2007-06-17: Killjoy



Special Guest Stars: The Macchiello Family

Summary: Nice Guys Really Do Finish Last.

Date It Happened: June 17, 2007


The Bronx

It's late in the Bronx, and the stars hide themselves behind clouds and New York light pollution. Nearby, the train rumbles by on its way between stations, screaming and rumbling its way along the tracks.

On a back bit of beach overlooking Manhattan Island, there are two dark sedans waiting, filled with several bodies but hidden behind tinted glass. One has a driver's window open, however, and a hefty man in a plain black tee shirt spills the smoke of his cigar into the open night air. They're silent, waiting for the last party of this rather important meeting.

~ Everything happens for a reason. Including whatever's about to happen with these knuckleheads. I gotta' get outta' this. No time to think. Just… react. ~

Archer's '73 Caprice comes rolling into the visual spectrum of all that is the Bronx, this late night. The headlights are dim, for some reason or another and he rolls right up to where the other cars are parked. There's a bit of hesitation, but Archer gets himself out of the car, making sure to take his keys with him. Can't leave them in there for them to wreck his car and make him walk back. Or something.

Archer's exit brings him around to the front of his overcompensating vehicle and he leans back against the hood. No fear.

Upon the arrival of the beautiful piece of vintage steel, all eight doors of the two sedans open in a staggered array of power. Seven burly men hang back, however, as a dark-suited, older man man with graying hair and a cocky swagger.

His hands plunged deep into his pockets, the man known as Vincent Macchiello makes his way towards Archer with a broad smile after a quick glance to make sure his sons and brute force are all in place. "Mister Archer!" he greets in his thick Italian accent, stepping slowly. Surely. He is in no rush. "I am so glad you could make the meeting. I have been *eager* to see you." With a sweep of his hand and glance backwards, he indicates half of his escorts in a general sort of way. "Ask 'em. Been wanting to see you since my wife lit a candle for my son on Sunday, God rest his soul and comfort his mot'er."

"Been busy. It's New York. Everybody and their dog is cheating on each other. You know how it goes." Archer just goes with the easiest response he possibly can, considering that he's just trying to keep himself alive here. Next time he won't dodge so many phone calls. Maybe they won't come with so many bodyguards then. "But I managed to score some free time between hell and highwater, so here I am."

While his words may got to the Vincent, there are still a couple of things that he needs to pay more attention to. Like those seven big dudes that could punch him into oblivion.

Clasping his hands together and twisting his head to regard Archer with another grin from that side-tilted face, Machiello tilts his head. "So. Since you're so busy and I am so busy, let us cut to the chase. You find our little lady?"

The men behind him, in various stances exuding machismo, simply level their eyes on Archer. Are those freaks even blinking? The answer is, probably, but it sure doesn't look like it. Well, until one closes his eyes to loudly crack his neck.

"Yeah, about that." Archer looks like he's about to go into a big, long rant that is full of excuses and everything else. He even pushes off his car to prepare for it. Another glance at the Goon Squad, though, keeps him from going overboard. "She's ghost. I lost the trail a while back. Been trying to pick it back up… but nobody knows anything." That's right, Archer. Blame it on the town.

Vincent frowns at that. "You said you had something." There's a slow, audible inhalation, followed by a sharp exhalation. "Well, you know. We're good at finding people who go missin'. We just needed a bit of a fresher trail. Cops ain't good for nut'in', as I am sure you well know." His hand stretches out towards Archer. "Just give me what you had, we'll give you what the info's worth, and you can walk away and let us take care of the rest. Justice must be served, my friend."

"Yeah, about that, too." Archer isn't particularly sure what's going to happen at this point, so he doesn't reach for anything. In fact, he just holds his hands up to make sure nobody thinks he's about to pull a fast one or something else. "I lost the stuff. It's kind of… misplaced." He really should've worked on a better lie than this, but he's just going to see if he can't work some magic and get out of this. "So… how about we just call it even? No harm, no foul?"

All semblance of friendliness leeches from Vincent's leathery face at that. "I'm sorry. I don't t'ink I heard you." He laughs. Yes, Vincent must be making a joke. Once that sad attempt at laughter fades, his head bobs. "It *sounds*," a glance back to his Boys, "like you just said you lost your file." Another glance to his Boys as he asks his question to them. "Is that what that sounded like to you?"

Great. Juuuust great. "It's not that simple. I mean, it is and it isn't. Basically, I've been all over the place. It could be anywhere from here to Staten Island and back again. Look, why don't you and your boys give me a couple days. I'll see if I can locate it. Then I'll run it on over to you and everything'll be nice and cozy." Archer starts to stand up straighter, though his tone has a hint of pleading to it. He really doesn't feel like trying to fight insurmountable odds at the moment.

"Sam. Can I call you Sam?" Everything in Vincent's tone possesses that hollow cordiality. He's not asking permission. Rather, his eyes darken over that pale shadow of a smile as he places both hands on his chest. "I tend to think of myself as an excellent judge of character." Turning around entirely, he stretches a hand out towards his square-headed son — who still happens to be smoking on that thick Cuban cigar. "Am I not an excellent judge of character?"

"Oh, yeah!" One of the cronies is quick to reply. "An *excellent* judge of character!" It earns him a smack in the back of the head from one of his coworkers. Damned springbutt.

To this, Machiello nods in approval. "And my gut," he continues, "says you're lyin' to me, Sam." His hands stretch out, moving to cup the younger man's dark jaw. "Now you have two choices, Mr. Archer. You can tell me right now where to find the fucking bitch who took my son away from his mot'er, or you can learn a little bit about her pain. That bitch you is protecting killed my *son*." One hand draws away to wag a lazy finger.

"Beauty is deceiving, and she is an empty, hollow, murderin' bitch underneath all that pretty feminine. S'what got my son killed. S'what's gonna undo you," he adds on with a solemn bob of his head. "Now, you have one more chance, Sammy boy." His eyes glint that dangerous temper, even as he smiles. "Where is the slut?"

~ Samuel Archer. Private Dicked. ~

Archer's fear is only partially evident. He doesn't make any fast moves. Not wanting to get pumped full of lead. Or anything else, for that matter. Fists to the face are not as easy to take when they happen in real life. He digs deep, though, finding some sort of courage from somewhere. He's thinking about his daughter, probably. And how she might feel if she were involved in something crazy like this. So the only thing he does is smirk. His eyes immediately go into defiant mode and his smirk clearly says he's about to not make Vincent happy.

"Probably halfway to Mexico by now."

"That, my friend, is unfortunate." That's all Vincent says as he pats Archer on the cheek. "Deeply unfortunate." And that's it. That's all he says as he then walks away. At least to Archer. To those Italians gathered, he snaps. "Show Mister Archer how we mourn."

And with that, all seven men begin to step forward. It is Vincent Macchiello III, in all of his dark-haired glory, wearing those crisp designer pants and black tee shirt who throws the first punch, right for Archer's gut. "Don't worry, Mister Archer, we ain't gonna make you need Last Rites. You're just gonna wish we did."

There's nothing for Archer to really do. He's not supposed to be here, right now. He's supposed to be collecting some money from these guys, not getting punched in the gut. The moment he gets punched in the gut, he doubles over and clenches for the pain. He narrows his eyes and looks up to watch the dude that started it all walk away. "Sounds like somebody's watched too many episodes of the Sopranos." His voice is hoarse, mostly because he's trying to hold tight on the pain. Can't show too much weakness. They're going to kick his ass anyway, so he might as well not even make it worse.

He doesn't even throw a punch back.

"The fuckin' Sopranos ain't got shit on us." Vince spits, leaving a pool at Archer's feet. "Now, me, Leo back there, and my father have some pressin' business." His meaty hand stretches down, moving to pull the investigator up by the collar so he can look at him properly. "But don't you worry, y'mot'er fucker. Our friends here are gonna make sure you take proper notes on the lesson here." Pulling back, he watches as five of his father's men descend on Archer with fists and boots a-flyin' with a sadistic turn of his teeth. This is not just revenge or an outpouring of grief. This is a delicious savoring of raw brutality.

It's the voice of Vincent Jr. that calls out over the night air that snaps his son out of that reverie. "Vince. Leo. Tick tock." Then the older man disappears into one of the two cars.

The younger, softer spoken Leo in his jeans, boots, and flannel shirt tugs on his brother's arm. "C'mon, Vince. Time to go."

Vince casts his brown eyes to his brother, to the car, and then once more to the scene of violence unfolding before him. "FUCK," he finally growls, turning at last to obey his father's command. He's got somewhere to drive the old man to.

Maybe his life is flashing before his eyes. Maybe it has something to do with his previous employment. But he takes the fury of fists like there's no tomorrow. There may not be one for him, actually. Boots to the gut, fists to the face, other boots to the face, fists to the gut. All of the above happen to Archer with Italian speed and strength that leave the man wobbling on his feet… until he falls. And that's not a good thing to do when you're getting pounded on by way too many guys to actually handle. Blood leaks from his face, even as it lands right in the same spot that Vince spat in and poor Archer has been given the insult to go with his blossoming injuries.

Inside the dark interior of the sedan already pulling away, there is a simple statement uttered over the phone after the ringing stops. "Do it," comes the order, without any real confirmation that there's anyone at all on the other line, save the lack of ringing. And with that, a cell phone is tucked back into Vincent's jacket pocket. Looking up to his sons in the front seat, Vincent smiles. "Let's go give your mother the good news."

As for the boys dealing with the noble man in the less-than-noble state, once he falls, there's only a few more good kicks before they pick him up, toss him onto the hood of his Caprice, and then just leave him there. Wordlessly, they turn and start towards the … one… other car. "SHIT," one declares, hanging his greasy head. Then he glowers at his companions. "I am *NOT* riding bitch." There's an argument, but ultimately everyone proves that he is indeed the bitch and must ride like one as they drive off, leaving Archer to lick his wounds in private.

No time for wound licking. Just a lot of coughing up blood as he slides himself off the hood of the Caprice. He's halfway to the ground when he realizes something. "… oh shit…" and with some sort of adrenaline boost, he scrambles around the car and climbs inside. Keys are used to get the vehicle started and he winces in pain, as his whole body is becoming broken enough to cause him massive pain with each slight movement. He's got to get home. He can lick his wounds there.

The ride for Archer may be a quiet one. At least, quiet by comparison to most rides in New York. When he arrives, he might be inclined to notice the fact that there is a strange car parked in front of the brownstone house he calls home. A black Ford truck. In it, there's a bald man — somewhere in his thirties and wearing a denim jacket with a fleece collar despite the heat of summer — smoking a home-rolled cigarette.

Peaceful and painful. Coming around the corner, the Caprice literally just comes to a braking halt damn near in the middle of the street. Archer falls out of the vehicle, leaving it running. He doesn't know if they remember about his daughter or not. He doesn't care. He just has to get to her before they think of it. And thus the painful running that comes in a stumbling manner, as he tries to get across the street. To where his home is. He pays no attention to the truck. He's too focused on more important things. "… joy…"


There's a ring on Vincent's phone, already to his beautiful home overlooking Central Park. While Vince says nothing, a voice simply offers, "He's done."

The elderly Italian man sits back as he puts his phone back on the bedside stand and breathes deep before bellowing across the bedroom where he is currently stretched out on the royal expanse that he calls his bed. "Mona, honey. You got a bit of your vengeance. Our son rests in peace, at least for tonight."

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