TITLE:         That Shotgun Shine (2/?)
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

*********************

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/?-