Just Like Somebody On TV
by skazka

Just Like Somebody On TV

skazka

Summary

In which Freddy Newandyke does not catch a bullet and Larry Dimmick makes off with a briefcase full of diamonds and both of them still end up in more trouble than they bargained for.

Notes

Imported from Archive of Our Own. Original work id: 9007525.

Chapter 1

By the skin of their fucking teeth — and Freddy doesn't know what to believe any more, he's just along for the ride. Maybe the setup went off — maybe brass scrapped the idea at the last minute and nobody thought to tell the guy whose ass was on the line, maybe they did the wrong day, maybe somebody shot up a post office across town and drew the heat. Bad intel, somebody else set them up, something — a fucking bloodbath but no fucking cops.

Scatter the team, grab a little something for yourself and get the fuck out of there. Maybe that way the guys camping out at the rendezvous point bust the rest of these guys and not the sole solitary person who's shown him a little fucking decency. Except Mr. Orange didn't manage to peel off on his own and Mr. White was too busy hustling him out of there after Toothpick Vic got his brains blown out all over the glass display cases.

"Hey, man, we planned this."

"There's planning and there's planning. This is something else, okay? This is some next-level lunatic shit."

Freddy found him — Freddy floated the idea past over remorseful beers and burgers and expected the guy to punch his lights out, half-wanted him to punch his lights out, instantly regretted what could have dramatically escalated an already sticky situation and then found he was more or less amenable to the concept. Altering the deal. It's pretty fucking altered now, isn't it.

He didn't even have to call for backup. (He didn't have time, he tells himself. There wasn't that kind of time.)

"Take it easy. It looks less like I'm going to sell you a big ol' briefcase full of guns, and more like I took you out for a romantic dinner, a pitcher of beer, and a blowjob."

"Yeah, but I don't like it." This is a trick, this is the kind of thing they tell you not to do. This is a great way to wind up dead someplace with your own dick in your mouth. But there's no way on earth this guy's caught on to anything, there's no way this guy thinks he's a narc when he's just helped him boost a king's ransom in unmarked fucking diamonds.

"If you don't like it, we can switch gears. Just take it easy."

Mr. White's hand is on his wrist — enough of this Mr. White shit. It feels like any minute now he might break away from gravity and float away. In a good way — there's a spring in his step, a dizzy excitement as they make a beeline past the front desk and back to the antique elevator.

It comes out of his mouth before he can stop it, once they're over that little brass ledge and pressing buttons — Freddy Newandyke was raised not to make personal remarks about other people's shitty cigarette-burned carpet and peeling wallpaper but Mr. Orange the punk criminal was not.

"Jesus, what a fucking dump!"

"Keep your voice down, would you? This happens to be a very nice place. And they know me here, so don't go bitching about wanting more towels." Big talk for a guy from Milwaukee.

"What do you mean, they know you here? I thought you were from out of town. Guy at the front desk must think we're a couple of homos." And as far as the last half-hour is concerned, they are. Freddy tries to lean into it.

"I mean this is their business. If you don't make it weird for me, I won't make it weird for you."

"So what's the story? How did we meet?"

"How about we met in San Quentin? You were a first timer, looking for a big tough daddy to tuck you in at night."

He's starting to see pictures already. It puts a shiver down his spine — not that he's freaking out, exactly, but something.

"Fuck it, whatever you say, man."

When the elevator grinds to a stop on the third floor — there's stairs, but who the fuck wants to do any more exercise today after the amount of adrenaline-doped sprinting they've done — the grate rattles open and Mr. White sticks his hand in the back pocket of Freddy's jeans.

It makes him jump but it doesn't take long to get with the program — his spine's still ramrod-straight from the acute awareness of another guy's hand on his ass but he falls in close beside him. This way anyone with curious eyes is going to get hung up on the mismatched homo displays of affection and not the swinging briefcase.

There's a sinewy guy filling up on ice at the dirty plastic bin who gives them a stare when they go by, like he just overheard them calling his mother a ten-dollar hooker. Freddy tries not to look at him any longer than he has to. He leans into White's side, and White tugs on his elbow, once they've reached the right room with the right gold numbers on the door.

"Come on, tiger. We've got an hour to kill."

*

Freddy should be leaping to the defense of his masculinity, but he's still rattling around in his diamond-heist getup trying to shut off the play-by-play still narrating in his head. He can break it all down at his leisure with a fucking cup of coffee and a big yellow legal pad and a whole pack of cigarettes.

White gestures to him. "There's a thrift store down the block. Why don't you run around the corner and get us some new duds? One guy in a suit looks like one guy in a suit. Two guys looks like a couple of lost pallbearers."

Freddy smiles at that, a big stupid smile that doesn't leave his face until he's in front of the bathroom mirror. If they lose the jackets and ties they're just a couple of guys, period. Freddy's wearing black denim, his own jeans. Nobody stipended this getup. He tugs off his tie in front of the mirror, strips out of his white cotton shirt, and holds it up for a second, squinting for distinguishing marks — sweat rings or gunpowder smudges or whatever.

Only then does he notice the narrow stripe of red across his side, just above his hip — fingering at the vent of his suit jacket reveals a corresponding exit scraping up the ply of the cloth until white fibers show.

She fucking missed. A civilian points a .38 straight at him from two feet away and misses, what are the fucking odds?

He presses his fingers in the sticky blood for a moment, before stripping out of his undershirt and running it under cold water. Just like mama says — and the rest of it washes away clean, until it just looks like a dirty smudge and not like a near-miss with violent criminal death. Freddy's wincing all the while, but a quickie patchup and he's tripping out the door with his wallet in his pants and his heart thudding away somewhere near his throat.

This is the part that doesn't wash — nobody runs out on a no-tell hot date to buy clothes. But a thrift store is a thrift store, they're all over the place now. The girl behind the counter gives him dirty looks like she caught him sniffing tee shirts to find which ones smell least like weed. So Freddy gets his act together, acts like a real good citizen, and won't get busted in a fucking thrift store in between the souvenir shot glasses and the secondhand bras. The cashier looks about ready to snap by the time he gets to the counter, and the guy chewing her out over a buck-fifty wristwatch is making this whole thing take a lot longer than Freddy's comfortable with. He pays his fucking cash, and leaves with a plastic bag stuffed full of shirts.

Plenty of time to dial up Holdaway and bawl about how the whole thing's gone south. But he's gone fucking Method now, and it's too late.

Smoky lobby, snide bellboy, rattling elevator, sticky carpet. Brisk pace, keep walking. Try not to look too long at what's happening at the other end of the hall.

There's a cluster of girls in the hallway when he gets back to their floor, banging on the door and waving at the peephole, all in shortie robes and full jewelry — somebody's shooting a porno and not answering their goddamn door, that's what. Maybe six girls. Big ones, little ones, dark, blonde. All of them turn and look at him at once. It's unsettling.

Freddy tries to put a little oomph in his gait as he fumbles for the lock, hoping he looks like a cheap hustler, and pushes past the door hip-first.

"How's this stuff? You won't fucking believe what I had to do to get this."

But Mr. White motions for him to shut the hell up. He's in his undershirt, the tee-shirt kind with a real collar and sleeves; that big old gun of his is laid out on the bed next to that big black briefcase. He sits up a little and swings his legs over the edge of the bed.

Freddy spreads out the bag's contents piece by piece: for White/Dimmick, a polo shirt with the little guy embroidered on it, a windbreaker, a pair of sunglasses, a pair of socks. For himself, a print shirt that didn't have a bullet hole in it.

"So what are you going to do with your take?"

Low voices; Freddy's tough-guy rasp is starting to sound a little tinny. "You know Dog Day Afternoon? Al Pacino robs a bank 'cause his special girl needs an operation."

"Is that what you're springing for with your share?" Another guy would make a joke, but Mr. White is strangely solicitous — he's one of the old-timers, Freddy's seen his rap sheet with his own two eyes, he's probably seen a lot of guys do a lot of shit for a lot of stupid reasons.

"No, I just mean — when the guy gets that his number's up, he gets the fuck out of Dodge, he commandeers a jet. I want out of the country. I figure I'll kick around Vegas a little while, maybe hit up some casinos—"

He's never been to a casino in his life, but the idea doesn't sound so terrible just now. You can live like a fucking prince at a casino as long as you don't mind never leaving. His ears are still ringing.

"Try and get your girl back?"

"What?"

"The girl you married. Or is it not that kind of thing?"

"What kind of thing? What kind of thing is that? She's gone, man, she doesn't want nothing to do with me."

And she doesn't exist, which probably helps. Freddy sits down beside him and pries off his shoes — they need a serious polish, but the department doesn't pay for that kind of expense and the kind of guy who tells that story about cops and German Shepherds doesn't either. Hell, he didn't even own a suit jacket before this.

Suddenly, White's big hand is on his knee. Dimmick's big hand, with about a thousand years of rap-sheet history weighing heavy on it. Freddy's starting to feel a little tingly.

"You handled yourself pretty well back there. You've got nothing to be embarrassed about."

Already his thoughts are churning — he doesn't have to do this, he can stick to the script, he can step out and haul ass down to the lobby and make a payphone call straight to the top brass. He doesn't need to throw it all in with some ex-con he doesn't know.

He's sweating, shaking, like all the action of the past 12 hours has just hit his bloodstream. Play it like the man said. Play it like they've got a history together, and this is just one desperate hookup of many.

"Man, I—"

And Dimmick's arm is around him, his mouth is on Freddy's mouth and Freddy makes a tortured undignified sound — his mouth pops open and he sucks a big movie-star kiss from this guy's lips, desperate and willing. They could have died today. They could have died today and Freddy Newandyke could die tomorrow, he could die at this man's hand and that'd be all right but it's just too bad because Mr. Orange is a homo supreme and he's just glad to be alive.

Half an hour to grab a couple secondhand shirts and for Mr. White to make a couple phone calls. For all Freddy knows he called the cops and is going to sell his upstart buddy out to his own brothers-in-arms with the LAPD. Maybe the shitty bedside phone works after all and he called Joe. Maybe he made a call to their original rendezvous spot and a pissed-off gutshot Mr. Pink is on his way to chew them out. A double double cross. A triple cross. Shit.

Or maybe he's going to get a world-class handjob on a hotel bed next to a few million dollars' worth of diamonds. Dimmick undoes his belt for him.

"It's just, your blood gets up, you know? I've been doing this thirty years plus, it's every goddamn time. Your heart's pumping, all kinds of chemicals circulating—"

"Yeah, I know," Larry breathes against the corner of his jaw.

"I knew this guy once, did insurance scams. Every time he'd torch a warehouse he'd get a hard-on." He's got gentle hands, and what the fuck is happening with that. "Did you see anybody out there? On the way up?" Dimmick is murmuring against his neck, too close to be overheard.

Freddy nods and swallows.

"Well, let's put on a show."

Mr. White sucks a bite out of the side of Larry's neck, the kind that bruises and leaves red pinprick teeth-marks, and Larry makes some kind of indecent noise — it's enough to make his toes curl and all the muscles in his legs go stiff, the guy has to lever him back against the bed.

If he lets him keep going after his throat, at least his hands are free — he pulls at Dimmick's undershirt, shutting his eyes and letting it all wrap around him — Dimmick's hands on him, his fingers on his scratched side. Freddy wonders where he's been.

Mr. Orange keeps a condom in his empty wallet, you know, just in case — just in case somebody screws him on a hotel bed — he rolls it on him with one hand, just a little anxiously, and White says something approving but really it's just an excuse to feel his cock, to know for sure.

He's on his back and Dimmick is calling the shots, fingering him apart with spitty fingertips — Freddy exclaims and swears, a little louder than maybe he should, if the part he's playing is some punk who doesn't care about being fucked but also isn't a full-time blasé cock-hungry slut.

White's other hand is on his face, on his throat just below his chin, the soft part that's exposed when Freddy squirms. "Easy, easy. I'm gonna take care of you."

Freddy yelps and tries not to think about past misadventures with big dicks. If that loud-mouthed motherfucker ruined big dicks for him back there in the diner he's never going to be the same.

But once he's eased in it's not long before he's really hitting his stride, really hammering into him, you know — thrusts that rattle the headboard and jostle the shitty hotel phone around in its plastic cradle. Freddy yelps again and swings out an arm to slam it back in place. Convincing fucking is one thing but giving the weasely bellhop downstairs an obscene phone call is another.

White's hands are on his sides, on the soft part of his leg, and they've fallen into a rhythym; Freddy's undershirt is riding up. His breath is coming from somewhere high in his chest, nervous pleased hyperventilating breaths that make his voice sound like somebody else's. Maybe this is how he gets away clean. He doesn't have to call his handler — he can just fuck off into the underworld, wherever junior crooks go,

Face to face, belly to belly. Freddy kisses him on the mouth, on the chin, all over his face, like he hasn't been fucked in three years —

Because if this doesn't come off clean he'll be going away for a hell of a lot longer than three years and if he's lucky he won't be getting fucked. This isn't Freddy the cop and it isn't Freddy the criminal, it's just Freddy — lifting his hips and bracing his ankle against White's back to let this guy pound him, real sweetly. He's a gentleman.

Dimmick's mouth leaves a red mark on his shoulder, while he's jerking him off real slow — like Freddy's some little piece of rough trade getting what for, swearing and getting pounded.

Freddy's hair is falling in his eyes. Dimmick's shaky hand combs it back from his forehead.

"Fuck, I think I love you," comes jolting out of him, and what the fuck kind of thing is that to say, with another guy's dick in your ass? He stammers until White's hand swipes over his face, both tender and unsubtle.

"Hey now, let's not get ahead of ourselves." But he's laughing, not pissed. They're just letting off steam now — pushing back, having a little fun. Nobody's calling anybody else by name.

Freddy finishes out as a complete mess. He's stunned, hovering somewhere three feet above his body in some kind of fucked-up out of body post-fucking experience before he even realizes White's done screwing him and the condom is in the trash. That's authenticity, right there.

They're going to get the fuck out of here. Cabot and the gang are going down already, and Freddy likes being alive and maybe having sex and maybe having money. It's hard to think about principles when the game plan's a shambles and all he wants is a shower and a cigarette and about six cups of coffee before he dies.

His own freshly-fucked body is a disaster area, jizz drying on his belly and sweat and fingernail scrapes — White hustles him into the hotel bathroom, where some maid is definitely getting a tip because this motherfucker is spotless. Ditch the gun on the countertop and a stack of fresh clothes waiting while they did their best to fog up the cheap mirror. The two of them grappling under the lousy showerhead — hard water that tastes just a little like blood, getting in his eyes, sticking his hair down to his face. Dimmick gripping his hips, Freddy's mouth against his collarbone, two sets of hands holding, and no future.