Storms and craters

Chapter 2

Actually, Vegas has never been a fan of pulling out a police id, using this method only in the most extreme cases. And he would really spit on this wallet if it didn't keep an important piece of his past. Being busy with a new investigation, he comes back to the pub only on the third day after that disgusting acquaintance.

In civilian clothes.

With as relaxed facial expression as possible, telling the owner that he has "lost" his wallet and would like to check on the cameras how this could have happened.

"The cameras? Ah... they've broken down, you know," the piggy eyes of a fat man stinking of garlic toasts, are running around the perimeter of salon - a clear sign of a lier.

"Yeah, I get it," Vegas's face is glowing with a familiar grin, "well then," he grabs the man by the collar, "they won't shoot it down either and I can calmly punch you in the face, right? Or will we act more humanely?"

"How?.."

"The bright blue bomber jacket and very naughty hands. Who is he and how can I find him. You tell me and I won't touch your viper. Got it?"

"I don't understand who you are talking about... Shiaaa!"

The man does not have time to finish, as Vegas does something that makes him start choking, either from wild laughter, or from painful screams."

"So?"

"Let me go! Why do you need him?!"

"He took something expensive from me. And I won't let him or you get away with it."

"Ask anyone about Splinter, they will take you to him!.. Let me go!.."

Vegas grins and forcefully pushes the owner to the counter, so that he flies over it.

Yeah. So, he even has a professional nickname. Okay.

***

"Why 'Splinter'?"

"Because right away and deep under the skin. What are you doing here?"

Not that Vegas expected a warm welcome, but sitting in the backyard, among old pickups and the same crooks like him, the would-be pickpocket throws the same cheeky look at him, playing with a car keychain in his hand.

For a few moments Vegas thinks: who is patronizing this pack of impudent cubs? And how did they, quite young, come under this patronage? A chain is built in his head: a dysfunctional or deceased family - an orphanage - a street - a brothel... And if you... if something like that happened to you? Although... are you still alive?

Vegas shakes his shoulders, getting rid of obsessive thoughts. There's no time for sentiment right now.

"Give me back my stuff," he says calmly, looking straight into those oninx eyes.

The guy snorts and lifts his chin with an impudent grin:

"What exactly?"

"Can we go away for a couple of minutes?"

"For a few minutes? Only? And why so little? Can't you do any longer? I thought cops are all tough guys."

"Stop pissing me off," Vegas looks at the giggling idlers with contempt, "I want to have a talk to you."

He mentally prepares to continue the verbal sparring, but Splinter rises and waddles off to the side, nodding casually to Vegas to follow him.

"So? What do you need?"

"Ahem, and besides "what" are there question words in your vocabulary?"

"What? Have you come to teach me manners? Or," here Splinter moistly licks his lower lip and leads with a haze, "shall we do something more interesting?"

"Give me back my wallet."

"It's empty."

"Okay. Return it empty."

"Pff, I threw it away."

"When?"

"I don't remember."

"When?" Vegas repeats firmly.

"I don't fucking remember!"

Vegas could have twisted his arms, could have smashed that pretty face on the pavement, but instead he calmly breathes out:

"There is something dear to me in the wallet. Give it back, you can take the rest. And, as I've already told you, don't get caught in the eye again."

The devil knows how it works, but the cheeky boy unbuttons his bomber jacket, fumbles in his inner pocket and hands the wallet to Vegas. His face at that moment expresses neither audacity, nor impudence, nor dirty vulgarity. It's focused and sad. Vegas tries not to flatter himself too much: the guy is still a well-deserved actor and will play any emotion at the moment.

It's here.

Vegas exhales, pulling off the cover and taking out a time-tarnished photo with a torn corner. From the side there comes cautious:

"Your brother?"

Vegas frowns and puts the photo away at the top.

"It's none of your business," he throws an empty wallet at the feet of the quiet boy, "here's your change. Splinter."

"Actually, I'm Pete."

"Actually, it would be worth teaching you a good lesson. But there is no desire to get dirty."

Vegas can see by his eyes that Pete is... offended. But Vegas is not used to feeling sorry for such sneaky guys. Give up the slack at least once - and you'll get into a trap.

Tonight Vegas can't go to sleep for a long time again. The same tune from childhood is playing in his head.

But he doesn't remember its words.

Only you knew them well... Build.

A week later, when Vegas almost forgets about the incident, his department is given a new task. Not easy.

Big fish. Controls a quarter of Bangkok's drug traffic. The bastard loves gambling,, antique auctions and beautiful young boys. They are unlikely to get him on the hook, but his pawns - quite possible. He keeps all the dirt on them in a flash drive which is always with him.

So, we need someone who will deftly and unobtrusively get it... hmm.