Title: Baggage

Author: Melanie Mitchell melanie_m@my-dejanews.com

Rating: PG

Codes: Ray Vecchio/Stella Kowalski (after "Call of the Wild")

Summary: Ray has some unfinished business with the Iguana Family.

Archive: By all means. Be my guest.

Disclaimer: These characters belong to Alliance Communications. I am humbled and honored to be able to guide them for a few hours on their way to Florida.

Acknowledgements: Thanks to Mary Halbert for the advice, and to everyone at alt.tv.due-south for the encouragement. I welcome your comments at melanie_m@my-dejanews.com.

"But Ray, I don't want to go to Atlantic City."

"Just one night."

"Ray, Atlantic City is out of our way."

"So, we go there anyway."

"Going to Atlantic City doesn't make any sense."

"Don't argue, just take the exit!"

"But..."

"TAKE THE EXIT!"

Ray was shocked at how easy it was to lose his temper. He stared out the window of the Lexus at the soggy New Jersey countryside and wished with all his heart that he had not shouted at Stella. "Please. I'm askin' you please, please, just take the exit for Atlantic City. Just this one night, then I promise, you make the travel plans from now on."

"Ray..."

"Please."

She knew how much he hated to beg. She glared straight ahead through the rain-spattered windshield, and hit the turn signal.

Twenty minutes passed in angry silence as they drove east on the Atlantic City Expressway. The storm outside worsened, mirroring Stella's thoughts as she fretted about Ray's change of behavior. They had been travelling together for more than a month, giddy as honeymooners. Ray had not been so ill-tempered since the day they had run away together.

*************************************

He had only come to Stella's office to say goodbye.

She had other ideas. "If you can't stay in Chicago, and you don't trust the Witness Protection Program, what are you going to do?"

"I'll manage my own disappearance." Perspiration shone on the crown of his head as he stared through her office window at the crowded street below. "I'm gonna head east on I-90. After that, I don't know."

"Ray." She approached him, speaking softly, but he didn't respond. "Ray. Ray."

He flinched as she touched his shoulder, but then turned to face her. She gently placed the palm of her hand on his stomach; she could feel the thick bandage under his shirt. "Ray, what did the doctor tell you? You can't drive. Not until this heals. How far could you go before you broke it open?" She shook her head and continued to make her case. "You don't even have a car."

"I'll buy one."

"You'll have to hire a driver, too."

"Stella, this isn't your problem."

"Ray." She touched his lips with her finger, to stop him from interrupting. "Ray, I've may have only known you for a week, but I'm falling hard for you. What's more important, I'm the only friend you have that the Iguana Family, southwest branch, cannot possibly find out about. Except for your family, and your friends at the 27th, nobody even knows that we've met. We can use my car, and I'll drive."

"But..."

"Shhhhhh." She moved her finger so she could kiss him. "My car, my name. They won't be looking for anybody named Kowalski."

He considered her argument, and surrendered reluctantly. "You would do that for me. You and me, running from the mob in your Beemer."

She smiled. "It's a Lexus, Ray."

**************************

The Lexus sped on through the pounding rain. Stella could barely make out the signs counting down the miles to Atlantic City.

"Ray?"

"Yeah."

"Can you get the Tourbook out? We need to figure out where we're going to sleep tonight."

"Golden Coast."

"Golden Coast?"

"Golden Coast Resort. Baltic and Boardwalk."

"Ahh. You've been here before."

"Nope, never." She glanced sideways at him. "But I did work for a year at the Golden Desert."

Stella's knuckles turned paper-white as her grip on the steering wheel tightened. She took several shallow breaths and willed her heart to stop racing. "Oh, Ray...."

"The pay was great, but the retirement plan sucks." He gave a cold, bitter laugh, then realized that Stella was going to need some reassurance. "They don't know me here. And I'd have to be insane to show up at their east-coast operation."

"Then why? Why, Ray?"

"No questions. I just have some business to finish." He could tell that she wasn't buying it. He reached over to caress her cheek. "Trust me."

"I do trust you. But why take such a risk?"

"We don't take any risks. When we get there, you go in to register alone. There'll be a security camera at the front desk, and I don't want them to have both of us together on videotape."

"And you will be doing what?"

"Don't wait up."

"You're scaring me, Ray."

"Trust me."

*************************

Half an hour later Stella let herself into room 1022 of the Golden Coast Resort. She pulled back the drapes, but the expensive ocean-side view was obscured by the lashing rain. She stripped out of her damp clothes, took a long, hot shower, and wrapped herself in a fluffy white bathrobe. Room Service brought up a Cobb salad and toast, and she sat at the table beside the window and picked at her dinner as she thought back over their journey from Chicago.

She had been right about his bullet-wound. By the time they stopped in South Bend, at the end of their first day on the road, Ray was exhausted. She supported his weight as they climbed the stairs to their motel room, helped him to undress, and carefully changed his bandage. (He told her that, as a nurse, she was a damn fine lawyer.)

The next night, in Toledo, she demonstrated another of her lawyering skills; she gave him a damn fine sponge bath.

As the days passed, Ray's strength and endurance returned. After a week he began to take short turns at the wheel of the Lexus. Soon they began to take some joy in the journey, planning their daily route over breakfast, taking in the sights, and dining in the best restaurants in every city they visited. They followed the Great Lakes as far as Buffalo, crossed New York State as the winter snows melted, toured New England in mud season, and reached the Atlantic Coast as spring began in earnest.

Two weeks into their trip they had awakened in a honeymoon suite at Niagara Falls. The Room Service waiter who brought their waffles and strawberries held out his hand for a tip: "Enjoy your breakfast, Mr. Kowalski, Mrs. Kowalski."

They managed to suppress their laughter until the waiter left, happy with his unusually large tip.

From that day forward, Ray always stood by her side when she paid for their night's lodging. And every time, he put a signature beside hers on the hotel registration: Raymond V. Kowalski. It was their own private joke; but it was also a promise.

Stella had not eaten a single meal without him, or slept a single night alone, in six weeks.

She drank the last, bitter dregs from her coffee cup, and rose to brew a fresh pot.

**************************

Meanwhile, Ray stood in the vestibule of the casino and made a rough count of the customers. It was a nice, big Saturday night crowd. The part of him that was still the Bookman estimated the profit for the Iguana Family.

He had not been totally honest with Stella. It was very true that he had never set foot in Atlantic City before today, but Armando had once lived here for five years. Ray knew that at least a dozen of the Golden Coast's employees could recognize him on sight. He felt fairly confident, however, that none of them would be working late on a Saturday-- and even if they were in the building, they probably would not be scrutinizing the faces of the gamblers in the casino.

Still, he knew that his best hope for surviving the night was to exude the personality and mannerisms of a person who was the total opposite of Armando Langoustini. Fortunately, he had just the Canadian in mind.

(Head up, shoulders square, back straight.)

"Excuse me, sorry to disturb you, but could you please direct me to the washroom?"

"Over there." The waitress pointed to the far corner of thecrowded casino, past a long aisle of slot machines.

"Ah." Ray smiled sweetly. "Thank you kindly."

"Oh, my pleasure, sir."

Ray worked his way through the throngs of weekend gamblers, pausing frequently to say, "Excuse me," or "I beg your pardon," and when he reached the men's room he cheerfully held the door open for two other patrons.

Once in the privacy of a stall he slipped his pants down far enough to retrieve the slender billfold which was pinned to his boxers. He switched it with his own wallet, opened it, and checked the contents: ten $50 bills. Armando never left home without at least $500 cash, even though he seldom needed to pay for anything. These bills had been in his pocket on the day he had met Muldoon in Chicago, the day Benny had blown his cover.

Returning to the casino, Ray plied his polite charm on the teller who exchanged the cash for chips. (Was it his imagination, or was she flirting with him?) He asked her to point him toward the blackjack table, then thanked her kindly.

Armando had never been a gambler (he only bet on sure things and never visited the casinos in Vegas except on business), but Ray was a damn good card player. With a shy smile and friendly nod he sat down at the blackjack table, ordered iced tea, and began to made small talk with the dealer and with the other bettors.

In the first hour he played like a novice, and lost a third of his stake. He won a few hands in the second hour so as not to seem too conspicuous. By midnight he realized, with a start, that he was enjoying himself too much. His stack of chips now totaled $650.

Damn.

On the next deal he made a deliberate mistake, staying pat on 15 when he knew that most of the high cards had already been played. He lost to the dealer's 19, and smiled as he shook his head. "Win some, lose some, eh?"

His luck took a sharp turn downward from that point forward, and by one o'clock he was almost broke.

He thanked the dealer, tipped her one of his two remaining chips, then wished his new friends goodnight. The last chip he palmed as he shed his borrowed personality and headed for the hotel lobby.

***************************

While Ray waited for the desk clerk to finish her phone call, he gazed calmly into the security camera.

"May I help you, sir?"

"Yeah. Gimme an envelope, wouldya?"

"Certainly, sir." The clerk reached below the counter and pulled out a pale yellow business envelope. It bore the Golden Coast Resort logo and return address.

"Thanks." Ray turned away from the desk and headed for a secluded chair in the lobby. He balanced the envelope on his knee as he addressed it:

Armando Langoustini

Community Development Office

Golden Desert Resort

Las Vegas NV 89100

He put down his pen and looked carefully at the chip; like the envelope, it was marked with the Golden Coast logo. With a nod of approval he dropped it into the envelope. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the billfold. Flipping it open, he pried out his-- no, Armando's-- Nevada driver's license and put it in the envelope with the chip, sealed them up, and returned to the front desk.

"Wouldya mail this for me?"

"Certainly, sir." The clerk accepted the envelope and dropped it into a tray behind the counter.

"Thanks," said Ray, and he meant it. Kindly. He whistled the opening bars of "California Dreamin'" as he headed out the door to the boardwalk.

The storm that had welcomed him into town had finally moved up the coast. The sky overhead was difficult to see in the glare of the city lights, but out over the water Ray could see broken clouds skipping in front of a crescent moon. A warm spring breeze blew from the south, and Ray removed his jacket as he walked along the deserted boardwalk, his face into the wind.

After he passed beyond the largest hotels, Ray sat on a wooden bench and removed his shoes and socks. He tucked the socks inside the shoes, tied the laces together, and slung them over his shoulder as he padded down the wooden stairs to the beach, where the sand was cool and damp. The tide was coming in. He found a place just beyond the reach of the waves, knelt in the sand, and began to dig.

The hole was almost a foot deep before the upwelling seawater made it impossible to dig further. Ray brushed the sand from his hands, reached into his pocket for the empty billfold, and dropped it into the hole. It barely floated in the dark puddle that filled the bottom of the hole. He stood, kicked sand until only a shallow depression remained to mark the location of the billfold's grave, then moved a few yards up the beach and sat down on the sand.

**************************

"Hey, mister. Are you all right?" A shoe touched his bare foot.

Ray opened his left eye. An old man stood over him, holding a tackle box and fishing rod. It took several seconds for Ray to realize where he was, lying asleep on the beach in Atlantic City. "Yeah, I'm fine."

As the fisherman grunted and continued on his way, Ray stood up and got his bearings. Above the ocean the sky glowed with the approaching dawn. Seagulls wheeled and cried over the bait buckets of the fishermen who dotted the beach. He could hear church bells ringing in the city.

It took him fifteen minutes to walk back to the Golden Coast. Along the way he brushed as much sand off his feet and clothes as he could, and put his shoes back on. Soon he was knocking softly on the door of room 1022.

Stella answered the door, stunning even in a fluffy white bathrobe.

"Good morning, Mrs. Kowalski."

She blocked the doorway and checked her watch. "Good morning, yourself. Did you take care of whatever was bothering you?"

"Yeah. All finished."

"Do we have to leave right now?"

"Nah. We can stay for a few hours."

She gently brushed a few grains of sand from his scalp. "Good. Because I've missed you, Ray." She grasped his collar and pulled him into the sunlit room.

"I missed me, too." His smile flashed as bright as the sunrise over the ocean. "Don't let me forget," he kissed her cheek, "to tell you," her lips, "that I love you, Mrs. Kowalski."

"I love you too," she kissed the top of his beautiful bald head, "Mr. Kowalski."

**************************

...Not one darksome cloud is dimming

yonder glorious morning ray,

breaking o'er the purple east...

(Cecil Frances Alexander)

**************************

"Ray?"

"Mmmmmmm?"

"Why is your wallet pinned to your underwear?"

"It's a Canadian thing."