TITLE: That Shotgun Shine (5/?) AUTHORS: Paige Caldwell, David Stoddard-Hunt RATING: hard R (language, violence) FEEDBACK: paigec38@yahoo.com dmstoddardhunt@yahoo.com WEBSITES: http://www.geocities.com/mattersofbelief http://www.iwtbxf.com/paige NOTE: Full headers with part 1. Parts 1 - 4 are here: http://www.iwtbxf.com/paige/Shotgunshine.htm ************* 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/?-