemed genuine, something in it made her shiver. His manner had an old fashioned, proprietary air. As he eased his muscled bulk into the front seat, Tony continued, "This is New Jersey. We're a little less formal out here." He mimed lifting his nose in the air, laughing at his own joke. "Oh!" He rapped on Furio's arm to get his attention. "You know who's gonna love this one?" It wasn't clear whether Tony was speaking of Scully, her misconception, or both. "Sil." Furio looked away without saying a word, his glance in the rear view along the way meeting Mulder's eyes squarely. If Tony was aware of the interaction between the other two men, he made no mention of it. "Fuckin' Silvio," he repeated, chuckling at some memory as yet unrevealed. "You two can talk Godfather movies until the sun comes up." He shook his head once more, laughing, but said nothing in explanation. "We gotta make a stop first," Tony said to his passengers. "It's just a little ways up from here." To Furio, he added "Christopher, but at her place." As they pulled out onto Bloomfield Avenue, Mulder leaned forward to speak to Tony, jerking a thumb at Furio. "Does he speak?" Mulder asked, dryly. "Yeah," Tony replied, without so much as a smile or a glance back at Mulder. For a block or two, there was dead silence. Suddenly, like a tape rewound, Tony's voice bellowed out as jovial as before. "Oh, yeah. Silvio is going to love you!" -end- (3/?) TITLE: That Shotgun Shine (4/?) AUTHORS: Paige Caldwell, David Stoddard-Hunt ************************* Apartment of Adriana La Cerva Wisse Street Lodi, New Jersey "Christopher," Adriana hissed, shaking her slumbering fiance with unusual vehemence. "What?" He shrugged her off like a buzzing gnat, pulling the covers up over his muscle shirted torso. "It's Tony!" Her urgency was awe-inspired, fearless only because she was so rarely exposed to the man himself. "Tell him I'll call him back." "Chris-ta-fer!" Even groggy with sleep, he felt tension knot between his shoulders at the shrillness in Adriana's voice. She shook him once more, then stopped abruptly. Christopher Moltisanti smiled, victorious, and burrowed back into his pillow, seeking the glittering riches of a dream interrupted. The room and its occupant grew still. After a moment, a slow ratcheting sounded, metallic, well-oiled and familiar. "Get up." A sharp click, right next to the young mafioso's ear. "Get up, you stupid fuck." The barrel of the gun was just visible out of the corner of Christopher's startled left eye. On sheer reflex, he leapt out of bed, not to face his attacker but to put distance between himself and the piece. It was a full five seconds before he realized whose finger was on the trigger. "Jesus, T!" Tony Soprano grinned, clicking the safety and slipping the gun into the waistband of his slacks, at the small of his back. "I need you to do some research on the computer." "Now?" Tony stared at him, incredulous. "No. Whenever you're ready, Sleeping Beauty. Yes, now!" He ripped the covers off the bed and threw them over Christopher's shoulders, sending him out into the living room with a slap to the back of the head. As he booted up his laptop, Christopher asked, "Okay. Now that I'm up, what do you want to know?" Tony ignored the insolence only because Christopher was family, in all senses of the word. "I want you to give me everything there is on these two names. Don't ask no questions. Just do it." After a number of practiced keystrokes, Christopher shook his head. "Check the federal database, you get me?" Tony asked. "The federal database." It took another five minutes to get in. Shortly, Christopher looked up at his boss and then back down at the screen. He let loose a long, low whistle. ***************** Satriale's Pork Store Kearney, New Jersey The polite host for now, Tony Soprano held the door for Scully, who peered inside and entered cautiously. While Mulder followed, Tony squinted into the gray North Jersey sky, then cast quick glances up Dukes Street and back and forth down Kearney Avenue. He nodded once to Furio and ducked into the darkened shop. As the two former agents slowed to take in their surroundings, Tony shouldered past and disappeared through a heavy metal door. To the right, just behind the counter, whole carcasses hung alternately with stuffed sausage casings, a carnivore's Christmas trim. "The other white meat," Mulder said, coming to a stop in front of the small glass showcase. Scully turned on him, her expression flaring angrily. "What?" he said, chuckling. At least, Scully thought, he should have the grace to be nervous. When the metal door scraped open again, Mulder jumped. Scully hid a satisfied smile behind two fingers. "Wait here," the mob boss cautioned. "I've got some business to take care of. Furio is right out front. You'll be safe in here." Whether that was because or in spite of Furio's presence was not at all clear. "Uh, Mr. Soprano?" At Mulder's words Tony paused, though it was apparent to both partners that his indulgence had tight limits. "The Satriales. Do they actually run a butcher shop here?" "Nah. Not no more. They, uh, they retired." He gave a small chuff of a laugh. "Sold the place and moved down to Florida." He shook his head at some private image and returned to the room beyond. In the silence that descended, the cuts and slabs took on associations that threatened to overwhelm them, leaving both awash in blood. Scully picked up a day-old copy of the Newark paper and began leafing through it. They had a pre-arranged series of contact procedures with Doggett and Reyes, involving personal ads in various newspapers. The "Star-Ledger" was not one of these. Nevertheless, she searched hurriedly for the classifieds. "Any part-time profiling jobs?" Mulder quipped from just over her shoulder. She ignored the remark, but calmed slightly. Her frantic search for distraction slowed to an idle crawl through the daily paper. "Mulder! Look at this." On the bottom half of a page in the front section was a public service announcement offering vaccine screenings to all residents of North Jersey, free of charge. Paid for and handled by FEMA. "Looks like they're stepping up the timetable, huh?" Mulder's tone had suddenly gone flat. "Readying recruits for when the time comes," he said, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets. "And that time may be sooner than we thought." ************** "Reactions? Questions?" Tony paused, arms and hands open in invitation. No one among the assembled captains moved even the slightest fraction. "Complaints?" It was an old joke, and an insincere request. All of them knew just where they could shove their complaints, should they voice any. Only one among them was rash enough to crack wise with the boss, and even he was too stunned by the news to speak. "Nobody? Ralphie?" Tony stood back on his heels, taking a long draught on his cigar. He could wait. Ralph Cifaretto, momentarily without his Cohiba, fumed just the same. The capos cast circumspect glances at each other, seeking the man foolhardy enough to tell the Underboss of North Jersey that he'd lost all touch with reality. Eventually, the burden of truth-telling fell where it must, on Tony's most trusted confidante, his consigliere. Silvio Dante stepped forward with a duck-footed swagger. Out of habit, he carried an unlit cigar, occasionally gesturing with it, more often than not chewing on the butt end. He rarely lit up anywhere but at a meal or over a bar, lest ash burn a hole through the imported silk of his hand-tailored suit, or shirt, or tie. The stoop shouldered Dante craned his head to look up at Tony, draping an arm collegially around his boss' shoulders. "T, I think what people are having trouble wit'," he began, "is the blurrin' of traditional roles." Tony smiled fondly at his friend's earnest attempt at diplomacy, as well as at his discomfort in doing so. He raised his eyebrows as if to say "izzat so?" Silvio backed off and rose to the occasion, grandly. "Our Thing, as we all know," the counselor's arm swept the arc of the room in illustration, "operates on a certain commercial business model dealin' wit the exchange of goods and services." "Aw, Jesus Christ! We ain't the Federal fuckin' Reserve." Paul "Paulie Walnuts" Gaultieri's typically profane outburst was just the first trickle of steam building up in the room, Tony knew. "Fuckin' supply and demand. We supply an' den we fuckin' demand they pay f'r it." Laughter from several of the capos signaled that all was not lost. Tony remained silent for the time being. Silvio resumed his discourse in fustian fashion. He met Tony's gaze squarely, eyebrows arched as far up as his heavy pompadour would allow. "Look, T. Paulie's point is on the money, even if he don't know what it is." Sil and his fellow capo exchanged glares. "It's pure economics. The private business man being allowed to operate in a free market is, is the backbone of our democracy." "Democracy?" Tony chided, trying not to laugh. "Sil, if you got a point in there somewhere, you'd better get to it. You're gonna tie your tongue up in knots!" His consigliere was undeterred, but proceeded to the heart of the matter, just as Tony expected he would. "The feds, Tony? Oh, Madonn'! Feds!" The frustration of even having to consider such lunacy beaded and pooled in his voice, fanning out in waves through his increasingly emphatic gestures. "This here? This is Our Thing. Ours. We don't split markets with the feds. They do their thing, we do ours. Separate but equal. 'Course, they draw lines then sit and wait for us to fuck up and cross over 'em. And we find ways to keep doin' our thing within those lines. It keeps business flowing, and pisses them off in the bargain. The separation between the two? It's good for the economy, T. Them on their side of the law, us on ours. That's the way it's always worked, the way it still works. It's tradition. Why mess that up by blurrin' the lines?" Someone, possibly Paulie, added "Yeah, don' shit where you eat." Tony ignored it. Silvio spoke quietly, "Due respect, Tony. I don't know which is worse, them claiming they see little green men or you suggesting we get in bed with feds! It's, it's..." he stammered. "Nuts?" Tony supplied. "Un-American!" Silvio finished categorically. His conclusion was greeted with a string of dumb nods from most of the other capos. "Sil!" Tony said in mock amazement. "I had no idea you were so fuckin' patriotic! Well, don't worry, George Washington," Tony patted him twice on the cheek. "I haven't gone oobatz, here." He walked among his capos. Most stood stock-still, looking straight ahead as he passed. One, older than the rest, white haired but tanned and fit, remained seated. By misfortune of birth, Hesch Rabkin could never become a made guy. Not officially. But, he'd served as advisor now to two generations of Sopranos, and was trusted implicitly. He smiled cagily at Tony and nodded once in encouragement. "Now, no one's suggesting that we start working hand in hand wit' dem, settin' up profit sharin' plans and the like." Tony's voice hardened for a moment, snapping their attention around. He returned each of their stares in turn before relaxing. "It's nothin' we haven't done before. We do business with feds all the time. A detective runs up a little gambling debt to us, we help him pay it down a piece of information at a time. It's just business!" Tony sensed that there were reservations still. "All right, all right. The set up for this is a little different, I a dmit. But it plays out the same," he said pointedly. "We promise them what they want then collect on the debt, with interest." He was close to winning them over, close. "It's just Shy," Tony clarified, using the slang for a loan-sharking business, "but with two former feds as the marks." The tension in the room eased a little. Hesch nodded in confirmation. Close enough. "All I want you to do is hear them out. Then, if you still think they can burn us, that two *former* F.B.I. agents, who believe the sky is fallin' and it's filled with little green men, can throw us for a loss? Then, fine. I'll call it off. Just hear 'em out first. Capisce?" Nods from all corners. Tony relit his cigar and popped it back into his mouth, smiling. He looked over at Silvio and said, "And you! You couldn't decide which was crazier, believin' in little green men or my business sense? C'mere. I got your oobatz, right here." Silvio Dante stared blankly at his boss for a moment, then broke into a lopsided grin. The tension in the room ebbed another notch, though not entirely. Tony nodded to the person closest to the door, "Paulie Walnuts" by chance, to fetch their guests. It was time. High time. ************** They'd barely begun to plan a resistance effort, let alone to lay the groundwork for one. Ten years until colonization. It was a hideously scant amount of time for such a daunting task. And now, it appeared that the schedule had been advanced. Scully glanced at him, eyes wide, turning abruptly to stare out past the winged pig soaring across the glass pane. If she couldn't quite hide her fear, then at least she could avoid visiting it on him. Mulder, she knew from long acquaintance, would gladly take it all upon himself, well beyond his capacity to bear. For his part, Mulder searched for a topic with which to distract her. Her emotions were kept well camouflaged, but he'd learned to spot them. Mulder had surmised many times that, somewhere along the Scully line, there must have been a gene mutation that left his partner predisposed to sang-froid. On rare occasion, when he could wrestle his own hyperactive thoughts into quiescence, he listened to her currents, committed to memory the delighted burbles, anguished eddies and furious torrents rushing just beneath her steadfast, placid surface. Now, from across the small shop, he sensed a skittering rapids, a flood over murderous outcroppings: fear. Staring at the cuts of butchered meat, he considered and discarded as tasteless a frightening array of carnivore jokes. Failing in his task, he turned to offer what solace he could, only to find her attention already diverted. Mulder followed her line of sight to the building across the street - a tailor shop on the ground floor, on the upper an I.B.E.W. union hall. "Mulder?" she said slowly. "Would FEMA use their own personnel to administer these vaccines, or would they use local nurse technicians?" If it had come from anyone else, Mulder would have assumed the question to be an idle one. But it had not come from just anyone else. "Dunno, Scully. There's no real reason they'd need to use secure personnel. I suppose they'd go with the local talent." She continued to stare out across the street, satisfaction suffusing her expression. "Why?" he prodded. "Why d'you ask?" Her sudden smile stunned him. "I think I've thought of a way our new friends could be of help with this FEMA problem." Before he could coax an explanation out of her, the door to the back room swung open and a man with absurd hair appeared in the doorway. Forgetting themselves and their situation, they gaped at the man, incredulous. Finally, deciding it must be an invitation of sorts, they moved toward the door. Scully walked through, lips pursed, ignoring the man's wild eyed stare. Mulder, however, indulged in some staring of his own, transfixed by the white swaths on either side of the man's head. With a soft hand on her partner's sleeve, Scully put a halt to his rudeness and drew him on. "But, Scully, it's Mercury," Mulder whispered with as much awe as a twelve year old boy. "The winged messenger!" He straightened to his full height and added mordantly, "Either that or some guy's had the tail fins of a '59 Cadillac pinned to his head. Only his hairdresser knows for..." Scully tugged once, quite sharply, on his sleeve and Mulder followed more or less docilely into the room beyond. "Okay, he's either Mercury or a Caddy. Not that it matters. One could stop on a dime, while the other *was* on a dime. But that's just my ten cents worth." The room they'd entered was simple yet breathtakingly brutal. An aluminum skinned work space, cramped in spite of being sparsely furnished - a work table taking up the center, with blood stained aprons on hooks standing in for curtains. Its most prominent feature was a large cleaver lodged into the edge of the worktop. The most prominent feature missing from the room was the man that had preceded them into it, Tony Soprano. Quickly, it dawned on both of them that the room was scarcely large enough for three people, let alone an entire 'family'. Each sagged in relief that this was only a pass-through to their scheduled meeting place. Behind them, the winged-haired man scanned the front of the store one more time, his eyes darting this way and that. After a moment, he too relaxed, if only slightly, removing his right hand from the inside pocket of his jacket. Turning, "Mercury" closed the first of the metal doors with a solid thud and gestured the outsiders forward. "You know what they say, Scully," Mulder said. "When one door closes..." "Shut up, Mulder," Scully replied wearily. - end, part 3 - TITLE: That Shotgun Shine (5/?) AUTHORS: Paige Caldwell, David Stoddard-Hunt ************* F.B.I. field office New Brunswick, New Jersey "Oh, Madonn'! Who let this cafone from Newark into our swank little country club?" Joseph Iannarulli rocked back as far as he dared in his office chair and let the force of the rebound spring his lanky frame upright. "Skip Lipari, as I live and breathe! Handler extraordinaire." Iannarulli grasped the visitor by his shoulders, regarding him warmly. Lipari colored, but didn't flinch. "Hey, Joe. Long time," he said, quietly. "Too long. Hey, Epstein!" Iannarulli bellowed to the young agent working at a computer nearby. "We have a bona fide star in our midst. Fetch 'im a cup of our best coffee, wouldjaplease?" She managed to give Iannarulli the finger without the slightest pause in her typing. Both men barked out laughs, and Iannarulli gestured Lipari down a brightly lit corridor to the section's kitchenette. "Looks like I've been, uh, appointed to do the coffee fetching. You can fill me in on all the big city gossip while I do." "Nice to meetcha," the female voice followed them both down the hall. "Damn, Lip. It sure is nice to see a familiar face out here. I mean, not that I've got a right to bitch. There are worse places to be transferred than the land of strip malls, Starbucks and soccer fields. Still. I miss the old..." "Joe. Joe, hold up!" Lipari stopped short of the kitchen area, looked around anxiously and dragged Iannarulli into an empty conference room. "The fuck, Lip?" Getting no immediate response, Iannarulli sat on the edge of the conference table, one wing tip propped on a chair. Lipari paced the length of the small room twice before speaking, rubbing a thick fingered hand back and forth across his mouth. "It's this Soprano thing." Iannarulli stayed silent, letting Lipari set his own pace. "You know my CW disappeared, right?" The other man nodded sympathetically. It took nothing away from Lipari's accomplishment. He'd hooked one of the New Jersey mob's most trusted soldiers and, through a shrewd mix of carrots and sticks, had single handedly drawn up a new family tree for the De Meo/Aprile mob in the wake of its patriarch's demise. It was Skip Lipari who broke the news that Tony Soprano would be elevated to acting boss, over the more senior Raymond Curto. For Skip's career, it was jimmies on top of the ice cream cone that his source, Salvatore "Big Pussy" Bompensiero, just happened to be one of the new boss' dearest friends. But, Lipari's cooperating witness had been compromised. How and when was anyone's guess. It was abundantly clear, however, that "Big Pussy" hadn't just disappeared. He'd been whacked. The only questions remaining to his whereabouts were latitude, longitude and depth in fathoms. "That ain't all. Dwight Harris' electronic surveillance operation up in North Caldwell just got blown to hell. Facility was hidden in a work lamp in the basement. Soprano's kid took it back to her dorm room at Columbia." "Shit." It was a gust of wind more than a spoken word. "I hadn't heard. Cubitoso must have stroked out." To Iannarulli's surprise, this actually seemed to have a calming effect on his friend. "Nah. Chief's reasonably cool about that. Harris must have something else cooking, but he won't say what. He's been walkin' around with a shit eatin' grin pasted across his pie hole, though, so... " Lipari stopped pacing and smiled. Iannarulli smiled along with him, shaking his head at the image. "But it might just be too little, too late." "What? Why? Lip, what the hell is going on?" Lipari was stock still for a full minute. "Somebody in D.C. has taken a personal interest in our operation. He's coming up to take charge. Authorization comes from Heaven above: the Deputy Director's office, for Chrissake!" The full implications of this news sunk in quickly. Iannarulli was gripped with sympathy for his friends in the old office, as well as the one standing here with him. "Lip, it's no reflection on you or the office," he protested, but Lipari waved him off. It appeared that heads were going to roll, no matter what. "Joe, Chief is calling in all the agents in the metro area who have had any involvement whatsoever in the Soprano thing. There's a meeting on Friday. In Newark. Chief wants you there early." "Me? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, why?" "That guy coming up from the Hoover? Asked for you specifically." Iannarulli blanched. "Joe? You still with me?" "Why? Why me? I was barely even part of the team." "I don't know, Joe. Had something to do with the surveillance you and Lubrano did for us a while back. Guy faxed a transcript of the whole thing up to Newark. You were circled in red." "Shit, Lip. I mean, shit! I got kids to feed." Iannarulli turned toward the window, staring disconsolately into the autumn of his career. "Aw, Christ." ***************** Satriale's Pork Store Kearney, New Jersey "Hey, Paulie!" Patsy Parisi laughed. "I think you got the wrong feds. Go back and get those other ones. Y'know, the ones that seen e.t." Paulie slammed the door behind him, drawing the attention the room momentarily off the two interlopers. "YO!" Paulie's eyes widened comically, staring menacingly at the idiot bold enough to blow his cover. Mulder had a vision of cartoon daggers flying toward the jokester followed by a grand piano to Parisi's head, and couldn't suppress a laugh. "It's true. These can't be them. First of all, Paulie, he don't look like no jamoke. And she" Ralph Cifaretto strolled toward Scully, his appraisal naked and unafraid, "sure as shit don't look like his first fuckin' cousin. Am I right?" Ralph turned to his cohorts, snickering. Their boss smiled at this little set piece, chomping on his cigar. "NO NAMES!" Paulie yelled. He steamed past Scully and shoved the retreating Ralph in the shoulder blade. "Listen t'me, you mouthy little prick. Shut your puss or I'll shut it for youse, capisce?" Ralph, barely restrained by his fellow capos, growled obscenities through clenched teeth, his eyes flashing. In the best of times, Paulie and Ralph was an explosive mix. Under pressure? Jesus Christ only knew what would happen. And while this volatile relationship could occasionally be entertaining, Tony knew that now was not the time to indulge in such base amusements. He looked to Silvio, who nodded and intervened. "All right, all right!" Silvio said, stepping in between the two. "While normally I would agree wit' you on the confidentiality issue, Paulie, under the circumstances, what with Agent Mulder here having access to the government files he does, it's fair to say that he and his partner know all of our names already," he finished reasonably. He glanced at Mulder who smiled mildly and nodded. "So, knock it off!" Sil exploded, just inches from Paulie's chin. The consigliere turned to Scully and said, "Pardon for raisin' my voice. I wish I hadn't had to do it in the presence of a lady." He reached out and took her hand. "Silvio Dante," he said, inclining his head in the slightest of bows. Taken aback by such a courtly gesture from such an unexpected source, Scully responded automatically. "Dana Scully." She paused to flip through a mental rolodex. "Silvio?" Scully colored faintly, and smiled. The consigliere beamed with pride, utterly charmed by this woman. "At your service." "It's, well, it's just that Mr. Soprano suggested that you and I might have a lot to talk about." "Oh?" Sil looked back at his boss, intrigued. Tony laughed softly, pushing the explanation off into the future with a push of his hand. "Later." Mulder stepped forward then, more anxious than ever to get things moving. "Since it looks like introductions aren't really necessary, I'll get right to it. I assume that Mr. Soprano has told you what we're proposing. Basically, it's this: we give you information, you give us some logistical support." He paused, assessing the expressions of the made men in the room. Some regarded him solemnly; most favored him with half smiles that said "Oh-kay. *Here* we go." "Obviously, you've also been told about our situation and the reasons we're seeking this support. It's just as apparent that you don't believe our story. And why should you? Almost no one else ever has." "Paulie does!" one of the capos called out. Paulie whipped around too late to catch the guy in the act. Silvio took up the refrain. "Yeah. He thought he saw a U.F.O. over East Rutherford. Sonofabitch! It was the fuckin' Goodyear blimp over a football game," he said, patting Paulie on the shoulder. "Fuckin' Paulie," Silvio said with what amounted to real warmth. "As I started to say," Mulder cut in, "it's immaterial whether you believe in our cause or not. I will tell you that you should care, that there are elements in the government playing fast and loose with the lives of every man, woman and child in this country. Scully and I have witnessed this first hand." "We believe," Mulder paused for just a moment to recoup breath and resolve. "We know," he resumed with such conviction that Scully actually straightened just a bit, "that in just a little over ten years, as a result of the betrayal by these elements, all of our lives - ours, yours and everyone you care for - will be forfeit. Whether you believe us or not." His tone of voice had risen precariously. It probably wasn't the best tack, Mulder realized, to shout at these men. "But for now, it really doesn't matter what you think of us or our beliefs. In fact, it's probably better that you know as little as possible of the specifics about what's ahead. For your own protection." The made men gaped at the assertion that they would need protection from anyone or anything, but Mulder held fast and sure. All trace of amusement vanished from their faces. He'd certainly caught their attention. This was no game. "So. On a need-to-know basis then, it's a straight business deal - information for you, logistics for us." As Mulder had foreseen, made men understood business after a fashion, and were deadly serious about its conduct. There were rules. He glanced to his left. Scully looked up and nodded solidly. Good. It was business for the two of them as well, equally serious and, whether or not these men learned it in time, just as deadly. "Oh, and there's one more thing. Our first proposal is a one-off operation, narrow in both scope and duration. This will limit our liability and exposure. For all of us," Mulder appended, when some of the capos seemed to take offense. "Call it a trial run." Only much later would Mulder realize and rue the inflammatory effect of dictating terms to men such as these. Immediately following his presentation, there was silence. No one moved. Gradually, Mulder became aware that he was literally holding his breath. He dared not even chance a look to see how Scully was faring. Finally, the silence was broken by the only person qualified to do so. "I'll say dis, Agent," Tony shook his head, almost smiling. "Either you're crazy, or you got some major league stugots." "Co-yunes," Tony clarified when Mulder looked befuddled. "Balls." *************** Nuovo Vesuvio Ristorante Summit Avenue Bloomfield, New Jersey "Arthur! I still own half of this restaurant, and you will consult with me on all major decisions concerning its operation. Do you understand me, Arthur?" Artie Bucco understood that all too well. What he couldn't understand was the one thing that was currently causing him to bury his head in his hands, seeking any readily available shelter. Madonn'! How had he managed to tune out the bone shattering shrillness of her voice over the long course of their marriage? "I hear you, Charmaine! There's no need to shout," Artie yelled back. He looked up at his new hostess, the lovely Adriana La Cerva, with as pained an expression as he could manage. The wait staff and bartenders made themselves as busy as possible, preparing for the evening's trade. Artie turned toward the kitchen determined to confront whatever little item was stuck in Charmaine's craw. She saved him the trouble, barging through the kitchen doors and steaming toward the hostess' stand. Artie didn't even try to be diplomatic. "What now?" "You know what. It's the same what as it's always been since we've run the restaurant." His shoulders sagged. "No! I won't do it." "We've rebuilt the restaurant, Arthur, but we haven't rebuilt everything. Not our customer base. It's hard enough..." "I don't want to hear it, Charmaine!" They'd had this discussion so many times that the emotional volume raised instantly to its traditional apex. Artie turned his back on her, but not the argument."Tony is my friend. He's also a very good customer; I shouldn't have to remind you." Charmaine moved so that, when he turned around, they would be nose to nose. "And I shouldn't have to remind you that he, or someone like him, burned down our restaurant, Arthur. And you want to invite him into the new one, night after night? It's hard enough to regain clientele after what happened to us. By associating with the likes of him, you're trying to make it impossible!" "Tony is a businessman, Charmaine, and a little bit of a celebrity in this neighborhood, if you hadn't noticed. Having him here only draws people in." "I know who he is, Artie, remember? He killed our marriage. Don't you see that? If you're not careful, he'll be the death of you, too." She was pleading with him now but, on this issue, Artie wouldn't budge. He took two deep breaths before speaking. "He's going to be bringing a party of eight by this evening. I expect you to treat him with all the respect you give all of our customers, understand?" Charmaine shot him a look of unadulterated anger, threw a dishrag at his feet and stormed back into the kitchen. - end 5/?- TITLE: That Shotgun Shine (6/?) AUTHORS: Paige Caldwell, David Stoddard-Hunt ************* Satriale's Pork Store Kearney, New Jersey "What the fuck! You think we're some kind of guinea temp agency?" "No! That's not what I said at all." Scully protested. It seemed as if they were purposely trying to mistake her meaning. "If you'd just listen instead of interrupting me every ten seconds, you'd know that to be the case!" "I don't know about them guys, but I hear just fine. You said you needed us to help you wit' nurses," Paulie said. "Nurse technicians, yes. But that's the least of it, Mr. Gualtieri." "You coulda just gone downa Green Grove. It's a nursin' home. Best in the state. They got all the freakin' nurses you could ever want. But, no! You risk your necks to come to us with this bullshit? You." Paulie addressed both former agents, "You *are* loony tunes." "We're not in need of nursing care, and we don't need you hiring out nurses to us!" Scully's temper had quickly become frayed. She had to find a different way to reach them before things got too out of hand. It wasn't that they were stupid. No, far from that. They were testing her, making her prove her worth. It was, she concluded, a matter of pride. Theirs. She had to prove to these mobsters that her plan was worth their very valuable time. Scully calmed her breathing and, after a moment, smiled politely. "We didn't come to you to temp out nurses, Mr. Gualtieri. We've approached the Soprano family because we believe that you wield influence in certain areas, and can control the circumstances of any given situation through that influence." Paulie Gualtieri straightened. He wasn't quite sure what the red headed broad meant by all that, but it sure sounded respectful and important. This, this was better. "I'll put it another way. We need to set up a sting operation on the federal government. Your family is one of a very few that has the power and reach to make that sting happen." She had the attention of everyone in the room now. "So. Are you ready to hear me out, without interrupting my every other word?" All heads in the room turned toward the startlingly coiffed capo. "Why are all youse looking at me? I got no problem wit' hearing her out." Paulie turned to Scully and flicked a hand in invitation. "G'head, doll." "All right. From the top, then," Scully said, brandishing the copy of the Star-Ledger. "In two weeks, FEMA, the Federal Emergency Management Agency, will be administering free vaccine screenings in northern New Jersey for the smallpox virus. We believe that this is a front for another, secret government program to catalog and prepare U.S. citizens for a viral plague for which there is currently no cure." The capos looked at each other in confusion. Patsy Parisi raised his hand like a schoolboy asking a question of teacher. At a nudge from one of the others, he simply spoke his mind. "I don't get it. You're sayin' they're sayin' they're gonna be vaccinating people for smallpox but, instead, they're vaccinating against the plague?" Scully looked at Mulder, certain that he was desperate to jump in. To her surprise, he simply nodded his head, indicating that what she told them was up to her. "No, sir. I said that they want to prepare citizens for this plague. The government doesn't want to inoculate them against it. The government," she stopped, and swallowed. It was still so monstrous a notion as to be inconceivable, even after all this time and everything they'd seen. "The government wants to make them susceptible to it." *************** F.B.I. Field Office One Gateway Center Newark, New Jersey Bureau Chief Louis Cubitoso could not decide whether to sit or stand. Word had just come through on official channels; the party from Washington had cleared the airport terminal and would be arriving in a matter of minutes. Unofficially, one of Cubitoso's own, a 'pavement artist' in agent patois, had trailed the head office party from the minute they'd deplaned until they entered the waiting limousine. He had reported to the Chief in minute detail. "Harris, Gomez, Lipari! In my office. Now!" Sit, stand, sit, stand. It was hard to know which was appropriate, harder to still to choose one and stick with it. The agents sauntered over from wherever they'd been, Harris and Gomez shooting the breeze, and Lipari distracted by a report. "Now, gentlemen! I said get the lead out!" Cubitoso's agitation startled them into responding. Once they were all in the Chief's office, spacious enough for one but cramped with four, Cubitoso spoke in more measured tones. "Get the door, Skip." "Chief, what the hell is going on?" Dwight Harris, the senior of the three, took it upon himself to ask. "They're coming." "Who? The yutzes from D.C.?" "Those yutzes, Dwight," the Chief ground his words into gravel, "include two Special Agents and the Deputy Director of the Bureau." "The Deputy Director? The..." "Alvin Fucking Kersh himself, Agent Gomez. That's right. And they'll be here in about fifteen minutes, which is to say approximately three hours before we expected them." The agents all stood gape-mouthed at this news. Each of the three was beginning to formulate the question that Cubitoso answered without having to be asked. "How do I know this? Because I had a pavement artist staking out the arrivals terminal over at the airport, with instructions to report every detail once they were on the ground and on their way. That's how. And he reports that the Deputy Director himself is on his way to visit the garden spot of the Garden State." Cubitoso began to run through the report from the man at the airport once more, in his mind. "Of course, he also said that the D.D. was being escorted by twins. So, I don't know how reliable the rest of his information is, now do I?" Dwight Harris rallied the soonest of the three to his boss' cause. "Lou, what do you want us to do?" "Right. Dwight, pull all sit-rep summaries on the Soprano thing. Gomez, clear everyone's schedule for this afternoon, just in case the D.D. wants to talk to them. And, Skip?" Lipari's report was, by now, long forgotten. "Yeah?" "Where's Iannarulli?" "New Brunswick, sir. You said he didn't have to report here until first thing tomorrow morning." "Plans change, Agent Lipari. Get him the hell out of that hole and over here, pronto." Lipari ran out of the office double-time, following on the heels of his colleagues. "Twin agents?" Cubitoso mused. "That just doesn't make sense." He weighed the option of calling the artist back to confirm, reaching for the phone just as the intercom buzzed. "First floor Duty Officer, Sir. They're on their way up." Involuntarily, Louis Cubitoso toppled back heavily into his chair. "Sit it is, then." *************** Satriale's Pork Store Kearney, New Jersey "The government wants to give people the plague? Our government?" "Factions within it," Mulder interceded. "It only takes a relatively small number of people within the government to pull this off." He noted that, of all the men in the room, three - Tony, Hesch and Silvio - stayed quiet. "Then just find those people and take care of 'em." Ralph Cifaretto's cunning obviously outstripped his common sense. "Their reach is broad, but the control is diffuse. Even if we could find one or even a couple of these people, the project would continue no matter what. And, no, we can't just go wiping out the entire government just because we'd like to," Mulder finished, dryly. "Hey! I like this guy!" Ralph shouted. "This is the reason that we come to you. We can't be sure that any element of the government we might choose to approach isn't corrupted." "So, what? You seek out Our Thing?" Silvio said with a chuckle. "You have an overdeveloped sense of irony, agents." "Maybe so," Scully acknowledged. "Look at it this way. Your "Thing" operates on a code that is inviolable, correct? We're counting on that. It's as close to incorruptible as we're likely to find." The capos' skepticism seemed to have faded. Government malfeasance was something they could get their heads around. But government treachery? In their way, these men considered themselves patriots. This report was enough to make hot blood boil. Scully could see the change in demeanor overtake them. Hesch spoke first. "So, Miss Scully. Why don't you tell us your plan, and we'll see whether we can help." "We need to control the field. FEMA will deliver and, likely, oversee the vaccination program. They need to be convinced that the regimen has been successfully implemented when, in fact, it hasn't. The only way to accomplish this is to make sure that FEMA's so-called vaccine never gets delivered. And this is where your assistance comes in. You control the hospital workers locals, correct?" Patsy Parisi nodded, even though the locals were not his cash cow. "I see where you're going with this. We have the dummy vaccine on the loading dock. When the plague shit gets there, our people off-load it, but switch it for the dummy stuff. That gets administered, nobody's the wiser." Scully nodded, scanning the faces of the other capos to make sure that they were following their colleague's train of thought. They all seemed to be on board, now. "Yes, that's essentially it. Except for one detail. Your people won't be administering a dummy vaccine. They will in fact be administering doses of real smallpox sera that we'll synthesize." She appeared ready to skim past this petty detail when she was interrupted. "Uh, Scully?" Mulder whispered. She shrugged him off and continued. Again he interrupted, his voice brazenly above a whisper this time. "Scully, isn't that a little bit too involved? We'd have less than two weeks to acquire dormant bacilli, process and cook up humungous quantities of our own vaccine, and get it all to the designated hospitals without anyone taking notice!" Scully turned on him, annoyed by his interruption. "Your point?" "Just this. Wouldn't it be cheaper, quicker, easier, stealthier simply to administer a placebo?" Scully's expression hardened subtly such that almost no man in the room noticed. Except one. "Marital squabbles?" Tony asked, eyes narrowing. Scully flushed, filtering out her embarrassment in a sigh. "Mulder is suggesting that we substitute the equivalent of a sugar pill for the vaccines. It would be simpler logistically, true. Cheaper, most definitely. But," Scully paused to gather her strength, "the people who will be receiving these vaccinations are counting on their protection." "Since Nine-Eleven, there's a palpable fear of the use of viral terror-weapons. Anthrax, smallpox; people are honestly afraid of this threat. Those who'll come to get these free vaccines are unable to afford to get them through other sources. Likely, they have no healthcare coverage at all. To hand out a placebo to these people?" Scully's voice gained urgency and pitch. Mulder dipped his chin to his chest, frowning. "Would be to perpetrate a fraud almost as deadly and certainly as deceitful as the one we're trying to prevent! Preying on the poor and weak, people from your old neighborhoods," she pointed at the capos, then turned to Mulder. "It's unethical and I want no part of it." She wound to a stop, looking straight out. Hesch caught her eye, and nodded in support. "Surreal," she thought. "But then, I should be used to that." "Tough to stop once she gets going, huh?" Tony chuckled in Mulder's direction. "Especially when she's got a point," Mulder replied. He turned to look directly at his partner. "Look, Scully. You're right. It isn't fair to these people, not in the slightest. But, under the circumstances, time is tight and synthesizing large amounts of smallpox vaccine is way beyond our capacity. Maybe keeping them off FEMA's rolls is the best that we can hope to accomplish. Scully seemed to deflate with Mulder's words. Support came from an unexpected direction. "Look, you tell us where to look for the stuff to make the genuine shit and, if it can be done, we'll make it happen. Otherwise," Tony said reasonably, "you'd better get started on makin' up the dummy stuff." Scully looked up at him, curiosity and gratitude mingling in her eyes. "What else?" Tony prompted. "What else you gonna need?" "The fake serum, from FEMA," Scully stammered. "I'm going to want all of it retained and delivered to a lab space where I can analyze it. Undisturbed." "But, this plague," the concern was evident in Tony's voice. "You say there's no cure." "Yet." Scully interrupted decisively. "It's been done before. Mulder and I..." She paused to consider her words. "We've seen that it's possible. That's why I need the false vaccine and the lab space. I'm going to try to recreate the antidote." "You can do dat?" Tony seemed dubious. Mulder looked at his shoes and snorted a quiet laugh. "If anyone can synthesize an antidote, Mr. Soprano," he began, but Scully cut him off. "Yes," she said simply. "I can." ***************** FBI Field Office One Gateway Center Newark, New Jersey "Of course Route Nine was jammed. Chrissake, Joe! It's Friday afternoon." "No shit, Lip." Iannarulli was out of breath, both from exertion and nerves. His whisper, consequently, was half-voiced and wheezing. "Why the fuck d'you think I didn't just get onto the Turnpike at exit 9?" "I'm just sayin', back roads at this time of day?" As they neared Cubitoso's office, each realized that the hallway was dead quiet. From within the Chief's office? Nothing. Through the glass panel to the left of the Chief's door, they saw the Deputy Director sitting grimly in Cubitoso's chair, hands folded on the desk in front of him. Behind him, an impossibly broad shouldered agent stood at parade rest. "Jesus Christ, Lip. Jesus Christ!" Lipari patted his friend on the shoulder, giving him a smile with all the confidence he could muster. It wasn't much. The truth was that no one, not even the Chief, could say what was going to happen, for good or ill. "You're late!" The Deputy Director's voice boomed out as Iannarulli appeared in the doorway. Kersh cut short the agent's stammered apologies. "Shut the door behind you, Agent." Iannarulli entered cautiously, too awed and a bit too frightened to do otherwise. He scanned the office. The only familiar face, Chief Cubitoso, stood against a side wall trying to blend in with the woodwork. Seated at the desk was a man whose glower alone took up the whole goddamn room, a man of position. The Deputy Director, had to be, of the entire fucking F.B.I. Behind him stood - Iannarulli's glance took a slow, cinematic sweep from thigh to head - tall, powerfully built, utterly cold. The agent reminded Iannarulli of nothing quite so much as one of the mob enforcers the Bureau regularly kept tabs on. Behind the man's eyes was something animalistic, not wild but purposeful, and fiercely predatory. Skip Lipari had said there should be another, Iannarulli thought nervously. "Twins" was the word he'd used, oddly. Only Cubitoso was to his left, the Deputy Director and his henchman ahead, so where? He turned slowly to the right until he was looking back over his shoulder. Different face, smaller build, but the exact same undercurrent. Twin predators. In spite of himself, Iannarulli shivered. Cubitoso broke the silence before fading completely, gratefully away. "I'm glad you could join us, Agent." Iannarulli noted the anxiety in his chief's tone. It only served to make his own nerves worse. "This is Deputy Director Kersh." Iannarulli nodded, unaware that his mouth hung part way open. Kersh tossed a report across the desk. "You recognize this?" Transcript. Yes. Marked up with yellow highlighter and red ink circles. Red circles, his name. Transcript, surveillance, his name, Lubrano's. Why wasn't Lubrano circled in red? Bastard. He'd been on that job, too. Why me? Circled in red. Why my name? "Agent Iannarulli?" Why? "Agent Iannarulli, I asked you a question. Do I need to repeat myself?" Iannarulli shook his head vigorously, then said "No, sir." He picked up the report just to make sure it was what it seemed. "It's a transcript of surveillance that Agent Lubrano, Agent Albert Lubrano," he said with emphasis, "and I did on Papa Bing a couple of weeks back." For a moment or two, he watched Kersh's lips curl into a sneer. "Uh, 'Papa Bing,' 'Der Bingle,' they're codenames we use in the field, to designate Anthony Soprano, uh, sir." "I'm aware of the subject, Agent Iannarulli." The Deputy Director managed to make his last name sound dirty. "I want to direct your attention to the highlighted passages. Do you recall that portion of the surveillance?" "Oh! Hell, yes." Relieved, Iannarulli laughed out loud. "Der Bing, er, Soprano has a goofball sister, Janice. Drives him nuts. She's always into something weird. Last I heard, she was peddling Christian-themed rock music." "And was that the only mention Mr. Soprano made, to your knowledge, Agent, about aliens?" Iannarulli realized that he wasn't out of the woods quite yet. "Aliens? Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. No further mentions of aliens." He was baffled now, and had little understanding of just how dangerous a position that was. "Sir, as you can see, Agent Lubrano was on surveillance detail with me. Perhaps he heard something that..." "He was the recording agent in this surveillance, isn't that what you reported?" Kersh spoke directly to Chief Cubitoso, indicating Iannarulli with a brusque nod. "And you say he's a capable sound technician?" Cubitoso nodded, unable to meet Iannarulli's eyes. Kersh rose and came around the desk to stand nose to nose with the agent. "We didn't come up here to hear from Agent Lubrano. We didn't come up here to hear excuses. We came up here to hear from you, Agent Iannarulli. Clear, so far?" Iannarulli kept enough of his wits about him to know not to respond. "We have uncovered other evidence which, in concert with this," Kersh snatched the transcript from the agent's weakened grip, "leads us to believe that two fugitives will either contact or be contacted by Anthony Soprano. You, Agent Iannarulli, will assist Agent Masterson here," he jerked a thumb back over his shoulder at the ramrod stiff agent, "in every way possible to apprehend these fugitives when contact is made." "Should we arrest Soprano simultaneously, Sir, for aiding and abetting?" "You will not exceed this brief, Agent Iannarulli. You are to assist Agent Masterson in apprehending the fugitives. Nothing else." A faint hope - that this might actually be a career-advancing assignment rather than the guillotining he'd feared - flared in his chest, giving Iannarulli the strength to ask one further question and no more. "What other evidence, sir?" "Agent?" Kersh seemed astonished that Iannarulli had the effrontery to speak. "What evidence was it that connected to that "aliens" comment Der Bingle made?" "You don't need to know that, Agent Iannarulli. If, I say again, if Agent Masterson determines that it's beneficial for you to know, then you will know. Not before." Kersh stood, waiting. But, Iannarulli had learned one lesson at least, and remained quiet. "No more questions?" Iannarulli snapped to a semblance of military attention in view of dismissal. "Then," Kersh concluded, looking neither at Cubitoso nor Iannarulli, but at the agent by the door, "we're finished here." He strode out into the hallway, the unnamed agent falling in behind. The Deputy Director's eyes, Iannarulli noticed, had flared with hatred whenever he looked at either Masterson or his cohort. Other than that, there seemed to be no life left in them. None. None at all. Without thinking, Iannarulli stepped into the corridor to watch the Deputy Director as he walked toward the elevator, the limo, his flight and, eventually, the District and home. Iannarulli wondered about the agent guarding the Deputy Director. Curious. Personal security for the Bureau hierarchy, he supposed. Had things post Nine-Eleven gotten that dicey? There was just something odd about it. He stared at the retreating backs of Kersh and his escort. That was it! The agent didn't seem to be for Kersh's protection. He looked like the man's jailer. A thought struck Iannarulli, just ahead of his instinct for self-preservation. He turned to look at the lone visitor remaining in the Chief's office. He stood as unmoving and unmovable as if he had a metal pole for a spine. Iannarulli stared, trying to gauge the measure of his new partner. He received only the hardest, coldest of stares in return. - end (6/?) - TITLE: That Shotgun Shine (7/?) AUTHORS: Paige Caldwell, David Stoddard-Hunt **************** Satriale's Pork Store Kearney, New Jersey "Well, I agree with Hesch. Their information better be some Grade A shit to be worth what they're askin'," Ally-Boy Barese said. "Gold. Twenty-four friggin' karat." "And there'd better be lots of it, follow me?" Carlo Gervasi added. As so often happens with business deals of the sort, negotiations had run smoothly until the question of fair value had arisen. "Now wait a minute," Hesch objected mildly. "That wasn't the point I was trying to get across. What I said," he turned in his seat to face Tony directly, "was that it will be difficult to assign a precise value to the information they propose to hand over. Whereas, we can determine the cost of labor and materials to the penny. We can even set the value for that penny." Hesch's joke was shared with Tony but almost no other. "So, Heschie, are you sayin' that therefore this cannot be done?" Silvio asked, his frown deepening and overcast with furrowed brow. Hesch shook his head. "Of course it can be done." The consigliere's expression relaxed, although the dark clouds in his brow never quite dissipated, even when he smiled. "But!" Hesch thrust an index finger into the air. Silvio's frown returned immediately. "It's not at all a simple matter. The actual value of the goods and services we're being asked to render will fluctuate very little over the near to mid term, and even beyond. On the other hand, with the type of information Mr. Mulder and Miss Scully are peddling, well, its value is evanescent. Depending on the circumstances, it could fluctuate wildly from day to day, even from moment to moment." Hesch was in his own world, his own head here. Tony had long ago learned to give him wide latitude in such matters, trusting that it would be in the family's best interests in the end. Still, it was a frustrating exercise to wait for him to tease these things out. "Hesch! In English, please?" Tony's laugh was genuine, but his intent was dead serious, and Hesch knew it. "Tony. The value of this information, it's, it's like a live performance by a top name act. They may be at the top of the charts now, but you don't know what will happen next year, or even next week. Fame is fleeting, and so is their draw. The same concert by the same group even two weeks apart? Could be as different as night and day, financially." Mulder had been following this discussion closely all along. Yet, when Hesch drew the musical analogy, Scully saw Mulder's eyes alight and his stance incline toward the older man. These were signs she recognized; warning bells. This was the type of conversation in which Mulder would happily get lost, delving through minutiae and oblivious to whatever was going on outside his own head. "I think I see your point. If you knew, for example, that the Sam Cooke concert for which you held tickets that evening was actually going to be the last one he gave before his death, the value of the tickets would be astronomical, and the tickets for the concert the following weekend would be worthless. What would you do if you knew this was the last concert and didn't have tickets? Would you leverage the house, the car and the kids to record the event? There's an element of speculation and of risk to it. It's like the futures market." "Precisely!" Hesch exclaimed, his normally placid features alive with delight. "Sam Cooke, hmm? Now there was a performer." It was too close a call to determine who stepped in first to stop this slide into arcana, Scully or Tony. "Mulder! Forest for the trees," she cautioned, using a shorthand all too familiar to him. "So, Hesch. After all dat, are we any closer setting a price on their information, or what?" Tony moved closer to his adviser, who rose to speak quietly. "It could be entirely useless to us and, therefore, of no value at all. However, if even a piece of it allows us to quell an investigation or to direct our activities in a less scrutinized direction, then it could be worth every penny. But, that analysis doesn't mean shit. What it all comes down to, Tony, is this. What does your gut tell you? Do you feel it's worth it?" Tony raised his eyebrows briefly but kept his expression neutral. He looked around the room, seeking a private second or two. The wall calendar hadn't been changed since the last time Pussy had played Santa Claus for the neighborhood kids, right here in this room. He turned back to Hesch and confided, "I get enough of this touchy-feely bullshit from other parties, you know what I'm sayin'?" Like very few others, Hesch did. "And all I get in my gut is agita. I want to know from you. What do you think?" "Okay." Hesch paused, although it was out of habit more than a need to gather his thoughts. "To me, it's no-lose. It could be the mother lode, Tony. And, even if it turns out the Bureau doesn't know shit about us, isn't that something? Something worthwhile? Either way, what have you lost? You've moved some union guys around. Big deal." "I'll tell you what the big deal is," Paulie interposed himself between Hesch and Tony, but carefully off to one side. "We don't need to be pissin' wit' two ex-feds; I don't care what dey're sellin'. Especially now, what with "Junior" under indictment? T, we don't need no more heat on us." Silvio came over to ease Paulie discreetly to a more sensible distance, away from Tony's personal space. Paulie, unwilling to be shunted and desperate to be heard, pleaded with his boss one last time. "T, we got Chrissy to do all that computer horseshit. We don't need to take strunz' off a mezzofinook." Mulder had the feeling he'd been insulted, though he didn't know exactly why. He rose to his own defense. "Actually, I don't care how good this "Chrissy" is. He can't beat our hacker's mojo." He cast a glance aside at Scully. " It's positively otherworldly." "Oh, I don't know about dat." In the din, no one but Tony had seen another person enter the room. "Your guy may be good," Tony welcomed a slender, dark haired young man into the circle, "but our guy's got timing." "Paulie," Christopher Moltisanti acknowledged the captain of his crew. Then he turned to address Scully, avoiding Mulder. "This disk T gave me. It came from you?" Scully's chin rose as she answered. "From us, yes." There were smiles from most of the assemblage at Scully's unflinching courage, though not in admiration. It was a nice trick, this one, like a pet trained to respond. The feeling wasn't personal; it was tradition. Women had no place in the business dealings of the family. The fact that a woman was now the de facto head of the family in old Napoli was left conveniently awash on that far shore. Christopher nodded, satisfied, and turned to face his uncle. "They're right, T. This shit is 99.9% pure. I've hacked into field offices before, gotten through a couple of firewalls and rummaged around, but they always catch on after awhile. And what I get? Ain't nothing like this. This is the real deal." The terminology rang in Mulder's ears. Drugs. Christopher Moltisanti not only dealt in them; he used them. The rest of the assembled capos had become too inured to his speech to recognize this. It was useful; something to be filed away. Useful for what he didn't know. But they didn't have much and this was something, at least. Hesch glanced at the silver wafer in Chris' hand and looked up, his own hand outstretched. Obediently, the former cugine surrendered the precious disk. Hesch held it up for Silvio's inspection. One silent vote later, he and Silvio nodded as one to Tony. Unfortunately for Mulder and Scully, the vote was hijacked by a filibuster. "Now, wait just a fucking second." Ralph Cifaretto. By now, even the two former agents had begun to tune out Ralph's histrionics. "They gave you some shit on a disk and then, what? We wait until they decide to dole out more crumbs like some starving welfare poverett? What's next, Tone? Fucking government cheese? "I think that "free cheese" deal is no longer active," Mulder interrupted, unadvisedly. "I could give a shit, gumshoe!" Ralph snapped. "Gumshoe?" Mulder groused, receiving an elbow from Scully for his trouble. "I'll tell you what we do," Ralph continued, unstoppable. "We take the information they've given us and boot their sorry, craaaaaazy asses back down the turnpike." He paced the floor like a profane evangelist. "Hell with 'em. We take what's on the disk, then what's in their heads, and *then* we boot 'em. Down the turnpike, off a bridge, into outer space," he stared at Mulder, grinning. "What's the difference?" He scanned his fellows, expecting to receive at least nodding support. Instead, he slammed headlong into glacial expressions carved in granite. This non-reaction seemed only to fuel his fervor. "Oh, come on! They have information about *us*. This information, it was ours to begin with, and it was taken, stolen, from us. What's ours is ours, and we take it back. Am I right?" Ralph laughed at how painfully obvious this should be. "No one should have a problem with that, Tone. Except maybe for them." He didn't point. He didn't need to point. Mulder and Scully suddenly felt very exposed. "This is who we are; it's what we do. F'r fuck's sake! We're the biggest goddamned kid on the block. We take what's ours." At the last, his impassioned sermon trailed off. "We take what we want." To Mulder, this bizarre inspirational address was something out of a mafia-meets-Knute Rockne film. He half expected Ralph to close with "Let's win one for the Clipper." Ralph, having received no acknowledgement in the slightest let alone support, from his fellow capos, looked crestfallen but only momentarily. He rallied in such a way that, for the first time, Mulder began to have second thoughts about his plan. "Yeah, so we take the information and get ridda them. Unless, of course, there's something they've got that they'd consider trading for their lives," Ralph said, the swagger returning to his voice. "Y'know? I think Agent Scully here is understandin' me perfectly. Ain't that right, Red?" Ralphie stepped toward Scully, leering. She stiffened but didn't back down. Instead, she turned to address Tony, ignoring Ralph as if he was a common soldier. "Mr. Soprano," Scully began, then stopped. 'Mister' seemed an inappropriate honorific. She knew that there must be another, more appropriate title but couldn't lay her fingers on it. It was a blessing, she'd tell Mulder hours later. Saying "Don Soprano" would have caused her to burst out in giggles. "Sir, I can barely count all the risks we've taken in order simply to present this arrangement to you, not the least of which is the threat you and your associates could easily pose to our well being, as you kindly pointed out to my partner when we first met. And although, up to now, you've had no proof of this fact other than our word, we are being hunted, hunted by elements of the government anxious to silence us for what we know. I believe that you, sir," Scully indicated Christopher with a nod of the head, "can now confirm that statement." Moltisanti nodded. Tony could see that, whatever information he'd seen, it had impressed, even scared him. This, more than anything, was as good a character reference as these two were likely to receive. "Quite frankly, Mr. Soprano, we risk our lives every time we enter a town of any size. Coming here is a risk that we would either have to be crazy to take, or foolhardy, or desperate and absolutely certain of our cause. And although I may have my moments of doubt, I can assure you that we are not crazy. A little foolhardy, maybe, but only because of the dire need we face." Now, this, Mulder thought, was an inspirational speech. The Gipper would be proud. "We've devoted our lives, to the exclusion of all else, even family," the stress in her voice was evident to everyone present, "to fight for the lives of every person on this planet, law abiding or not. Whether you know it, you're in this fight, too. If you don't believe us, won't pick up our fight, fine. You're not alone. But, you're men of honor. You owe us the benefit of the doubt. We've earned that, at the least, in coming to you." Scully knew she had the boss' full attention and scrutiny. In the quiet after she finished speaking, she gathered her resolve and stared right back. Tony's smile was more than amusement. He was genuinely impressed with this one. He saw her arched brow and raised her a grin. "Owe you?" Ralph's honor had clearly been slighted. "We don't owe nothing! You owe us! Fucking Feds. Where's the respect? Huh?" he shouted at his fellow capos. "Where is the respect? We don't need any of this. We're doing pretty damn good on our own." Ralph turned to give a once over to the former agents. "Aliens? Christ, that's such bullshit! Tony, mi paisan', these two are messin wit' your melon. Use your brain! Unless, of course, that ain't the head you're thinkin' wit." Scully colored and fought to maintain her composure. "This is not helpful, Mr. Cifaretto," she said flatly. "This isn't helpful, Mr. Cifaretto. This isn't helpful, Mr. Cifaretto." Ralph paced in a tight circle before he whirled toward Scully, shouting "who gives a fuck what you think, pucchach?" He was in front of her in a stride and a half, his arm winding up ahead of his arrival. Cifaretto's open-handed slap caught Scully across the cheek with such force that she was spun around and knocked to her knees. Anyone who was seated rose; all were instantly on alert, uncertain how this would play out. Mulder had been caught utterly off-guard by the sneering little captain's outburst. By the time he moved to her aid a moment later, Scully was already on the rise. He watched, amazed and stupefied, as she pivoted on one knee and drew her weapon deftly from her inside jacket pocket, leveling it at her assailant's groin. Vaguely, Mulder wondered how she'd managed to sneak a gun through to this room. Then he wondered why he hadn't thought to do the same. All the made guys in the room apparently had. Slowly, calmly, four or five of the men drew weapons, but none troubled to aim. Tony, intrigued by the turn of events, motioned for the other capos to stand down. They let their guns drop to waist level and held them there loosely, for all to see. Ralph stood poised to act, nervous, totally focused on the barrel of the gun aimed his way. He knew that he dared not reach for his own piece. In his life, he wouldn't have thought a woman could get the drop on him. It was humiliating. He looked to Tony to help him out of the situation. Instead, he found himself sinking ever deeper. "Hey, Ralphie," Silvio said. "This was an important meet. You didn't think the lovely agent would come heavy? Where's the respect?" His cohorts chuckled at Silvio's imitation and at Ralph's predicament. Only Mulder seemed to want Scully to back down. "Scully..." he whispered a soft prayer. He may as well have stayed silent. Scully rose, her aim never wavering. "Ralph," Tony's voice was calm, rich with stifled amusement. "I don't t'ink you've left a very good impression on Miss Scully, here." "Ho!" Ralph raised his hands slowly into the air. "I just ain't used to bein' talked to that way by no broad." The word "broad" had half a dozen superfluous phonemes in it. "Nothin' personal, you understand." "Ralphie..." Tony coaxed. "All right." Cifaretto heaved a put-upon sigh. "All right, I'm sorry,for Chrissake. I'm sorry, okay?" He walked toward Tony, facing Scully the entire time. Scully lowered her gun to let him pass. As he approached, the similarity in their stature became clear. He passed within a foot of her. "Cunt," he said, in a stage whisper. Scully pivoted around on the balls of one foot so that she faced him again, and decked him with a single punch to the jaw. Ralph collapsed to his hands and knees. She turned to face Tony. With composure marvelous to behold, Scully said, "We're through here, for now. We'll find our own way home." Tony nodded, smiling, mightily impressed. As she turned toward the door, Tony added "Have Furio drive you. Tell 'im 'Mr. Tony' said so." With a glance, Scully collected her partner, who followed her out, numb with disbelief. As the door shut behind them, Christopher and Silvio helped a virulently swearing Ralph to his feet, both laughing uncontrollably as they did so. Even Tony was chuckling between satisfied puffs on his cigar. "I don't t'ink she likes you very much, Ralph. An' 'at's too bad, too. Because we're going to be doin' business wit' dem, I have dis feeling." -end 7/? - TITLE: That Shotgun Shine (8/?) AUTHORS: Paige Caldwell, David Stoddard-Hunt ******************* Rest Away Motor Lodge Bloomfield Avenue Verona, New Jersey Furio's dour, broad-shouldered bulk in the driver's seat preempted discussion. "Enforcered silence," Mulder thought sourly. Resentment at this constraint began to rise in his gorge, alongside other, more corrosive feelings. Scully's altercation with the volatile Ralph Cifaretto had ended only minutes before. Though the shock had faded, adrenaline still coursed through Mulder's body. Still, he knew that discretion was decidedly the better part of valor. They'd never heard the recent emigre speak even a single word, English or Italian. But, they had to assume Furio understood well enough, in either tongue. "Furio, Furias, Furiat." Mulder played idly at 'conjugating' the man's name in ersatz Latin. "Furious." And he was. Mulder realized that he was absolutely furious with Scully. He hated the very idea of it, and would normally go to almost any length to avoid confronting the feeling, let alone Scully. He ran through every rationale he could think of to avoid doing it now. It wasn't at all like her to have acted so rashly; this had to be a one-time thing. (She'd risked her life) They were under tremendous stress, at less than their best. (She could have gotten herself killed.) He'd given her no choice about whether or not she wanted to present the plan. (She'd risked) He'd just stood there, (her goddamn life!) had done nothing to intervene. He was furious, and it was not going to be reasoned away. (He'd gotten them into this situation) His guilt would not permit it. Doors popped open on either side of the cherry-skinned s.u.v. before it had a chance to come to a full stop. On the far side from the motel, Mulder slammed his door and began pacing, hands on hips, waiting for the Sicilian to drive away. Scully bounded out of the near side and, her path unobstructed, set off at a lively pace toward the exposed stairwell to the upper floor. Mulder was careful not to call after her by name while in public. It was a practice they'd cultivated in the months since New Mexico. He set himself in a miler's starting stance, upright, knees flexed, arms loose. Before he could bolt at the gun, Furio put a hand on his shoulder. For a moment yet, Mulder was undeterred, straining after Scully like a guard dog on a leash. "Scusa." It was an unfamiliar sound, Furio's voice, and stopped Mulder dead in his tracks. He took the cell phone from the Sicilian's outstretched hand, listened for a minute and handed it back without comment. Furio inclined his head politely, but Mulder was distracted and restive, looking back toward the motel room, and Scully. Frustration ballooned in Mulder's cheeks, a porous weir from which air escaped in a slow audible hiss. Abruptly, Mulder began pacing in a tight loop, as if caught in one of North Jersey's death-trap traffic circles. With a final look toward the door to their room, and without a single word of thanks to Furio, he angled away across the parking lot, to the payphone. Furio shrugged and touched his forehead in salute to the ex-agent's retreating form. The two carabinieri, he'd decided, did not seem to appreciate their bella fortuna. Days into negotiations with don Soprano, they were not only alive but being chauffeured in the don's own car. The Madonna Herself must surely keep watch over these two. The least he, Furio, could do was watch over them both until the man finished his call with the don and was safely back in the room with his woman. Mulder waited by the public phone as instructed. In three minutes, exactly, the phone rang, and he answered with a simple "Yes?" Also as instructed. The conversation that followed was only marginally more informative than the one on the cell phone moments before. "You'll eat with us tonight. Agent Scully and you. A friend of mine owns the place. Nuovo Vesuvio. You'll be my guests. Furio will pick you up at Eight." A pause. "Sharp." Mulder thought Soprano had clicked off and held the receiver away from his ear. "Oh and, uh, dress up nice. Tell your partner. It's a classy place. They don't let just any old riff-raff in there. Only the well-dressed kind." Tony's laughter echoed in Mulder's ears long after the connection had been severed. The call left him feeling exposed and vulnerable. Threatened. And that, in turn, directed him like a compass to its lodestone. To Scully. He set off at a run. Furio, watching in the driver's side mirror, uttered a prayer to the Virgin for the safe keeping of these two, strange people. As he pulled carefully out of the lot, he wondered idly whether Mrs. Tony might be home and whether she would offer him coffee. ********** Outside Satriale's Pork Store Kearney, New Jersey Once the had meeting adjourned, the capos decided to reconvene in a less formal setting - The Bada-Bing! Club, a strip joint owned by Silvio Dante, frequented by every crew in the Soprano family, and known fondly to one and all as "the Bing." On this occasion, Tony refused all good natured entreaties to join them. "I got errands." The possible meanings of such a bland statement ran the gamut from an intention to spend the afternoon in bed with one of his 'goomarrs' to conducting high level family business to actually running errands, a dry-cleaner, the post office or some thing of that nature. As to the particulars, not even Silvio dared ask. Christopher indentured his own vehicle into Tony's service for the afternoon, and was glad to do it. Mostly because it would have been undignified for the de facto boss to wait alone, curbside, like a mere cugine. But also, because every little favor done for the boss was money in the bank, a little boost up each rung of the family ladder, no small thing to an ambitious young man like Christopher Moltisanti. And if something were to go wrong on his watch, it was insurance. Life insurance. Good career move, no matter how you looked at it. A good deed, and a good decision. But, as the saying goes, no good deed goes unpunished. "Chrissy can ride over wit' me. Fact," Paulie said grandly, "he can drive." The offer sparked laughter all around, and barely contained outrage from the junior button man. "Aw, c'mon, Paulie! It's bad enough I gotta ride in that old-lady car of yours, but now I gotta drive, too?" "Watch your mouth, kid!" Paulie's eyes widened comically. "The Park Avenue is a classic luxury car. American made. Trunk space out your ass! Very useful in certain situations. Besides," he said quietly, "I like the room." "But, Paulie! It's ten years old, for Chrissake." Before Christopher could voice further objection, the boss of his crew put paid to the notion. "It's good enough for me? It's good enough for you." And that should have been that, Tony mused. Would have been, too, except that, in the next instant, his nephew had been deluged with derisive job offers and an imaginative array of tawdry enticements, to have him moonlight as a chauffeur for each of the capos, in turn. "Nah, Chrissy. If you want real class, you drive me in my Town Car," Silvio said, patting him on the back. "Course," the consigliere said, sizing up Moltisanti's outfit, "you'll need better t'reads." At last, a gale of profanity exploded out of Moltisanti and followed Tony down the street. With a glance in the rear-view, Tony could see that his underbosses were grinning; also that Christopher knew they were ribbing him, in their fashion. The capos genuinely liked Christopher. Tony was glad of it. He had little to worry about on that score. On this other thing, too, it seemed he had little to worry about. Things seemed to be working out good, he thought. Pulling out onto Montclair Avenue, Tony started to whistle. "Your father would never have done what you're doing." His dead mother was buckled into the passenger seat beside him. It wasn't the first time, nor would it be the last. "Aw, Jesus. Again with this shit?" Tony looked to the road ahead and then back to his right. She was still there, looking as annoyed as ever she'd been in life. "Your father would never have courted an FBI agent. He had his priorities." Tony had enough psychotherapy under his belt to know that this was a manifestation of his own subconscious sitting beside him, and not the reincarnation of Livia Soprano. "Shit! Just great," he thought. "Dis means I got issues." And that meant that he ought to set up an appointment with the lovely Dr. Melfi. "Ah, screw it. I'll skip the appointment, talk it out with Ma, and save myself a few bucks." Suddenly, Tony was smiling again. "I'm sick of hearing you talk about Pop and his priorities. He was a violent prick, Ma, and you knew it!" "Enough of that talk! In front of your own mother? My John was a saint." "Yeah, the patron saint of bookies and small-time hoods," Tony snickered. "An' whaddyou mean 'courted'?" "I don't know what you're sayin'," his mother's apparition replied, then looked down, tugging at her seatbelt. "You said Pop woulda never have courted an FBI agent. What did you mean?" "I can never figure these darn buckles out," she said, fiddling with something below seat level. "I asked you a question!" Tony roared. "You said 'courted.' What did you mean by dat?" His mother looked up at him, startled and terrified. When next he glanced back, she was gone. "Fuck." Courting. "Fuck!" He had a pretty good idea about just what she meant by that and, yeah, it could be problematic. "Damn it!" Tony slammed his large, strong hands against the steering wheel. He picked up his cell phone from the seat, thumbed the code for Melfi and waited for her machine to pick up. ********* Rest Away Motor Lodge Bloomfield Avenue Verona, New Jersey With loping strides taking two or - as angry as he was - even three stairs at a time, Mulder would surely have beaten Scully to their room in a straight race. Even spotting her a five minute head start, he still leapt up the stairs, but tripped on the lip of the third riser up, barking a shin and swearing loudly. From there on, he took it one step at a time. Scully had left the door wide open but kept the room dark, save for whatever light could filter in from outside, through the open doorway and around the edges of the thick slab-panel curtain on the window. "Yesssssssss!" Scully's voice. Mulder strained to find her in the low light. She stood on the far side of the room, one shoe balanced on the toe of her right foot, the other off entirely, her arms raised, fists triumphant. "Scully." Mulder's voice was scraped raw, bleeding. "Not now, Mulder. She's about to go for two!" He followed her line of sight to the frayed, orange-upholstered chair in the corner. Her missing shoe rested cockeyed on the seat, its heel against an arm. He flicked the light switch by the door several times. Nothing. "Doesn't work," Scully said breathlessly, rocking back and forth, preparing for her next kick. "Tried it. Now, I'm trying this." Mulder reached for the lamp to his right, next to the t.v. on top of a two-drawer lowboy. As he switched on the lamp, Scully attempted her "extra point." It sailed wildly to the left, hitting Mulder's hand and the lamp simultaneously. "Ooops!" Scully burst into giggles. The lamp toppled over before Mulder could react to prevent it from falling, the bulb bursting in a flash of light and a shower of tinkling, frosted shards. "Damnit! Scully, what the hell's the matter with you? Damnit!" "Mulder! It's just a lamp, for goodness' sake. I bet it's just the light bulb. It was ready to burn out anyway. Did you see how bright that light was?" She sounded younger somehow, less staid and assured. "I'll just turn on the light in the bathroom. See? All better." "I don't give a fuck about the lamp, Scully! Geezusaitchchrist!" He threw up his hands and let them freefall to his sides. "You don't get it, do you? Geezusaitchmotherfucking..." "Whoa, Mr. Mulder. Language! Do you really plan on kissing me with that mouth?" Mulder stared down at this stranger in his midst. The woman before him was just a shell of the Scully he knew. She'd taken her jacket off upon entering the room and had flung it over the television. Her sidearm she'd tossed, holster and all, on top of an open duffle bag. "Kissing you? That's the farthest thing from my mind right now, Scully." "Well," she began working the buttons on his shirt. "Not from mine!" Scully was feverish in her determination to rid him of his clothes, the tip of her tongue poking out from one side of her mouth with the effort. Mulder grabbed both of her forearms, forcing a halt. She looked up quickly, her euphoria stripped away. In its place, sheer terror was leeching the color from her eyes little by little. He could almost feel himself receding into the distance of her thousand-yard stare. Scully looked up at him as if from the bottom of a well, seeking a rope, a hand, anything to save her from the darkness and the ever-rising waters. Mulder held her in that place for a moment only, loosing his grip on her arms, and on his reticence. Instantly, her manic grin returned and, with it, a false sense of Spring bloomed in her eyes. She ripped the remaining buttons from his shirt, pulling its tails from his trousers, then reached for his belt. He stopped her there and, when she resisted, showed that he only wanted to help, undoing the belt buckle and clasp himself. If this was what she needed to claw her way back from the abyss, then this is what he would give her. Recriminations and regrets would come later. I've got some of my own, he thought grimly, and she deserves to hear them. ******************* Home of Tony and Carmela Soprano 633 Stag Trail Road North Caldwell, New Jersey "Hello?" At the sound of Tony's voice, Furio nearly leapt from his seat at the Sopranos' kitchen counter. "In here, Tony!" Carmela called back. Tony came directly into the open kitchen, sorting the day's mail from one hand to the other, and toting a large, beribboned box under one arm. Carmela reached for the mail and began opening it, all the while sneaking curious peeks at the other parcel. Furio stood, out of respect bred so deep it was practically in his marrow. "Hey! No, no, don't get up!" Tony patted Furio on the shoulder with his free hand, and smiled. Apologies poured from the younger man. If he'd known Tony was ready to leave the meeting, he'd have rushed back to get him. He was sorry for the inconvenience, sorry for the inattention, sorry most of all for any lack of respect. "Hold it, hold it," Tony interrupted. "It's okay. Christopher loaned me the Navigator. Besides, you were doing an important errand for me. You deserve a cup of coffee." He looked across to his wife and smiled encouragingly. After a moment's confusion, Carmela picked up the cue. "Of course, Fur. You're always welcome in this house," she said solemnly. Tony nodded with satisfaction. A man in his position really couldn't hope for a better wife. He rounded the counter and leaned in to kiss her. Surprised, and a little embarrassed, Carmela leant her cheek to him at the last possible instant. Undeterred, Tony kissed it with gusto. "What's in the box?" "Oh! Here, a little something for you." Tony said, presenting the long, white box, swathed of purple ribbon. "Tony! This is from Piasecki's," Carmela said, delight and anticipation swirling in the hushed awe of her voice. "I haven't ordered anything from them in, well, I don't know how long!" "I know. I picked it out," Tony said, pride evident. "I had some help, from that woman who knows you?" Carmela ventured the name of a clerk. "I think, yeah, dat's her. Said I wanted you to have something real nice. Special. Y'know, for tonight," Tony explained, when Carmela looked at him questioningly. "We're mixing business with pleasure, going out to dinner. An' for that, a woman as drop dead gorgeous as you needs a dress to match." His voice dropped from the volume of a carnival barker to that of a long-term lover. "It's only right." Tony smiled broadly. He looked to his young enforcer for confirmation, not noticing that he received only the tightest of smiles in return. As Carmela busied herself with opening the box, Tony leaned over the counter toward Furio. "Our friends. They got home safe and sound?" Furio nodded. "That's good. Look. Before dinner, I need for Christopher to find out some things for me. Give him dis." Tony passed a small, yellow piece of notepaper across the counter. "Tell him it's important." "Oh, my. Oh, Tony! It's beautiful." Carmela held the dark blue silk in front of her, the "v" of the decolletage falling lower than it would when worn, but not by much. "Thank you! That's so sweet." "You're welcome," he said warmly. "It'll look ten times as beautiful on. I know it." This time, when Tony leaned in, Carmela kissed him good and proper, full on the mouth, forgetting her former discomfort completely. Furio looked down at the coffee in his cup. He lifted it to his lips, trying desperately to avoid spying on an intimate moment between Mrs. Tony and his boss. The coffee was disappointing, cold and bitter. -continued in part 9- TITLE: That Shotgun Shine (9/?) AUTHORS: Paige Caldwell, David Stoddard-Hunt ******************* Rest Away Motor Lodge Bloomfield Avenue Verona, New Jersey Water was no help. Cold or hot, didn't seem to make a difference. No matter how much he splashed onto his face, the phantom in the mirror facing Mulder still had hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes. The reflection bore a resemblance to him, true. But it had been disfigured, scarred by the pain of events just hours old. Mulder rummaged through his toilet kit for a plastic razor. The first one he found was pink - one of Scully's. Rummaged some more and came up with one of his - blue and gray. He examined them both, mildly curious as to whether there was any distinction between the two other than hue. There was little to recommend either for their designed work. Too light and imbalanced to shave closely or cleanly, yet lacking the anywhere, anytime convenience of the electric Mulder had been accustomed to in his years with the Bureau. The only real benefit was a ready, almost profligate availability. And that fit well with the need for a disposable past, while on the run. A mirror wasn't strictly necessary. If he concentrated, Mulder could shave by sound and touch, with his eyes closed. Drag the blade across his skin until the scratching noise stopped and the stroke ran smoothly. Slide his fingers over the curve of his jaw, to expose fugitive whiskers and cut them down in their prime. Finished, good enough for ex-government work, no need to look in the mirror. Could nearly do it in his sleep. Had done, truth be told, many times in the old days, with the Bureau. He was certainly tired enough to try it now, but habit drew his eyes up. The shaving cream beard did a credible job filling in the hollows of his cheeks. For a moment, he considered leaving it on, dashing the thought not because it was patently absurd, but because he noticed that it seemed to bring out the gray lurking among the brown hair on his head. He cut himself with his first stroke, a crimson spring bubbling from beneath the snowfield of lather. Mulder winced, but did nothing to stanch the bleeding, simply rinsing his razor in the basin and continuing to shave. Such nicks had become a reminder to both of them of their fragility and humanity, and of their purpose. At least, that was what they told themselves. The next time he looked up to check his handiwork, it wasn't a phantom Mulder he saw, but Scully. Minutes before, in their bed. Jaw clenched, eyes ahead, riding him for all she was worth. As if her very life depended upon it. Normally, he'd have matched her, ardent stride for ardent stride. But what he witnessed now had scored the life from his eyes and slackened his jaw. Mulder wasn't sure Scully had truly been conscious that he lay beneath. He cupped his hands under the tap, letting the water brim over before splashing it up onto his face. He stood for a long while, looking down into the basin, a hand on either side of the rim, listening to the sound of the droplets falling from his face, willing the images in the mirror away. But it wasn't to be. Before he'd even raised his eyes, he saw them both once more, in mid-flight, her body passing through a fugitive slip of light from outside as she moved, highlighting first the sharp curve of her hip, then the pale skin along her side, stealing quickly over a breast and coming to rest on her cheek as she fell down onto him, starting over again when she rose. He was rigid at first, compliant only insofar as she needed him to be. Then, to his horror, his body began moving of its own accord, with the primeval pulse of desire. Hip, side, breast, cheek. Hip, side, breast, cheek. Rising to meet her rhythm, rising, always rising, betraying him in the end to his basest urges. Betraying them both. Mulder screwed his eyes tight, shutting out the memory, gripping the basin hard for support. The moisture now streaking his cheeks, he refused to acknowledge. He struggled to regain control of his emotions, opening his eyes only when, at long last, he felt a hand on his shoulder. In the mirror, his phantom double still mocked him, unflinching. But, to his side stood Scully, clear eyed, now, and calm of spirit. She reached up to wipe away his tears, the blood from his cheek, and whatever else he might propose to shed in the name of his own guilt over the danger into which he'd brought them. She shook her head, looking at him sadly. "Don't. Don't do this to yourself." She let her finger trace down his cheek and rest on his lips, forestalling the ever-ready protest and inevitable self- doubt. "Don't do it to us." Mulder said nothing, but Scully knew he saw no alternative to beating himself up about the situation. "I agreed to this, remember? From the start, we knew the risk we'd be taking. Well, we had some idea, anyway." Her voice was a balm, sloughing the fear and anger and guilt from his features. "And, besides, we don't have a great range of options, now, do we?" "Yeah, but Scully!" Mulder stopped abruptly, expecting her to shush him again. Slowly, she smiled back at him, winning a sheepish grin in return. "Scully, there have got to be options that don't include allies wishing to cause us as much harm as our enemies do." She crossed her arms over her chest. For the first time since she'd come into the bathroom, Mulder realized that Scully hadn't a stitch on. He also noted that her strength, the part of her character he most admired, the thing that could make such a slight frame look impossibly tall, had returned in full. "And I didn't do such a bad job back there, Mulder. No!" she protested when he chuckled. "I'm serious! Cifaretto's a hot head, a random element in a very rigid system. In his own way, I bet he's a bigger pain in Tony Soprano's ass than you ever were in Skinner's." Her analogy was a bit of a stretch, true, useful for its shock value only. But, in that, it was a complete success. Mulder stood before her now, returned, limber in body and thought. "My point is," she went on, "that they were all watching to see how we'd react." "A test," Mulder concluded, and she nodded emphatically. "And, when you decked Ralph Cifaretto but good, we passed?" "Well," Scully said, twisting slightly from side to side as she considered the magnitude of her triumph, "I'd say that I earned us a measure of respect, yes." He was about to argue her modesty when she flashed him a dazzling smile. "I kicked his ass! I'd doubt that Soprano, Dante or any of the rest are going to sanction any more shenanigans out of Ralph Cifaretto." Mulder turned sober for a moment. "Maybe so. But, we'll have to stand on guard for any unsanctioned sanctions he might try on his own." "I've still got my gun, Mulder," Scully said brightly, reaching back to a spot on the small of her back. "Well, It's around here somewhere, anyway. And, even if I'm unarmed, I can still take him." She raised two fists into a fighter's stance. "Oh, yeah," he said, his rolling laughter just warming up. "Ole 'Fists of Fury' Scully!" He took her by the hips and pulled her to him. This time when they made love, an effortless, gentle samba, the gaze of one never left the eyes of the other. They woke refreshed, with barely half an hour to shower and dress before Furio would appear at the door to take them to dinner. When the Sicilian saw them that evening, so utterly transformed from before, he grinned broadly, inclining his head with respect toward Mulder, and raising Scully's hand to his lips for a courtly kiss. "Buono Sera, Signora." Scully flushed, but rallied to smile and return his greeting. Obviously, Furio's prayers to the Virgin Mother had been answered. The enforcer was very relieved. *********************** F.B.I. Field Office One Gateway Center Newark, New Jersey Joe Iannarulli was in limbo. He hadn't seen hide nor hair of his new partner in a day and a half. Which, in itself, may have been a good thing. The guy gave him the creeps and, for the life of him, Joe couldn't figure out why. The last thing the Chief had said to him was to sit tight. What the hell? Sit tight. For a day and a half, twiddling his thumbs. How tight could you get? He had half a mind to march into Cubitoso's office and complain - job security be damned. There was just one catch, other than career suicide. No one had seen the Chief, either, since the day before yesterday. No one seemed to know where the Chief had gone or what had happened to him, that was the weirdest thing. Cubitoso, love him or hate him as a boss, was one of the most senior field officers in the whole, damn outfit. Guys like that, they don't just up and retire, not after putting in a good chunk of their careers running high volume set-ups like North Jersey. Promote them to something cushy, send up some shirt from D.C. in exchange, get the whelp some actual field time. That's how it should happen, anyway. Guys like Frank Cubitoso just didn't disappear. That was beyond strange. Iannarulli had been staring out the window all day. Now, however, at sunset, he forced himself to look away. Things were spooky enough around here without it getting dark around him as well. He'd drawn stares from all corners of the office the whole day long. Stares at the water cooler: What the fuck, Joe? Who'd you sleep with down at the Hoover to get this goldbrick detail, huh? Hey! I'm just kidding (yuhlazyass). Stares in the men's room: Joe, man, no offense, but lately, people who hang around you for any length of time tend to disappear. Shove down a urinal or two, okay? No offense, Joe, but, hey. Stares while he sat at a desk, as ordered, with nothing to do but wait: I don't know how you guys in the 'burbs do it, Joe, but here in the big city, we *work* for a living. Pukes. They had no idea. None. Made him kind of glad the daytime staff had all gone home, and the nightwatch, a skeleton crew, had come on. Kind of glad. As he looked around, the office seemed awful empty. "JEEzusmaryandjoseph! Hello!" Iannarulli had been startled so badly by the trilling phone that he didn't realize he'd blasphemed a greeting to whomever was on the other end. "Joe?" After a pause. Iannarulli regained his wits and tried again. "Newark Bureau, Iannarulli speaking." "Shit, Joe! Whatthehell's up with you?" Iannarulli was still just a bit spooked. "Who'sis?" "Iannarulli, you idiot, it's me, the Lube Man. Lubrano comma Albert I? C'mon, it's only been a week; you remember. Godparent to one of your girls, the guy who murders you on the back nine? Your ex-fucking-partner? Chrissake, Joe! Maybe so long as you're riding a desk in Newark, you oughta cut back on the caffeine, there, pal." "Aw, get off my back, Lubrano, you miserable bastard! You don't know how easy you have it out on the Peeping Tom circuit." Lubrano laughed, and a little of the old chemistry between the partners reasserted itself. "Yeah? Well, I'm solo for the time being, so it ain't as easy as you might think. Anyways, what's new, Joe? Still easygoing as ever, I see." "I'm sorry for jumping down your throat, Al. I guess I'm just a little on edge." The surprise in Lubrano's voice was as genuine as a Bergen County politician's promise. "A little?" "I know, I know," Iannarulli said. "I've gone back and forth about this assignment so many times, I'm surprised they haven't erected a toll booth in front of me. At first, you know, I thought I'd screwed up somehow, and I was being fitted the big boot. But, when I got here and found out those big wheels from Washington had requested me in particular? Well, shit, I don't mind telling you, Al, and not that I don't like working with you, buddy, but I began to think this might be my ticket outta street work. Y'know? Something I could maybe use to squirrel away a little nest-egg, so's me an' the missus could do something special after I retired." "And, now?" "Now, I don't know what to think. I got orders just to sit on my ass and wait for I don't know what, the Second Coming, or some shit. So, yeah, maybe it's got me, y'know, a little oobatz'." "Eh, you coulda fooled me," Lubrano said with belated compassion. "But, hey, listen, I think I might have just the thing for what ails you. They don't expect you to sit there for twenty-four hours a day, non-stop, right?" "Well." The question was intended to be rhetorical, Iannarulli knew, but it wasn't. Christ Almighty, it just wasn't. "Even if they did, Joe, which they don't, they couldn't say squat about the deal I've got for you. Leave 'em the cell for the van and come out with me on an eavesdrop. They need you? They'll know how to find you." "Aw, man, I don't know, Lube." Lubrano noted the use of his old nickname. He had Iannarulli hooked. Now, all that remained was the delicate matter of reeling him in. "C'mon, man. You could use the night off, and I could use a fresh set of ears. And don't blow up my skirt about the wife this and the kids that. I called the house. Joy told me that you'd sent her and the kids up to visit the in-laws for the duration. That was when I knew something weird was going on. Joy's feeling uneasy about it, too; asked me to look after you, kid. So, that's what I'm going to do." Iannarulli was quiet. All that Lubrano had said was true. He had sent Joy and the kids away. Why? Because his gut had screamed at him that, if he couldn't save himself, at least save the woman and children. It was ludicrous, sure. But, still, he could use somebody to talk to about this whole rotten deal. And that's just what late-night surveillance was good for. Chat. That, and drowning your goddamn kidneys in coffee. "Who's the mark?" There was satisfaction in Lubrano's voice, and excitement, but not a hint of smugness. "Der Bingle. The crews are having a sitdown at Artie Bucco's new place in Bloomfield. The chatter oughta be flowing like cheap chianti, brother." Iannarulli wanted a night away, anywhere so long as it wasn't here. Even in that cramped, dank smelling Ford Econoline van, the plain white one that virtually screamed "Hey, lookee here! We're a surveillance unit." Still, the thought of his new partner's scowl froze him in place. Lubrano took his silence for a yes. Even a 'no,' Lubrano was to tell him later, he would have taken for a yes. "I'll pick you up in an hour, hour and twenty, max." Joe Iannarulli sighed. Life, it seemed, wanted him on a spit, his nuts roasting over an open flame. It just hadn't settled, yet, on the most appropriate location for the fire. ***************************************** Nuovo Vesuvio Ristorante Davey Avenue, just off Belleview Bloomfield, New Jersey The outside of the restaurant was dour as its surroundings, sandstone walls grimy from decades of breathing in second-hand soot, bathed but not cleansed in the sickly yellow light of argon street lamps, a single bare bulb of its own lighting just enough of the entryway. The neighborhood around Nuovo Vesuivio was a microcosm of the town of Bloomfield, growing like a weed in places, yet deep in the shadow of nearby Newark in others and struggling to thrive. Like the stars, its aspirations seemed forever tantalizing and out of reach, just there, but hidden from view by the bullying glare of great cities at night. The building itself was situated at an unusual "vee" intersection, its front entrance jutting boldly into Davey Avenue like the prow of a ship, knifing through the seas of traffic flowing onto busy Belleview Avenue. So what if that ship happened to be a tug boat? That was a working man's boat; nothing wrong with that. It was a facade, daring, but half-hearted. For at the same time Vesuvio's very existence sang of those elusive stars, its surroundings rasped away at the voice that dared dream of reaching them. The struggle had been going on for generations - families striviing to give their children a better life, and displaying wounded pride when those children dared share that dream of a life elsewhere. The original Vesuvio had been an unassuming little place, opened in the 20's just a block away, Artie Bucco's grandfather serving familiar, comforting dishes to a hearty group of immigrants. Artie's father had continued that simple mission, faithfully. But, Artie? Artie had higher aspirations. Nouveau Napalidan. Chic crowds. A little bit of Manhattan just off Belleview. Leaving Bloomfield behind, without really leaving. Oh, from the agita his mother gave him, you'd think it was Artie who'd driven his father into an early grave, just because he'd sought a little something better. Bloomfield's ages-old class struggle raged within the frame and masonry of this humble little structure. Yes, we're a little frowzy on the outside, no cozy lights or fancy sign, but its what's inside that counts, am I right? And, in the daytime, we have a great view of the cemetery and the Pabst Brewery bottle. At least we're better than the AAMCO down the street, what with its cinderblock walls topped with broken glass and barbed wire. Such an eyesore. Or, what about that factory over by the skyway? The one with "Bloomfield" painted on its roof? Too showy. "Hey, hey! Look at me!" We're much more, what's the word? Subtle. Yeah. Classier. Such were the eddys in the current of the stream of life in Bloomfield, New Jersey. Standing in front of the dimly lit facade of the place, however, no one could blame either Mulder or Scully if they missed these subtle currents entirely. Scully looked up at their guide with disbelief. Surely this wasn't the place. But Furio's gentle smile insisted that it was, and his outstretched arm invited them to trust him and go on in. "Thanks," Mulder said. "I don't think we'd have found the place without you." He gave the exterior another inspection just to make sure they weren't being led into something they might not be able to get out of. "This place, she not look too good outside. Much better inside, hey?" Furio said. He punctuated the statement with a hearty slap on Mulder's shoulder that was part encouragement, part shove. Mulder shot a warning glance at Scully and stepped ahead of her toward the door. She saw him slip his hand to the ready underneath his sport coat as he entered, and immediately followed suit. Forewarned, and all that. But, they needn't have bothered. The unexpected warmth that greeted them from just inside the door resonated in every aspect of the restaurant, from the softly lit frescoes on the walls to the heady aromas wafting in from the kitchen. Most surprising of all? The convivial hum of animated conversation and laughter, which brought smiles to their faces before they'd even discovered the source, and ushered them willingly into the charming, elegantly appointed main room. The hostess, whose dark hair and olive skin seemed somehow to bring to life the painted villas and Lombardy poplars behind her, smiled graciously, menus in hand, prepared to seat them at a quiet, candlelit table for two. That is, until she spotted Furio, their shepherd. Her smile disappeared instantly, along with the menus, put aside to wait for another couple to arrive, one that would better appreciate the romantic table she'd chosen. One that wasn't expected by Soprano - party of twenty five. "Hey, hey, Spooky!" Tony Soprano raised both hands in greeting, a drink in each. "There they are!" He handed the glass of white wine to Carmela, keeping the tumbler of scotch for himself, and headed over to greet his guests. "Y'know," he said amiably, "t'ings would have gone a lot smoother if we'd-a-known you had a nickname." For want of anything else to do, Mulder grinned. "Here," Soprano said, helping Scully out of her coat, "let Furio deal with these. I'm gonna get you set up with drinks and then introduce you around." As the Sicilian took each coat in turn, Tony asked quietly, "Are we clear?" "One white van," Furio said to the coat rack, "a half a block down on Belleview. The usual. You want I should discourage them?" "Nah," Tony said after a moment's thought. "Nah. That ain't gonna be a problem. Let 'em listen. Anything else?" "A black sedan I no see here before. Town Car." "Silvio's?" "No." If Furio was offended that Tony would ascribe to him such an elemental error in surveillance, he didn't show it. "I say, I no see this one before." "Okay, okay." Tony nodded. "Don't worry about it. Go out in half an hour. If that car is still there, then we'll have to have a word or two with the owner. For now? C'mon. Mangia!" He turned back to his guests, putting one on either side of him, draping an arm over the shoulder of each. "Business later. Now? We eat!" - continued in part 10, "Dinner, Family Style" - TITLE: That Shotgun Shine (10/16) CHAPTER 10: "Dinner, Family Style" AUTHORS: David Stoddard-Hunt, Paige Caldwell *** "That Shotgun Shine," Chapter 10: "Dinner, Family Style" *** Unmarked Ford Econoline van Davey Street, one block from Belleville Avenue Bloomfield, New Jersey *** The stench wafting out of the van hit Joe Iannarulli like a swift kick in the nuts. His eyes began to water before he'd even set foot inside. Holy crud, this wasn't as he remembered it. Something had changed, and not for the better. Joe took a step back, blinking to clear his vision and survey the situation. Nope. Same old, same old, right down to the romantic, if profane, scribblings etched into the van's dirt-encrusted sides. Everything appeared to be just as it had been left the last time he and Lubrano had called this particular mobile surveillance unit "the office." Everything the same, except, of course, for the stench. "Good to be home again, hey, Joe? Bring a tear to the old eye, does it?" It did at that, but not for the reason his erstwhile partner intended. And if Lubrano were to actually catch him tearing up, whatever the professed explanation, Joe knew he'd never live it down. For weeks afterward, the regulars down at Hurleys', 'Newark's best' - truth be told, Newark's only - 'Irish/Italian pub,' would be regaled ad nauseam about his nausea. "Just two short weeks chained to a goddamn desk, all it takes is the mere sight of our van, and, Madonn'! He makes with the waterworks. Hoh-lee Chrisamighty. Tears of fuckin' joy, though, hey, Joe? Yessir. Tears of fuckin' joy." Nope, never live it down. The best defense, Iannurulli knew, was a good offense, so he went on the offensive. Appropriate, considering. "What the hell have you been doing in here since I've been gone, Al? I know for sure it ain't involved cleanser." Lubrano's good humor was unspoiled by his partner's tone. "Ah, y'know, a little bit of this, a little bit of that, a little piece of ass. General hell raising. The usual." He strode past Iannurulli and leapt nimbly into the van. Joe followed, carefully. No kick in the nuts, this time; no watery eyes. Relieved, Joe took an investigative sniff, which incited his innards into rebellion. He scanned the interior, his expression as sour as his stomach. Only when he glanced toward the front of the van, did Joe notice his partner speaking. "Huh?" To Iannarulli's dismay, it took all of his concentration just to stave off the on-rush of nausea. Actually listening to his partner was extra. "Joe!" The inside air was compost-rich, a miasma of linemen's rubberized foul-weather coats, coffee, tobacco, ozone from banks of electronic gear, and the faint, alkaline tang left over from the time, one endless stakeout, Lubrano had sipped inadvertently from the wrong cup and spat his partner's piss against the far wall. Joe had roared with laughter at his partner's misfortune. But, that was then. Iannarulli was shaken to see his partner "suddenly" right in front of him. "You goin' oobatz on me, or what? Walk down memory lane later. We gotta get set up," Lubrano pointed to the world outside the van, intending specifically the restaurant down the street, "before this shindig gets rolling." With that, he rolled closed the door to the van, shutting the three of them inside: Lubrano, Iannarulli, and the Stench. *** Nuovo Vesuvio Ristorante Belleview Avenue, at Davey Street Bloomfield, New Jersey *** Before everyone sat down to eat, family protocol demanded a receiving line to introduce the guests of honor around. It was conducted with pomp and circumstance befitting a king and queen. The first and only time Scully had seen her, Carmela Soprano had appeared anything but royal, leaning over the kitchen counter chopping peppers, wearing an old apron that had "kiss the cook" printed in fifteen different languages and just as many colors. She seemed every inch the suburban, New Jersey housewife, without blue blood or pedigree. Appearances, Scully well knew, could be and, in this case, were deceiving. Clearly, Carmela was nothing if not adaptable. Splendid in midnight blue, golden locks rising dramatically above an elegant throat and arching around her face like a halo in a renaissance fresco, Carmela Soprano assumed the mantle of a queen as easily as if born to it, the certainty of station plain in her bearing and her easy grace to all and sundry. For the privilege of the queen's largesse, the nobility queued patiently. Instead of princes and princesses or lords and ladies, however, these elite traced their lineage to a much earlier era, of caporegimes, consiglieres and Caesarean legions of citizen/soldiers known as cugines. Tony and Carmela greeted every one in turn, with true noblesse oblige - a few kind words or even a bearish hug for each man from Himself, air kisses beside each cheek and a sincere welcome from Herself, for each woman. Some of the wives, no matter they had gone through Catholic school together with Carmela, were so overwhelmed by her attention that they could only stammer their thanks in reply. With the arrival of each couple, Carmela murmured polite introductions to her guests of honor. "Silvio, obviously, you've met. And this lovely creature," Carm leaned in and kissed the other woman warmly on both cheeks, "is his lovely wife, Gabriella." In response, the consigliere's spouse whispered each name reverently, "Miss Scully," "Mr. Mulder," as she shook their hands. Silvio, Tony Soprano's number two, beamed at the compliment bestowed upon his bride. Last in the long line, though no one made mention of the disorder it created, came a representative of the putative head of the family, Tony's uncle, Corrado 'Junior' Soprano. "Baccala!" Tony yelled, beckoning the awkward, curiously shy brute over. "How's 'e doin'?" "Good, Tone. Good." Grossly overweight, now that Scully had a chance to see the man up close, he had a kind, almost gentle expression. 'Baccala' shook his head then, and said, "You know how Junior is, Tone. Some days are better, some worse. He wishes he could be here, though." Scully startled at the blatant lie. Mulder stared at the floor by her feet, and gave the barest of signals, warning her off the subject. "I know, I know. I wish he could be here, too." In return, Tony sounded just as sincere. Yes, Mulder would admit much later, "something didn't smell right. It was hanging in the air between them, Scully, like a cloud of flies over manure. Internal politics is my guess. And you know how I feel about internal politics." "Bobby Baccilieri?" Tony took the honors, this time. "This is Miss Scully and, uh, Mr. Mulder. The family is going to be doin' business with him." To Mulder and Scully, Tony said, "You can call him 'Baccala.' Everybody does." "These are them, Tone?" Bobby "Baccala" asked, as if they hadn't been standing right in front of them. Visibly impressed, he pumped each agent's hand, repeating that he was "pleased to meetcha." Now that, Mulder and Scully later agreed, that had been sincere. "Personally," Tony said, draping an arm over the younger man's shoulders, "I depend very much on Baccala, here. He's been Uncle June's caretaker during various periods of, uh, incapacity - due to poor health, legal concerns and the like = during which times I've been freed up to take over the day-to-day operation of the family. In my uncle's absence." That, too, they thought, was largely sincere. During all of the introductions, Ralph Cifaretto never approached the receiving line, but swam the fringes of the gathering like a shark, moving ceaselessly in search of opportunity. No matter where he paced, Cifaretto's gaze never drifted from Scully. Mulder and Tony took notice of this at nearly the same instant. Mulder moved quickly to interpose himself between predator and prey, right hand easing under the drape of his jacket toward his shoulder holster. For his part, Tony reached for his own sort of weapon, beckoning to Furio. "We got a potential situation, here. Take as many men as you need," he said, nodding in Cifaretto's direction, "but make it go away. Quietly." The enforcer nodded calmly and, without the slightest scrap of fear, turned toward Ralphie. Tony reached out, stopping him in mid-step. "Hey, hey. I said you should take as many men as you need." "I no need many," Furio said simply. Tony smiled at the plain truth in that statement, but insisted, all the same. "Get one of the young guys, Benny Fazio, 'Little Paulie' Germani, somebody like that. Then, the both of you, escort Ralph home and make sure he stays there." Furio nodded affirmatively, without ever losing sight of the temperamental little capo. "Quietly," Tony reminded him, though he knew it was unnecessary. Furio moved off with the stealth, grace and raw menace of a panther. Mulder watched as recognition of the impending danger came over Ralph Cifaretto just a moment too late. Anger flared, but died back instantly, and he left with the two younger men without further protest. Only then did Mulder relax. Tony had not tensed in the first place; there had never been any doubt in his mind about the outcome. He turned back to his wife and two guests. "There. Everything's all taken care of." Then, looking around the room, he asked of no one in particular, "Where's Artie?" A small but handsomely built man in chefs' whites appeared momentarily, greeting Carmela with an awkward familiarity, before she was ready, with a kiss on either cheek. "You look lovely, Carmela. As always." "You're a dear, Arthur. How are things going with you and Charmagne? Any improvement on that front?" Artie Bucco winced. "Not good, Carm. Not good. At least, at home. The restaurant, though, we've agreed, is neutral territory. She feels safer that way." Artie's tone was bland, but it was obvious the very notion was crushing, and Carmela reacted sympathetically. Unfazed by her regal status, Artie waved off Carm's concern and pity. "It's fine, really. As I said, the restaurant is owned jointly, and that's how we're running it. Privately, we may be at each other's throats, but fear not. Dinner will be served!" Real sadness swept over Carmela's features at this, and she looked as if she meant to pursue the topic further. Tony, however, smiled broadly, and cut off all discussion. "Terrific! I'm starvin'." He put one arm around Carmela's waist, and draped the other over Mulder's and Scully's shoulders. "Let's eat." *** Unmarked Ford Econoline van Davey Street, one block from Belleville Avenue Bloomfield, New Jersey *** The nausea seemed to be ebbing. He was either getting used to the stench, Joe mused, or his sinuses had shorted out. "I know it's been a while, kid," Lubrano said wryly. "So let me give you the lay of the land. You sit here, in front of all the pretty lights, making sure everything stays in the green. It coming back to you, at all? See, Joe, you're the ears of this operation, and me, I'm the eyes. Brains, too, apparently." His sensibility now freed from the tyranny of the senses, Iannarulli reacted instantly, snatching the headphones from a grinning Lubrano. "Fuck off, Al. I remember." "Coulda fooled me, Jo-Jo. You looked a little," Lubrano twirled a finger several times around an ear. He activated three large video cameras, arrayed so that, from where they sat, there would be constant 180 degree surveillance of the field. "What I don't remember," Iannarulli said, slipping on the headset and running automatically through checklists for amplifiers, equalizers and parabolic microphones, "is what in God's name caused us to pick a prick like you to be our daughter's godparent!" Lubrano chuckled, sighting a single-shot camera through its monstrous telephoto lens. "Beats me. Charm? Good looks? Take your pick, I guess. That, and your wife is sweet on me." He turned to smirk, only to see Iannarulli waving him to silence. "Car door opening, now shutting. Awful quiet." The owner, Joe implied, was either a 98 lb. weakling, or trying to exit the vehicle without being heard. "Half a block down, three quarters tops, to our left." Nope. Joe hadn't forgotten a goddamn thing, Lubrano thought. Best ears in the Bureau, he'd always said that of his partner. He turned to face the single reflex camera in the direction Joe had suggested. The search only took a few seconds. "Gotcha! Black sedan, one individual exiting, male, height about," Lubrano pulled back from the lens, blinked several times, and tried again, "height approximately, gawdawmighty, he's a big sucker! Six eight, six nine, easy! Weight..." It wasn't his partner's incessant chatter that drew Iannarulli's attention away from the soundboard, but his sudden silence. When he spun around in his chair to check, Lubrano had gone quite pale. *** Nuovo Vesuvio Ristorante Belleview Avenue, at Davey Street Bloomfield, New Jersey *** If dinner had begun regally, it was ending in pure theater. Vaudeville, to be exact: a command performance. "I keep tryin' to get out," Silvio paused where he stood, arms outstretched, scowling dramatically at Scully, "an' they keep pulling me..." The entire table, men and women, chimed in rhythmically for the climax. "Right back in!" Cheers, laughter and applause followed. For these accolades, the lead bowed grandly. Scully, who had prepared herself to coax a smile, perhaps some polite applause, found herself grinning broadly, and conveying her delight right along with the rest. From across the table, Tony gave her a satisfied smile, puffed once on his cigar and said, "He's good, huh? What did I tell you?" As the applause continued, Silvio ducked his head and smiled modestly. Odd, Scully thought afterward, to be confronted by the very human sides to people she would, just days before, have considered monsters From down the table, some good-natured heckling. "He oughta be good. He's seen it enough!" That, from Paulie 'Walnuts.' From the newest made-member of Paulie's crew, Christopher: "Yeah, only about a thousand times!" "Ho!" Silvio's expression darkened to match his tone of voice. The table grew silent, as the consigliere pointed an accusing finger at the young cugine. "Each one of them times, who is it, been sitting on my couch, right beside me, scarfin' all my gourmet popcorn?" Christopher blushed, and the table erupted anew in cackles. Silvio leaned across the table to pinch young Moltisanti's cheek, winking at Adriana as he did so. Standing at the kitchen door, Artie Bucco had physically, tactfully blocked his estranged wife from approaching the Soprano's table to complain about the uproar and the disturbance to other diners. Now, however, the performance ended, he made way for Charmagne to clear dishes, earning a scowl for his trouble. Charmagne Bucco's displeasure only intensified as she drew near the table. On many plates, the brasciole had gone nearly untouched, and the dessert - sfogliatelles, painstakingly hand layered, individually filled and topped with a generous dollop of homemade creme fraiche - was being wolfed down with an almost casual disregard for the delicacy of it all. In spite of her rising temper, instinct drove Charmagne to approach the head of the family and his wife first. "Finished?" Charmagne had to turn away when Carmela laid a comforting hand on her forearm. She didn't need the woman's pity, no matter how goddamn free Carm was in doling it out. Carmela nodded and leaned out of the way so that Charmagne could remove her plates. When the Sopranos' places had been cleared, a discreet signal from Charmagne brought a swarm of waitstaff to gather the dishes from the rest of the table. "Hey, Charmagne!" When she didn't respond, Tony reached back and tugged on her apron. "Hey, yeah. Can we get some cognac for the table here, and bring a bottle to the bar, and cigars. Some of us got a little business to attend to." Steadfastly refusing to look in Tony's direction, Charmagne Bucco nodded just enough to acknowledge that she'd heard him. Arthur could bring the man his drinks and smokes. She'd be damned if she was going to do so. "Thanks, hon," Tony said jovially, giving her a light spank as she left. Carmela reacted instantly and equally, more or less, smacking her husband hard on the arm. "Tony!" Neither spouse took note of the other woman's blazing glare. "Aw, c'mon, Carm! Cut her a break, heh? It's just a little love tap, to show there's no hard feelings." Carmela smiled at this. Across the table, the guests of honor were clearly perplexed. "In high school, Charmagne had a bit of a thing for me. But," Tony leaned over his arms toward them, "since, at that time, I was busy tryin' to get another girl, name of Carmela DeAngelis, to notice me, I had no clue about any of that." When he saw that the two former agents were beginning to understand, he turned to look directly into his wife's eyes. "Then, when Carm and I actually started datin'? Well, for Charmagne, it was all over but the shoutin'. She never stood a chance." Carmela blushed. As many times as he'd done something thoughtless, even hurtful to her, she had no doubt this man loved her above all others. No doubt at all. Even if one might wish there weren't quite so many others. "So," Tony said, draping a large paw gently over his wife's slender wrist, "if, from time to time, I throw the tiniest bit of sugar Charmagne's way, it's all to the good, right? A little, harmless sugar?" He picked out a blue packet from a bowl in the center of the table. "It's not even real sugar. It's Equal!" Carm shook her head, laughing softly. "What am I going to do with you, heh?" Tony stood and placed a kiss on the very top of his wife's head. "Love me. That's all I ask, Carm. That's all I ask." "Now," he said, looking down at Mulder. "Why don't you join us at the bar? We got some business to finish up." As Tony rounded the table, Silvio and the several capos who comprised 'the Administration' for the family rose to join him. Mulder followed suit, and Scully rose a second later, standing beside him. Tony put a guiding hand on Mulder's back, and led the group across the room. As Scully moved to go with them, Carmela stopped her, gently but firmly. Scully may have taken part in bidding the contract but, insofar as sealing the deal went, that was for the men only. From a lineage that stretched to ancient Italy, that was tradition. As she watched Mulder look back, startled, Scully feared another ancient maxim might be coming into play: divide and conquer. - end, part 10 -