Work Text:
Bugsy's
By Sheryl Martin/Nantus
Disclaimer: They ain't mine and not likely to be - 'nuff said!
Summary: An outside view.
Vignette
Archive: Anytime, anywhere - just ask!
Feedback graciously appreciated at xfdragon@zoominternet.net
Bugsy's
By Sheryl Martin/Nantus
Came for a week and stayed for two years. And counting.
But this IS Las Vegas.
So I'm not that different from the thousands of people who come here and end up staying, caught up in the surrealism and the harsh reality that dreams don't always come true. A blown toss of the dice, a bad hand at the table and suddenly your life isn't what you thought you wanted. Or what you once had.
So I run the night shift here at Bugsy's. A nice little place just far enough off the Strip that not too many tourists drop in and close enough to the cop shop that I get good business from the best type of customers - paying and consistent. And safe.
Night shift is the best - you get either the rookies who pulled the crappy shift or the ones who really like being owls. Both great sources of entertainment, as you can guess. They stack up at the counter either trying to stay awake with too much coffee or too much sugar - Helen makes a mean apple pie. I've already told her that we should put up a warning sign for possible diabetic attacks.
And right at the back are the booths. All reserved by the girls for the regulars, the ones who need a bit of privacy and a bit of space. Homicide, undercover and the CreepShow kids, usually.
Okay, they don't like being called that. But the stuff they deal with; the pictures they spread across the scratchy oak surface are pretty gruesome at times. Even more than the crime scenes Homicide parade for the rookies. And let's just say that the conversations tend to be a bit... well, odder than usual cop talk.
Hair and that sort of stuff, that's Nicky's forte. I swear, he gets almost too excited talking about matching things up, if you get my drift. Although not as bad as Grissom when he brings those damned bottles of bugs in here, asking for something to feed them. The women, well... they're a bit more restrained, but still scary at times. I heard tell that Kat used to be a dancer and if my wife were still alive she'd be thwacking me on the back of the head on an hourly basis the way I look at that woman sometimes. But I can't help it. Really. Warrick's always asking me when I'm taking out the slots in the far corner and the other one, the quiet woman - she's just too intense at times. Makes Gris look like a slacker. Although I did like the story about the pickle. Makes me think about sending over a bill for helping solve the case, ya know?
But they do their job and they do it well; so I give them the booth and let everyone else work around them. Besides, be bad business for the average customer to be sitting next to some of those Appalachian Battle Beetles or whatever's in those huge bottles. To say nothing of some of the stuff they end up talking about.
When they're together, that is. Half the time the booth is nearly empty, brekka dishes stacked up by Gris and his pal as she works on some paperwork and he feeds his favorite bug raw meat and I plate up another vegetarian meal. Or they grab to go, brownbagging it and pretending that they made it themselves.
So the morning comes and they drag themselves in after fighting the good fight; hopefully putting the bad guy or gal away and coming to either celebrate or drown their sorrows in some fresh coffee and a good plate of pancakes; double butter and syrup. And I give it to them, knowing that it's my little contribution to making things right in the world.
Cops that aren't cops. Things that aren't what they seem to be. Blowing away all the smoke and mirrors to show the crooks as clear as can be like a cheap magician's trick.
Hell, it's Vegas.
What did you expect?