Fandom: Good Omens
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Alright...It all started when Tommy Friar was found, dead, in a back alley in Mayfair. In my territory .
Well, that wasn't when it all started, but I don't really feel like dragging you through my entire sordid backstory. The tale of the cop turned con is as old as it is ugly, and as filled with alcohol and self-pity as a dive bar next to a two-bit AA meeting hall ten minutes before closing. All you need to know about me is that my name is Anthony J. Crowley, and I was done with this shit before it even started.
Tommy Friar was fourteen years old when he was murdered.
I'm no stranger to the London Underworld. I've been involved in some shady business in my time, and I've been on the wrong side of the law for more years than I worked to uphold it. But even a crook's gotta have morals. Killing kids? That's where I drew the line.
I don't work with cops, as a rule. Did enough of that, back in the day, back before my catastrophic fall from grace. I slipped through the cracks in the System as easily as nails down a chalkboard, and free-dived straight down into the mercenary world of the London ganglands. I found my niche, down there in the darkness, in the darkness that matched the blackness of my soul, and for over a decade I was the Man In Black , eluding the Boys In Blue like a shadow eludes the sun.
But then Tommy was killed with all the markings of a gangland wasting, and none of my usual contacts were talking. With the little information I could piece together and the information conspicuous by its absence, everything began to point towards this being big. Bigger than the two-bit criminals that lurked around my usual haunts. This went to the top .
The only fact I had for certain was that all of this was somehow connected to a cocaine racket that ran out of the West End. Even in that I was severely lacking in details - I had no firm names, no firm places, only nervous rumor and pregnant silences. And whilst the connection to coke pushers was unequivocal, it somehow felt more than that, in a way I couldn't put my finger on. But after years as a copper, and more years as a criminal, I'd learned to trust my nose. The footprints in this snow lead far beyond your run-of-the-mill drug mules. My usual contacts wouldn't talk, and when they did they did so in hushed whispers. Every lead went cold, every path had been swept. Awful lot of effort just for the sake of taking out one teenage boy.
Something big was going on, and I'd be damned if I didn't figure out what.
But my problem was that I had exhausted all of my investigative avenues, and two weeks into my relentless digging, I was barely any closer to finding the truth.
Well, that wasn't quite true. I hasn't exhausted every avenue. I did have one path left open to me, it was just one that I swore I'd never take. But I owed it to Tommy. And if this went as far as I thought it did, I owed it to the bastards playing with the lives of the little people on the ground like they were nothing more than expendable pawns in their fucked-up game of chess. Taking this path wouldn't be easy, and it wouldn't be pretty, and it could sure as hell end up with me left in the shit, but I figured I was already living on borrowed time.
And so, against my better judgement, I looked to the cops. I knew my only chance at vengeance, at justice for Tommy, would be by getting a contact on the inside,finding a way to pool our knowledge and synchronise our sources. At least until I had enough information to strike out on my own. Until I had positioned the pieces to ensure a swift and merciless checkmate against whoever thought they could hurt a child on my patch. Until I was ready to go rogue, once again.
That had been the plan, anyway.
But then I met the Angel.
And then everything had gotten real big, real fast.
