[center][b]Part II: Double Team[/b] [i]"Every society gets the kind of criminal it deserves."[/i] -- Robert F. Kennedy[/center] [b]The Juicy Fruit Gentleman's Club The Bronx 6:05 AM[/b] [i]"Missy wore them go-go boots; it did something for him. Made him think his wife back home was homely and boring."[/i] While the southern-twanged singer crooned through the small radio on the desk, the man in the suit sat back and went through the profits of the night. His face was wrinkly, almost to a grotesque level. Back in Kentucky, they picked at him and called him names. He knocked their teeth in back then when he was young and impulsive. Now he owned the malformity and took pride in it. By calling himself Pruneface he gave them one less thing for them to call him. "Mr. Pruneface?" He looked up from the sheet on his desk and raised his eyebrows. Renee stood in the doorway. A three hundred pound bull dyke, she had short hair dyed the color of blood red and could kick almost any man's ass. Pruneface used her as a bouncer and bodyguard just to fuck with the macho dickheads who worked in their business. Nothing like getting patted down and manhandled by Renee to make one of these gangsters feel like less of a man. "What's up, babydoll?" He drawled in her direction. "Got a visitor." Pruneface flinched when he saw Flattop's bulky frame and even bulkier head step through the door past Renee. The boss loved the boy, but in Prunceface's estimation Flattop was nothing but trouble. The only time he showed up was when someone was dead or about to die. There'd be a day when he would come for Pruneface, that was why he kept the sawed-off shotgun in a hidden space just below his desk. He cradled it now, pointed right through desk at Flattop while the kid sauntered towards him with that unbearable grin on his face. "Need a place to lay low," he said as he sprawled out in one of the chairs opposite the desk. "Watch the news this morning and you'll see why." Pruneface relaxed his grip on the shotgun but kept it close. Duplicity wasn't one of Flattop's strong suits. If he was coming for Prunceface, he'd have a bullet in the wrinkly folds of his forehead by now. With one hand, he opened the desk drawers and rifled through them, watching Flattop out the corner of his eye. He pulled a folder out of the desk and slid it across to Flattop. The kid opened the folder and saw a single sheet of white paper with an address written on it and a key taped to the paper. "The address is in Queens. Buy a burner phone on the way there and call here when you get to the house okay. I'll pass the message along to the boss." Flattop grunted and tucked the paper and key into his jacket. He gave Pruneface a wink and a toothy grin before he stood and left without a word. Pruneface put the shotgun back in the covert rack under the desk and sighed in relief as he wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. He undid the knot in his tie and hit the intercom button on his desk. "Mumbles?" Mumbles replied in his usual mushmouth speak that Pruneface barely understood. "Flattop's heading out through the backdoor. Follow him as best as you can. If you lose him, give me a call and I'll take it from there." Mumbles said something that sounded like a yes and the line went dead. Pruneface brooded for a moment before he went back to work reviewing the club's nightly profit. --- [b]Major Case Squad Offices 1 Police Plaza 6:30 AM[/b] "Morning, morning, morning." Lieutenant Pat Patton was chipper as he walked between the crowded MCS cubicles. In one hand he carried a large mug of coffee and a brown bag stained with grease in the other. Always a morning person, Pat sipped coffee and whistled under his breath. "My god, could you not?!" Sitting at her desk with her head in her hands, Sergeant Jean DeWolff nursed a hangover. Pat knew that because he and a few others were out with her last night. "Here you go, Jeannie," Pat said, laying the bag on her desk. "Bagels and donuts from the deli around the corner. That'll soak the booze up." "How are you not hungover?" she croaked. "I been a cop for over twenty years, Jean. Through trial and error, and a lot of vomiting I've learned just the right amount of alcohol my body can handle." DeWolff opened up the bag and went to work on a donut while Pat walked to the big cork board hanging up in a corner. On it they had what little information there was about the Caprice Crime Family. A mugshot of Big Boy was at the top with strands of red twine strung between him and all his known associates. They had a surveillance photo of Pruneface with the words "DISTRIBUTION/TRAFFICKING" underneath it. Parallel to him was a mugshot of a chubby man with gray hair labeled GCPD. Written in marker below the mugshot was the name Lew Moxon and "NARCOTICS" There were question marks above the sections on the board labeled "MUSCLE" and "EXTORTION". The only other known subject on the board was Pasha Popov and his mugshot at the bottom of the board with "GAMBLING/DEALING" beneath his photo. Pat took the time to draw a red X on Popov's face and write the date of his murder. "Did you call Vin and Daz?" Pat asked DeWolff. "Yeah," she did between bites of her donut. "Daz lives over in Jersey, so he should be here soon. Vin? Who knows." Pat grunted and took a long sip of his coffee. "A member of Big Boy's organization was gunned down last night. The captain and Tork or on that, so we got to keep going. Regardless of who's behind it, we need to be out on the street and following the folks we know works for Big Boy, Moxon especially. If Popov had people acting as drug mules for Moxon, then his people may be the next targets. I'm going to text Daz on where to go, and we're heading out to find Moxon." DeWolff sighed and rubbed her head. Pat couldn't help but smirk when he saw it. "We'll swing by Cavanaugh's on the way out. We'll get a little Irish coffee going for you. Sound good?" "Pat, I could kiss you." "How about we wait until I get you nice and liquored up before we do that?" He winked at her and grabbed his coat before they headed back out.