August 7 1998

Julie keeps trying to get me to talk about "what it was like" in Vegas. That is the last fucking thing I want to be telling her about. I'll talk to her about work, about home, about Stella, all that crap, but I just-- I know it's her job and she's trained to deal with mental trauma and all that stuff, but I just do not want to talk about it. Not with her. Because how could she get it? Honestly? How could she possibly understand what it's like to expect a bullet in your skull every time you turn your back? Or what it's like to pull every string, haul out every trick you know to keep some dumb kid who's in over his head from getting himself killed? Or having to pull the trigger on that dumb kid yourself because he fucked up anyway and that didn't go over well with the Iguana Family? Fine, I will tell you "what it was like." It was like my own personal piece of hell. It was like living in a fucked up alternate reality where I took Frank Zuko's place and just kept climbing the ladder. It was like having to bury myself under six feet of cold-blooded killer, leaving a little marker -- "here lies Ray Vecchio" -- and hoping I could still find myself three months or three years later.

I know, it's stupid, I should be talking to her about it because that's what she's there for, that's what the CPD is paying her to do, but I just fucking can't. And I have no good reason why. I mean, it's not like I'm the only guy to ever have done serious undercover work, it's not like no one else would *get it.* But Julie wouldn't. She'd just look at me sympathetically and nod like she understands and make a little note on her pad. Screw that. And who else am I supposed to discuss this with, Kowalski? My ass.