“It ain’t hop.” (spoilers for 2.10)

charlieluciano:

He can tell, the minute he sees Jimmy, that he’s been using. Charlie’s been selling the shit long enough to know.

“Jesus Christ, Darmody.” He drops his jacket over a chair and moves forward, and there’s a second that the concern is almost actual - caught up in his awe, that all the fury and potential he’d caught sight of could be this. 

But he stops, before he gets too close.

They aren’t friends.

As it stands Jimmy’s putting on a good show of it - he’s seen worse, men twice his size left shaking and sweating on on the floor. But it doesn’t change the hollow need in his eyes, or how his hands are trembling. 

“Darmody…” Charlie coughs, shifting his weight and suddenly feeling too close, too personal, should’ve waited, should’ve -

He could say I’m sorry, the polite affirmation of condolences.

He thinks of Meyer curled up in a doorway, of fury and trauma he can’t comprehend or fix. 

He thinks of how he’d told Jimmy, you’re supposed to be giving us the orders - and then there’s this. 

His anger rises enough to make his voice go tight, shifting his weight and sick with it. 

“I, ah… I take it you liked the sample I gave ya?” 

Jesus Christ, Darmody.

He knows.

Worse yet, Charlie actually looks like he gives a damn, the way he’s coming at Jimmy, eyes all full of concern.

Jimmy takes a slight step back. He isn’t sure what to make of it, not sure if he wants it. Not when he’s sick and trembling, on the edge of unraveling and feels so fucking small.

But then Charlie just stops. In an instant it’s gone.

And Jimmy is relieved.

Darmody…

“Charlie…” Jimmy replies, tentatively. He’s still unsure of the vibe of this whole situation. It’s delicate, for sure, and he doesn’t want to upset it before he gets what he wants out of it, what he needs.

I, ah… I take it you liked the sample I gave ya?

Jimmy’s first instinct is to deny it. He gets that guilty, panicky feeling, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing. And in a way he has, but he let it happen. That’s why doesn’t deny it.

He offers up a halfhearted smile and shrugs. “Not as much now as I was a couple of days ago.” He gestures to the tray beside him that holds a bottle of whiskey and a few lowball glasses, a silent offer, then continues.

“Look, I uh, I know you wanted me to pass the stuff around, try to generate some business or whatever. But…” he trails off. He can’t say it. It’s still too raw, still hurts too damn much. He won’t even touch it.  He looks down at the floor, scratching at his arm absently and mumbles, “You know.”

Jimmy fidgets in place quietly for a few moments. “I guess I just needed to get out of my head.” 

“It ain’t hop.” (spoilers for 2.10)

charlieluciano:

Charlie follows the Commodore’s butler through the dim hallway. He’d half expected Gillian when the door opened, though he knew that was a bitter notion more borne from habit than anything. 

He doubted she’d be anywhere around here, right now. 

Mickey was the one who told him - he’d come by the distillery to pick up the last of his and Meyer’s share, his partner busy with the poker game and keeping Joe off their toes. The battered, weaselly man had been quiet, which was something of a relief from his usual nonsense - but Charlie picked up on the pain of whatever reason it was enough to ask why. 

(One didn’t, after all, spend time with the likes of Meyer and Rothstein and not know how to read someone’s pain like it was written out on their sleeve.)

“Heh. Well. It’s Munya, ya see.”

“…Yeah? You pay the old guy yet?”

“…Well…”

It didn’t strike Lucky as a blow. In fact, it didn’t strike him at all, through his heart at least. He’d never even met the girl - safely tucked away, he was sure, when Jimmy had invited them all into his house.

Still.

“They got a kid, don’t they?”

“…Yeah. Why?” 

He shrugged - it wasn’t something he could comprehend, really, not like the notion of losing his sister, or AR or Meyer, nothing like that. He just shoved the last of the crates into the car and turned back to Doyle - quiet. 

“…He shoulda listened.” 

And it rings true, enough that he has heat in his stomach still as he’s led to the study door. Meyer would probably have steered him away from coming to begin with - you can ask at a better time, or maybe you won’t need to-  but Meyer isn’t here. 

I’ll go up north, Jimmy had said. And Charlie has drugs to push. 

He’s left to push open the door on his own, but this isn’t Rothstein’s house, or Meyer’s apartment where he’s welcome to just slip through the door like he belongs - he knocks first, and waits a moment before opening the door. 

Jimmy’s mind is ripping itself apart, screaming for a fix. His body aches and shakes, he hasn’t eaten or slept in days, he’s freezing down to his core but sweating bullets, his blood itches and burns beneath his skin and he just wants it all to stop.

He’d never let Charlie see him like this otherwise. But Charlie has what he needs to make it all go away.

He waits in the study, choking back a glass or two of whiskey to take the edge off. His stomach protests, but he’s crawling out of his skin and his mind is grateful for anything to make a haze.

Clarity is the enemy. In lucid moments he finds himself thinking about her, he’s haunted by her memory and all the places in this life from where her fingerprints just won’t fade serve as poignant reminders of how much he’s lost. It’s all too painful to hold on to, but too precious to throw away.

He needs to make it fade away.

He hears footfalls coming down the hallway. He puts his glass down, smoothes his hair and clothes with trembling hands and stands as straight as he can manage.

The door opens a crack and Jimmy’s heart is pounding in anticipation. There’s a knock.

“Come on in,” he says. He tries to sound calm but even his voice is shaking and there’s a sharp edge to it. It seems to take hours for Charlie to finally open the door and enter the room. 

A meeting.

charlieluciano:

But who do you trust? 

Charlie’s gut response is Meyer, but it strikes him that Jimmy wouldn’t understand the difference. He shrugs.

He stubs out his cigarette, watching it glow orange and fade. “You can’t force nobody to respect you, Darmody. Gotta earn it. You’re in a good spot, far as I can tell - gotta be careful not to ruin it.” 

He isn’t exceptionally good at this - the whole advice thing, something he’d leave for Meyer to begin on. But, still -

“The whole Horvitz thing…” 

What? I thought that’s how you guys did it here. Somebody’s  giving you trouble, you have ‘em taken care of.  Or does that only apply to guys like Nucky Thompson?

Charlie blinks, for a moment taken aback enough for it to show. 

“Darmody…” He shakes his head, incredulous. “You go around taking out every guy that crosses ya, you’re gonna be the only fella left.” 

Toying with his drink, he continues, a little more heated and unsure if it’s the hints of alcohol or that he thought Darmody was better than than some hood off the street. ”You think if poppin’ the old guy was a good idea, I wouldn’t a’ done it myself? He was buggin’ me, remember?” 

He meets Jimmy’s glare head on, used to the challenge of that, at least. 

“Thompson was different. It ain’t just ‘cause he’s in the way.” He wants to believe that. It is true, but maybe… not why they’d pushed it. It’d come easily for all the blood already on his hands - and remembering too clearly Meyer coming back from Atlantic City a year ago, shaking. 

They all had their reasons. 

“I ain’t a stranger to puttin’ a bullet between somebody’s eyes, Darmody, but there’s a time and fuckin’ place.” 


You can’t force nobody to respect you, Darmody. Gotta earn it. You’re in a good spot, far as I can tell - gotta be careful not to ruin it.

Funny, Jimmy thinks, how you have to take power, but respect has to be given. And despite what anyone says, he did take the power from Nucky, just not in the crowning battle he imagined it would necessitate. The hit on his life had simply, but effectively, scared Nucky into abdication. Now Jimmy had the throne. Now he wore the crown, but the gold was turning to thorns and it was getting heavier every day.  

A good spot? That’s a laugh. It may appear that way if you don’t look too closely. Charlie’s looking from a distance. He just sees a Prince in the seat of power. But if he came a little closer he would see the dreams that once strung up Jimmy up so high are now a noose around his neck.

And no one will ever know how terrified he really is; terrified that he’ll never live up to everyone’s expectations. His own expectations, of himself and of being at the top, don’t reconcile with reality and it’s left him with a hole inside.

He tries to keep his head up, but there’s that resentment, and anger and anguish, that darkness inside of him. It’s vast, silent, and deadly. Jimmy feels it growing stronger every day, its hold on him getting firmer, pulling him down into its depths. He’s going under and he knows it, but he doesn’t know how to free himself, doesn’t know how to lean on others for support, doesn’t trust anyone enough to do that, anyway. It’s all such a heavy cross to carry alone, and he wonders how long it will be until the darkness completely swallows him.  

Sometimes though, he thinks, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, just floating around in a sea of black; nothing to bother him, mess with his head. Maybe it would be peaceful. It’s terrifying and seductive at the same time.

“If I’m in such a good position, as you see it, then tell me something. What would you do if you were me? Since you have the virtue of prudence and all.” There’s anger creeping up in his tone, and he scoffs as he says that last part. He doesn’t intend for it to be that way, he’s just so desperate for someone to understand him, recognize the dire straits he’s in. “And don’t just tell me all the things you wouldn’t do, either.”

Jimmy lets that hang in the air, and quietly seethes. After a while the anger quells and he’s left feeling hollow and tired. 

“I’m doing this all on my own, Charlie,” he says. There’s still bitterness in his voice, but he’s more subdued now. “I don’t have a Rothstein or a Meyer. I don’t have anybody who knows anything about…” he’s not sure how to finish, “this world.”  

Darmody…  You go around taking out every guy that crosses ya, you’re gonna be the only fella left.

Jimmy fixes his gaze on the wall ahead. “That probably wouldn’t be so bad some days.” He pauses a beat, then adds, “we’re both better off with Manny out of the picture. Guy was a pill.”

 You think if poppin’ the old guy was a good idea, I wouldn’t a’ done it myself? He was buggin’ me, remember?

Jimmy offers an indifferent shrug, but turns to Charlie with a taunting smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You and Meyer and Al started all this shit. I was following your shining example.”

Thompson was different. It ain’t just ‘cause he’s in the way.

“Well that was the shot heard ‘round the world, Luciano. So there better have been a damn good reason for it.” As he talks the taunting look slowly turns to disgust.

And that’s exactly what he sees it as, a parallel of the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the catalyst of the war that shattered him.

All the distress Jimmy’s new title and position brought on has made him revert back to his wartime mindset. In his eyes, his life has become a war, and he’s standing exposed on the front line with nowhere to hide while the enemy drops bombs from above and comes at him from every conceivable angle, guns drawn, poised for a fight.

I ain’t a stranger to puttin’ a bullet between somebody’s eyes, Darmody, but there’s a time and fuckin’ place.

Something dark clouds Jimmy’s eyes, and even though he’s looking right at Charlie he’s not really there anymore; his mind is back in the trenches where it’s all barbed wire and bullet spray. The faint stench of mustard gas still lingers in the air and the dirt is so oversaturated with blood from battle that it’s running down the walls of the trench in trails. It looks like the ground is bleeding.

“In the war, they didn’t train us to think about the right time and place. Such a thing didn’t exist. You took out threats and killed your enemies, the end. Don’t think, just kill, kill, kill. You blow it, you’re dead.”

Jimmy drops his gaze then, down to his hands as he clasps and unclasps them in his lap, and in a rare moment of openness says, “Sometimes I feel like I never left, like I’m still over there. In my head anyway.” 

A meeting.

charlieluciano:

Charlie pauses with his drink halfway to his lips, at Jimmy’s admission.

“…What, you was expecting the welcome mat?” He sits back a little, rolling his shoulders. “You don’t just take somethin’ worth having and get everybody kissin’ your damn ring right off the bat. Eh, metaphorically speakin’.”

He nurses his drink, smirking slightly. “Sounds to me like you oughta find some better friends, though.” He’s thinking of Doyle’s bruises - or even Darmody’s clipped words with him. The man’s abrasiveness would get him nowhere, and Charlie found it a small wonder he didn’t seem to know that. 

Yeah, with Richard.

“Harrow, huh? Quiet fella, ain’t he?” Yet the other vet hadn’t failed to catch Charlie’s attention - least of all when they’d all met the first time, and his remark to Eli struck a chord Charlie probably wouldn’t admit to. You’d kill your own brother? 

It made him think of himself and Meyer, too tightly wound and shaking over things they might do. 

Don’t get what all the fuss about the wireless is.

Charlie shrugs. “You shoulda come with us! Wouldn’t think it’s much in the way of excitement just hearin’ about it.” 

He taps his cigarette into the tray and picks up his drink again, scanning over the room absently. 

Let’s just say it’s not our problem anymore. 

He throws Jimmy a look, brow meeting in a dark line.

“…Sure.” There’s something there that feels all wrong, and he’s heard enough grandstanding over kills before to know it well enough.

“So you paid him up okay?” He tips his head, scrutinizing, and sneers. “With a couple a’ new holes to breathe outta, maybe?” 

He snorts, sliding down in his seat, and not waiting for - or expecting - Darmody to actually confirm it. 

“If you’d whack a guy just ‘cause you owe him cash, remind me not to lend you nothin’.” 

…What, you was expecting the welcome mat? You don’t just take somethin’ worth having and get everybody kissin’ your damn ring right off the bat. Eh, metaphorically speakin’.

Jimmy thinks back to the words and notions his father had filled his head with. The Commodore made it seem like Atlantic City was his for the taking, he’d given him a false sense of entitlement. He’d done everything he could to convince Jimmy he deserved it, that he should gun for it, but nothing to prepare him for what to do once he had it. Of course, he wasn’t betting on having a stroke…

Sounds to me like you oughta find some better friends, though.

Jimmy takes one last drag of his cigarette and snuffs it out in the ashtray. “But who do you trust? When everyone wants what you have, wants you for what you have, wants to see you fail, or thinks you can’t hack it, who do you trust?”

It sounds bleak, but that’s the reality he faces, and he’s keenly aware of it. The list of people he can truly trust is short, and not all that sweet, and that trust is only to a certain extent, it comes with terms and conditions and tangles of red tape.

The only person Jimmy completely trusts is Richard. But there’s a distance between them now that never used to be there. The easy way they had instantly related to each other has given way to something strained and painfully out of sync, and Jimmy can feel Richard pulling away from him, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. He doesn’t understand what he’s done to make Richard doubt him.  

Harrow, huh? Quiet fella, ain’t he?

“One of the best,” Jimmy replies sincerely. But there’s a sadness in his voice he can’t hide.

You shoulda come with us! Wouldn’t think it’s much in the way of excitement just hearin’ about it.

“Just a room full of strangers out for blood.” As he says it he can’t help but think it draws a bizarre parallel to his current situation down in AC.

…Sure

Jimmy can’t ignore the suspicion in Charlie’s voice. He looks over at him, shoots him a cold gaze, as if to say what do you want me to say?

So you paid him up okay?

Charlie gives him a look that’s at once judgmental and mocking.  The snarly ball stars roiling around inside of Jimmy again and he doesn’t have the resolve to push it down this time.

With a couple a’ new holes to breathe outta, maybe?

Jimmy keeps his face stony, but his eyes are on fire. He clenches his jaw tightly and just stares at Charlie, eyes throwing daggers.

If you’d whack a guy just ‘cause you owe him cash, remind me not to lend you nothin’.

Jimmy laughs, it’s a dark humorless sound. “What? I thought that’s how you guys did it here. Somebody’s  giving you trouble, you have ‘em taken care of.  Or does that only apply to guys like Nucky Thompson?” 

A meeting.

charlieluciano:

jimmy-darmody:

Charlie offers him a hand and Jimmy takes it reflexively. The Italian is giving him an odd look, or at least it looks odd on him because it’s so different from the usual hard scowl Jimmy is used to seeing directed at him. Charlie’s trying to communicate affability, but Jimmy can’t tell if it’s genuine or just a show. He wants to assume the former, but suspicion holds him tight.

“How’s shakes, Darmody? What’re ya having?”  

“Charlie,” he replies, giving him a nod. He realizes he should say more than that, something friendly, even if he has to force it. Luciano’s really trying, but Jimmy can’t recall a time they’ve ever actually exchanged pleasantries, and he’s not really one for small talk. He offers up the most genial (slightly tense, but genial just the same) smile he can muster as a gesture of good will, instead. “Whatever you’re having.”

Charlie signals to the bartender then sits. Jimmy hesitates just a moment, it’s not a conscious thing, he just can’t let go of his unease, before removing his fedora and taking a seat.

“Ride up okay?”

Jimmy shrugs. “It was alright.” It takes a few moments of adjusting to find a position comfortable for his leg – it’s been bothering him again lately, as if he doesn’t have enough to worry about. Charlie’s rifling around in his jacket for something in the meantime and it makes Jimmy think of his cigarettes. He could use one, calm his nerves.

He fishes out his case, puts one between his lips and lights it. He inhales deeply. “I think the entire city might’ve collectively cheered as I left,” he jokes, tone touched with disdain, expelling smoke as he speaks.  

Charlie finds his cards as Jimmy lights up - prompting Charlie to do the same, finding his case after setting the pack next to his glass. 

I think the entire city might’ve cheered as I left. 

He snorts, flicking at his lighter. “Least you’ve got their attention.” 

It’s half sincere, a small jibe at Darmody’s leaning toward the political - but he still pushes the other man’s glass toward him as it’s set down, and picks up the deck again half for something to fiddle with, needing to occupy his hands. 

“You end up listening in on the Dempsey fight after all?” He flicks cards under his thumb, splitting the deck to shuffle. “Hell of a match. Like Al said, heh, blood all over the canvas.” 

They’d pulled in a nice sum of money, too, the three of them - bets laid down even before Carpentier broke his finger, like they were sure from the start. 

Darmody’s still fidgeting, all terse sentences and smoke. It reminds him of meeting in the hall of AR’s place, and the unwillingness of the other man to let it go.  Charlie watches him, curiously, splaying cards over the table in a line. 

“You take care of our friend Munya yet?” 

“And there’s the rub. I’ve got their attention, but now they’re all watching. Every move I make. Even the people that are supposed to be on my side…” he trails off.

Jimmy visibly tenses as an all too familiar feeling begins bubbling up inside of him. It’s a snarly ball of negative emotions, resentment and anguish the strongest among them, and it’s got a powerful hold on him. He blinks a few times to remind himself to focus on the here and now, shakes his head slightly to clear his mind.

You end up listening in on the Dempsey fight after all?

He reaches for his glass, drains it in one shot. “Yeah, with Richard.”

Hell of a match. Like Al said, heh, blood all over the canvas.

Jimmy tries to recall any details of the fight, but can only think of the girls. That’s the kind of story you’re supposed to regale your buddies with, he supposes. But he considers it tawdry to talk about things like that, and for all intents and purposes, he’s still a married man.  Besides, he didn’t come all the way up here for a bull session. He shifts uncomfortably and takes another long drag of his cigarette. “Don’t get what all the fuss about the wireless is,” is all he can bring himself to say.

You take care of our friend Munya yet?

The question catches Jimmy off guard. He stops dead. He has to look away from Charlie then, because he knows his eyes are screaming all the things he’d be smart not to say.

“Let’s just say it’s not our problem anymore.” 

A meeting.

charlieluciano:

He can tell within seconds that Darmody’s nervous - not the same stiff tension or forced tone as he’d been in front of AR (something Charlie would never admit to knowing too well, in the earliest of meetings when he’d dressed cheap and felt the same). It’s something that rolled off him in waves, the soldier’s alert stance that throws Charlie off every time. He’s used to Meyer, aloof but easily made to smile or the quiet way AR jokes - Capone can apparently drag that camaraderie out of the blonde, but Charlie’s found himself met with nothing but steeled quiet. 

He wants to smack him for it. 

Instead, he offers a hand, eyebrows raised as if to say what’s wrong? We’re all friends here. 

“How’s shakes, Darmody? What’re ya having?” 

He motions to the bartender for more, before sitting back down, an open invitation for Darmody to follow.

“Ride up okay?” He has a pack of cards in his coat pocket, and rummages for it as he waits for Jimmy to settle - intent on keeping this cordial, even if the veteran is determined to be cold. 

Charlie offers him a hand and Jimmy takes it reflexively. The Italian is giving him an odd look, or at least it looks odd on him because it’s so different from the usual hard scowl Jimmy is used to seeing directed at him. Charlie’s trying to communicate affability, but Jimmy can’t tell if it’s genuine or just a show. He wants to assume the former, but suspicion holds him tight.

“How’s shakes, Darmody? What’re ya having?”  

“Charlie,” he replies, giving him a nod. He realizes he should say more than that, something friendly, even if he has to force it. Luciano’s really trying, but Jimmy can’t recall a time they’ve ever actually exchanged pleasantries, and he’s not really one for small talk. He offers up the most genial (slightly tense, but genial just the same) smile he can muster as a gesture of good will, instead. “Whatever you’re having.”

Charlie signals to the bartender then sits. Jimmy hesitates just a moment, it’s not a conscious thing, he just can’t let go of his unease, before removing his fedora and taking a seat.

“Ride up okay?”

Jimmy shrugs. “It was alright.” It takes a few moments of adjusting to find a position comfortable for his leg – it’s been bothering him again lately, as if he doesn’t have enough to worry about. Charlie’s rifling around in his jacket for something in the meantime and it makes Jimmy think of his cigarettes. He could use one, calm his nerves.

He fishes out his case, puts one between his lips and lights it. He inhales deeply. “I think the entire city might’ve collectively cheered as I left,” he jokes, tone touched with disdain, expelling smoke as he speaks.  

A meeting.

charlieluciano: 

Charlie slides into his usual booth near the back of the speak - it is, like most places, one quietly owned by AR, and the man behind the bar nods knowingly in greeting as he walks in.

In waiting and nursing a fifth of whiskey his mind wanders back to the meeting at Darmody’s - or his father’s, too, and Charlie still isn’t sure which was in poorer taste, or less wise. There was some part of it that he might have taken for the smack of arrogance - a showmanship of wealth like it was meant to be intimidating, but there’s something in what he’s seen of Darmody that doesn’t sit well with the idea.

Though, garish hunting trophies or a beachside viewdo more for appearances than the peeling walls of a former seamstress’ shop. He can give the man that much.  

Still, it felt out of place - it had taken AR nearly a year to invite either he or Meyer into his home, and no one had to question it to know they were a special case. He has no intention of cutting violently into Jimmy’s personal life, but in their business intentions only went so far. He would assume they all knew that. 

It stands, too, that their plan to kill Thompson failed. Darmody seems to be reveling in the newfound power that the older man had apparently just given over, too… but even Meyer had mentioned, half in passing - we might be waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Charlie leans out of the booth to peer toward the door, tapping ash into the tray on the table absently - and sure enough, Darmody walks in like just looking had caused him to appear.

The Sicilian gets up, pushing back doubts in favor of a grin and the shift of his weight, hand waving the other man over in greeting.

“Darmody!” 

Jimmy doesn’t even have a chance to look around the place, get his bearings, before Luciano spots him and shouts his name. It doesn’t register - he hopes, but it startles him, makes him flash back to the Argonne forest. The memory is fleeting, but it’s enough to get his heart racing, and he wonders when the “shell shock”, as the doctors are calling it, will finally wear off; if it will ever wear off. 

His eyes find Charlie and he’s smiling, waving him over to a booth towards the back of the room. Jimmy raises his hand in greeting, but can’t bring himself to smile back, can’t bring himself to soften his default steely gaze at all, in fact. The whole situation is too uncomfortable. 

He feels eyes on him as he crosses the room. He wonders if it’s because he’s a stranger, because of the company he’s come to meet, or if it’s because of the limp. A combination of all three? No matter what the case the feeling makes him want to sink into the floor. He wants to duck his head, but he doesn’t want to come off weak. He hates being so damn aware all the time. 

And now he’s standing before Charlie. He eyes him up cautiously. 

A meeting.

charlieluciano:

By the time Charlie leaves Darning & Weaver’s the sky’s already fading from blue to indigo-black. He’d meant to leave earlier, but Meyer kept his attention longer than intended - just talking, keeping close, attached even more than usual after two days of quiet in their suite at the Fairmont.

Not that he’d come for reason other than to check on his friend, to begin with - aside from bringing food, and casually dropping yet another box of watches on Meyer’s desk for him to roll his eyes at. 

What? 

When are you buying us that push-cart? 

Still, for all it’s late he can still meet Darmody on time. Intending to settle things between them a little more soundly than gruff meetings or being held at gunpoint, he’d extended the invitation for drinks not really expecting the other man to accept. Yet he had - though maybe not quite so enthusiastically as Charlie was used to. But as Meyer said (and told him to stop whining, which Charlie’s sure he never did) - it was something. 

He flips open his cigarette case only to find it near empty - scowling as he lights one, he checks his watch. Darmody’s due to meet him at the bar he’d mentioned in just under an hour, so he could just pick up more on the way. 

Jimmy still can’t believe he’s in New York City. There’s so many things he should be attending to back home, business and otherwise, but instead he’s wandering around Lower Manhattan in search of a speak he’s not even entirely convinced he’s going to find.

He doesn’t much like Luciano, doesn’t really trust him either. Not on a personal level, anyway. But when he called suggesting they meet for drinks, saying they should try to settle their differences, if only so they could work together more efficiently, Jimmy found himself agreeing and accepting the invitation. 

There’s so much tension and bad blood back home. He’s not sure who his allies are anymore. If he can clear up even one thing, solidify just one alliance, he thinks, maybe things will start to get easier. 

Besides, all the things he should be attending to are not things he’s particularly looking forward to doing. Charlie dumped a good excuse to avoid them right in his lap, and he would be stupid to have ignored it. 

As he rounds a corner he recognizes the name on the street sign. The place should only be another couple of blocks downtown. Ignoring the part of his brain that tells him it’s not too late to back out now, he digs into the inside pocket of his jacket for his cigarettes and soldiers on.