It took three months to get settled in, to make the deals with a few of Longbeach Mike's contacts and establish his drug-dealer facade. By then Lawrence Dimmick had been introduced to the station, a crowd that was a whole helluva lot more sunned (in both Latino ethnicity and colorful L.A. wardrobe) than Micky was used to seeing but every bit as much dry and caustic and professional. He laughed to himself when he met the cadets and the beats, trying to recall a time when he himself had been so nervous and proud in his dress blues. Twenty eight was young for a detective, but the scene needed young.

Young and creative and fearless, and Micky bringing the cool confidence of a man whose job was in his very blood. He joked, they laughed. He'd wink. One or two would swoon. Stocky didn't stop him from Charming; made it better somehow actually, like you could trust him to know what imperfection meant and therefore to forgive your own flaws. Holdaway sat back, and observed.

Hell, Holdaway could barely contain his pride. Here was Micky slipping into Larry's skin (as easily as he had slipped into a fitted Hawaiian shirt) like he was already on the case, taking in names and faces that Holdaway would later use as quiz fodder over a greasy basket of nachos and a pitcher of beer. Shit, all they had to do was get Larry to the beach a few days a week, maybe scare the winter outta his skin and he'd fit right in. The accent could stay; it served to tell half a story, filled in the blanks as to just where Larry had been dealing before an assault charge forced him back home and back into Longbeach's circle.

He couldn't get too chummy in the station, though, lest some boot recognize him on the street and make some fatal reference. Larry was taken away like Elvis from the building, Holdaway ferreting him from back entrance to cab to seedy diner rendezvous with Longbeach.

---

Things were never going to be sunnier for Lawrence Dimmick than that day meeting the station. He wasn't under any delusions; it was a tough job he signed up for. A dangerous one. Micky's one true flaw had always been his compassion; it made him a good cop but wasn't so great for detective work wherein he'd have to first befriend and then betray his targets. He was bad at handling that, at separating Micky from Larry from the son of Minerva and Haverd Dimmick. Holdaway wasn't just a coach; he was also a confidante and a therapist, and an hour every sunday was dedicated to taking personal inventory of Larry's progress.

"I don't want you thinking I'm not prepared for this."

Holdaway indulged a sharp bark of a laugh. "I know you're good at this job, man. I also know it's the good ones who got to struggle through the most shit. Sensitive artist types, yanno." He elbowed his way onto the couch, showing the check-sheet to Larry so he'd stop resisting the routine necessaries.

"Hey, fuck you too, tough guy." Larry snatched the paper with unexpected dexterity, holding it close and scrunching up his face like he didn't read too good (it was part of the character, to be a tad illiterate). Larry relaxed, handing the sheet back to Holdaway. "Got anything else for me? Besides redundant fucking questions, I mean."

Holdaway shrugged, clicking his pen. "I got a dialogue refinery, and an anecdote you could practice on. You're down with the vulgarities but I'm afraid your vernacular remains way too fucking refined, my man." A helpless laugh. "Nothing more suspicious than an intelligent drug-dealer."

"What about an intelligent thief? I was a thief and a grift for the TenTrees case."

Holdaway made a pensive noise in the back of his throat, spectacles sliding down his broad nose with late-summer evening sweat. He pushed the specs back up and smoothed fingers over his sweatband, coughing once to clear his throat. "Firstly and foremostly you're a dealer, though. Longbeach has already pitched the story that you're just looking to branch out into something more lucrative. No more of this dime-bagging shit, you're looking to play ball with the big cats."