Chapter Text
The FBI already knew just about everything there was to know about Kyle Schwartz, cousin to Kyle Broflovski and the family’s bagman-slash-accountant. Every part of the machine was essential to its smooth running, but his role, the equivalent of a vascular system in the human body, was arguably the most important. You can’t profit from large-scale criminal operations if you don’t have somewhere to wash the ill-gotten gains. Through an intricate process where dirty cash was blended with revenue from the businesses Sheila owned, invested in high-value assets or converted into various cryptocurrencies, Schwartz reintroduced it into the economy as legitimate. He was a wizard on the books.
He was also extremely unfortunate when it came to his fashion sense, health and personality. Craig could hear his loud, stuffy breathing from across the office. One of his hands was buried in the pocket of an ugly, reddish-violet jacket strewn with lopsided blue triangles while the other poked through a mountain of papers on a desk that looked like it cost more than Craig’s Sebring. “Oh, Jesus,” he muttered in a nasally voice as he picked up a file and set it down again, “they didn’t lowball. I told them to lowball!”
Craig leaned against the doorframe, waiting to be acknowledged. His eyes carefully roamed the room, picking out spots that would be ideal for a bug, noting a locked filing cabinet behind Schwartz. There probably wasn’t anything of investigative worth in there. Sheila was far too careful for that. Still, it would be prudent to learn what was in that cabinet if at all possible. Something to keep in mind.
“Help you find something?” he offered when Schwartz made a sound like an irritated chicken and shoved another jumble of papers in a desk drawer.
“Oh no, no, I know it’s here somewhere.” There was something unusual in the way the guy spoke. He ate his consonants and rushed through syllables with the intonation of a Connecticuter, paired with the slightest twang of the New Jersey accent common around these parts. Craig guessed he was raised in the Nutmeg State and moved to Essex County to help out with the family business. “Ah! Here it is. You’re here for insurance, right?”
“Right.”
“It’s great coverage. Extensive in-network providers, preventative care, reasonable copay. You’ll save a lot on doctor’s visits.” Schwartz poked his glasses further up his nose, looking at Craig like he expected a cookie and a pat on the back. “I just need you to fill this out, and this, oh, and this one, too.”
Craig took the wad of forms and flicked through. This wasn’t just a way for the Broflovski family to sweeten employment; it was a way for them to check him out. The paperwork would give them his Social Security Number, his birthdate, address and past history. Everything Schwartz needed to run a background check. By this time tomorrow, he’d have all the little details of Tucker’s fabricated life. They’d know he had no next-of-kin or partner, nobody to give a shit if he happened to meet with an unfortunate end in the line of duty.
Frustratingly, a lot of OCGs enjoyed far better healthcare than the majority of America- including FBI agents. His last yearly medical was cancelled because he was undercover, the one before so rushed he barely had time to pull his pants back up before the next patient was called in. “Awesome,” he said, trying to inject his tone with even a hint of sincerity rather than his habitual sarcasm. That wouldn’t play out too well. “Thanks, dude. Appreciate it.”
Schwartz gave him a crooked smile. “We’ll treat you right. You can trust me on that.”
Craig didn’t trust the guy as far as he could throw him.
On his first shift at Vortex, Craig watched Kyle for as long as he dared, trying to get a read on a person he felt he knew pretty well already. The files were telling, painting a picture of an explosion waiting to happen. Kyle was the designated fuck-up in the East Coast’s most fucked-up family. “You’re the new muscle, right?” someone asked behind Craig.
He turned, taking in the perfectly made-up face and intricate blonde braids of a young woman behind the bar. Bebe Stevens. She’d worked at Vortex for two years, first as a bartender and then as the General Manager. Before that, her record for solicitation and public inebriation spoke for itself. “Yeah, it’s my first night,” said Craig, offering a smile he knew would make his eyes crinkle. “I’m Tucker.”
“Bebe.” She held out her hand for him to shake, each nail filed to a sharp point and painted dark red to match her lipstick. “I haven’t seen you around before.”
“Just moved to the area. I had to…” Craig pretended to trail off with a sheepish grin and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “Well, I had to get away. It’s a long story.”
“Say no more. Hey, want some advice?”
“Sure.”
Before she could speak, a drunk propped up on the bar thumped his lowball down and demanded another. “One moment, handsome,” she winked.
From the corner of his eye, Craig observed while Bebe tried to persuade the guy it was time to go home. She handled him expertly, her body language neutral and her tone kind yet firm, but convincing a rich, entitled drunk they’d had enough was like convincing an angry hornet not to sting. As the man smacked his palms on the bartop, Craig decided it was time for him to step in. “C’mon,” he tapped the guy’s shoulder. “You heard her. The club’ll still be here tomorrow.”
“Take your hands off me!” the guy howled, rubbing his arm as if Craig had given him a haymaker rather than a light poke. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“Nope. No idea,” Craig said honestly. No-one important, or he’d be in the files. “Doesn’t matter who you are, you can’t stay here.”
“You and this whore,” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Bebe, “you got some kinda ven- some kinda vendet- some kinda stick up your asses or something?”
“Is there a problem here?”
Even without looking, Craig instinctively knew who’d spoken. He knew Kyle Broflovski must be standing behind him. “Nothing Tucker here can’t handle,” Bebe said, her tone falsely cheerful like she was hoping to avoid an escalation. “Isn’t that right, Tucker?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Craig took a sideways step so both the drunk and Kyle were in his sights. “I’ll escort him out. He won’t be a problem.”
Kyle’s eyes narrowed. A bottle of vodka was gripped tight in his fist, his thumb rolling restlessly over the rim. His anger was palpable, pouring out of him like toxic vapor, hardening the lines of his face, and when he spoke it came out as little more than a hiss. “You wanna go, jagoff? ‘Cause I’ll go. I’ll fuckin’ end your pathetic, garbage existence. I'll peel the eyeballs from your skull.”
The drunk’s entire big-balled façade crumbled in Kyle’s presence. He became a meek little lamb, happy to follow Craig past the dance floor, private booths and coat check until the sharp night air struck his flushed face. “Don’t come back,” Craig warned. “You got off easy tonight.” The guy nodded, mumbling something inaudible, and staggered off down the street.
When Craig returned inside, Kyle was nowhere to be seen and Bebe was back behind the bar, polishing glasses until they gleamed under the lights. “So, that advice,” she said as though there was no interruption. “Don’t stare at the boss. He doesn’t like it. And as you just saw, he’s not shy when it comes to confrontation.”
“Oh.” Craig fiddled with a button on his shirt. Clearly, his watching Kyle wasn’t as subtle as he’d thought. “I won’t. I was just curious. I’ve heard a lot about the Broflovski family.” He let his eyes sweep over the club, checking for problems, and glanced back at Bebe. “Also heard you’ve seen your fair share of confrontation lately.”
Talking with witnesses, suspects and perps was a real balancing act. It didn’t help to walk in like you owned the joint, or throw out too many questions that might either get your cover blown or give you the reputation of a snoop who asked too many questions. The process of ingratiating yourself in organised crime was a slow, subtle one, often taking one step forward and two steps back before any real progress was made. Bringing up the attack at Vortex was risky, yes, but his years in law enforcement had given Craig a sixth sense for when taking risks was appropriate.
“That’s an understatement.” Bebe tossed the dishtowel over her shoulder and refreshed a few customers’ drinks before they could ask. “We lost some good people that night.”
“Sorry. I’ve lost people before, I know what it’s like.” Craig let his gaze fall to the counter. “Were you hurt?”
“No, thankfully. I hid, and-” she broke off and cleared her throat, clicking her nails on a near-empty bottle of Jägermeister. “You’d better get back to work, handsome. Mrs. B. isn’t a fan of idle hands.” The clipped note in her tone told him this line of enquiry was at its end. Now was the time to back off, gain her trust a little more, then go back when she liked him better.
Craig produced his gentlest smile, gave her a respectful nod and walked away. He circled the club, breaking up fights before they happened or calling cabs for those who’d drunk themselves into a stupor, half an eye out for troublemakers and the other half for Kyle. Presumably he’d slipped out at some point in the last few minutes.
The rest of the night passed with no major dramas. Nothing you wouldn’t expect in a New Jersey nightclub, that is. When last call came around and the customers shuffled, stumbled and staggered into the night, he took one final loop and wound up back at the bar. “Need any help cleaning up?” he offered.
“Aren’t you a peach?” Bebe thrust a cloth at him. “Wipe down the counter, will you? I need to get out of these damn heels.”
She came click-clacking out in five-inch scarlet stilettos that made her hips sway with every step. They looked expensive, too expensive on her salary. Either they were a gift from an admirer or, as Craig thought, they ‘fell’ off the back of a truck. Another perk of the job. “You handled that guy well,” he said, giving the bartop a scrub. He could smell alcohol soaked into the mahogany from years of spilled drinks. “Asshole shouldn’t’ve called you a whore. I barred him, so it won’t happen again.”
Bebe laughed. “Really? You barred him for calling me a whore? It’s only a word, honey.”
“A shitty word.”
Plucked eyebrows climbed her forehead. “Come on, now, don’t tell me you haven’t heard worse.” She kicked off one heel and then the other. Without them, she was at least a foot shorter than Craig. “Well, I appreciate the thought. That guy always skeeved me out, you know? Shame he wasn’t here when the club was attacked. I wouldn’t be sorry if he caught a bullet or two.”
There it was; another opening. “Always the way, isn’t it? Good people are lost, the shitty ones get left behind.”
“Does that make me a shitty one?”
Craig lifted his head so fast his neck clicked. “Fuck, no, not at all,” he said, pretending to fumble the cloth. “Sorry. Before she died, my mom always said I have foot-in-mouth syndrome.”
She laughed again. “I’m just screwing with you, sweetie. You know, you’re not like the other bouncers.”
“How so?”
“Do you see any of them helping? They shot out of here like lubed-up rockets when quitting time came around.” Bebe gave him the benefit of a long, assessing look. Reaching behind the bar, she pulled out a bottle of vodka and two glasses. “Take a drink with me? It’s good shit, the kind the boss likes.”
Craig hesitated. At one time, and with good reason, agents were forbidden from imbibing in drugs or alcohol while undercover. It was considered too risky; who knew what secrets could come pouring out if an agent got too drunk or high? Thanks to a recent law change, one that sought to further protect the agent’s legend, that had all changed. It was no longer forbidden if there were no viable alternatives, just strongly frowned upon. He had his own methods for dealing with these kinds of situations. Sometimes he’d fake a liver problem or pay off a bartender to serve him non-alcoholic drinks all night. If he was around potheads, he’d offer to roll the joint. “I can roll ‘em fat as a baby’s arm,” he’d say. Then all he had to do was backload it and take the first few drags so nobody would get suspicious. If someone had coke, he’d cut it into their initials as a means of diversion.
He watched Bebe pour two shots. Maybe he could pretend to drink and spit it out when she wasn’t looking. “Cheers,” he clinked his glass against hers and threw it back, holding it in his mouth while Bebe poured another for herself.
“You assholes partying without me? In my own damn club?”
Fuck, he knew how to move quietly. Vodka burned Craig’s throat as he gulped it down reflexively, spinning on his heel. Kyle was just inches away. So close that Craig could feel him breathing. “Don’t you shitheads have any manners at all?” Kyle demanded, hands on his hips.
“Don’t be like that, babydoll,” Bebe said with a flash of her pearly whites. “You know you’re my favourite bitch.”
For the first time, Craig saw him smile. It wasn’t even a real smile, the eye-crinkling kind; it was a smirk. A sneer. “Fuck you, Bebe. Gimme that,” he snatched the bottle from her hand and lifted it to his lips, head tilted back. Craig watched the pale skin of his throat tick as he swallowed. It looked… strange. Jarringly vulnerable, exposed, like the smallest cut would bleed him to death. He downed a good fifth of the bottle without so much as a cough. “What are you looking at, douchenozzle?”
Remembering what Bebe said about staring, Craig dropped his gaze. “Yeah, that’s right,” said Kyle. “Hail to the King, fucker.”
Wow. So he was that kind of person. With a glance between them, Bebe stepped in. “Kyle, this is Tucker. You met him earlier.”
“Yeah, about that,” clamping his ring and pinkie fingers over the bottleneck, Kyle poked Craig hard in the chest. Vodka spilled over his shirt. “Next time, don’t go fuckin’ up my fun. I wanted to pull that guy’s intestines out his mouth and use him as a goddamn puppet.”
“Sorry. I’ll keep that in mind if it ever happens again,” Craig muttered. He really, really hated having to defer to this smouldering heap of wasted potential. Daring to glance up, he saw a quick flash of something pass over Kyle’s bruised face. He almost looked disappointed, but by what? “I’d better get on home. Thanks for the drink.”
The breakroom was just behind the bar. Craig took his time shrugging on his jacket, ears strained for any hint of conversation between Kyle and Bebe. Either they weren’t talking or the walls were soundproofed, because he heard nothing. He opened the door a crack and peered out. Her mouth hovered close to Kyle’s ear, whispering, a hand raised so Craig couldn’t lipread. That was unfortunate.
On his walk to the Sebring, Craig took note of a shiny black Cadillac parked up outside Vortex. A tall, muscular guy got out of the backseat, ghosting a hand over blond hair stiff with gel. Trent Boyett. Sheila’s right-hand man, an enforcer for the family and a nasty piece of shit. Craig remembered reading about him in the file. He was suspected of beating his ex-girlfriend into a coma and a person of interest in four separate murder investigations, though no charges were ever brought. Gerald Broflovski always found a way to weasel him out. What was he doing here?
Craig decided to find out. On the pretence of tying his shoe, he knelt down and waited until Boyett was inside, running through his options. It’d be stupid to invent a reason to go back in, so he’d have to hang around and see what happened. Lucky for him, there was an alleyway behind the club housing a dumpster he could hide behind, giving a perfect vantage point. He counted the seconds, wondering how long he might have to hold his breath against the stink of rotting garbage.
Not long, as it turned out. Seventy-two seconds later, Boyett reappeared with Kyle in his shadow. Trent walked with the bold assuredness of someone who probably never feared anything in his life. Kyle walked like a man headed for the gallows, head bowed and shoulders stooped. Craig inwardly cursed. He’d never be able to follow them without severely risking his cover. Wherever the Ghosts were, and they were probably close, he hoped they’d tail the Caddy in his place. Making a mental note of the licence plate, he pressed himself against the wall and stayed put until the engine purr faded into New Jersey’s background hum.
The South Ironbound apartment was precisely as crappy as Craig had imagined, and somehow he was still disappointed. Walls weeping with damp, cracked splash tiles in the kitchen, mould lining the bathroom fixtures. He’d have to get some bleach and give it a going over when there was time. In the bedroom, he caught a glimpse of himself in a dusty old mirror and grimaced. Most of the time he loved his work undercover. It was exhilarating, interesting, and no two days were the same.
But the one thing he didn’t love? The way he was expected to look. His black hair hung halfway down his neck, stubble coated his jaw, and his threads gave the impression he belonged in a trailer park. Jeans and tank tops really weren’t his style. He looked the part of a petty criminal down on his luck, just waiting for the right score.
Still, he thought as he knelt down by a power outlet behind the steel-framed bed, as far as first days went? That was a pretty good one. He’d developed a tentative bond with Bebe, someone who seemed to know Kyle better than maybe even his own family, and picked out a few leads to follow: Schwartz’s filing cabinet, Vortex’s second floor and the Cadillac’s destination. He studied the outlet. To an outside eye, the thing looked outdated enough to zap anyone dumb enough to go near. Craig knew better. A loose floorboard beneath came up easy when he pried it open, finding a small key within. He fitted it into the socket, heard a satisfying click, and pulled the whole thing out of the wall. There was a little compartment inside housing an old smartphone and a small bag of white powder. The powder -a few grams of cocaine taken from evidence- was a failsafe. If anyone searched the apartment and were scrupulous enough to find the hidden safe, the coke might just allay their concerns. Feds didn’t keep Schedule II substances lying around, right?
The cell was his means of communication with the Bureau. An encrypted app inside another, innocuous instant messaging app that could only be accessed if he keyed his personal code into the contacts and pressed send. He was the only person to know the code, and anything he typed in would go directly to Donovan. This was the best way to keep his supervisors happy. Whereas traditional surveillance methods such as listening devices, cameras and GPS trackers could be found and disconnected if the OCG was particularly vigilant, Craig’s cell could only be found if someone took a particular interest in him. And he had absolutely no intention of letting that happen. He’d play his part, and he’d play it well.
Bed was calling. Doubtless his sleep would be as disrupted as it was every other damn night, but he had to try. In order to infiltrate the jackal den that was the Broflovski family, he’d need his wits about him.