tampered | [OPEN LOG] A LITTLE PARTY NEVER KILLED NOBODY

Entry tags:

boardwalk empire - al capone

[OPEN LOG] A LITTLE PARTY NEVER KILLED NOBODY

When; July 4th after this
Rating; Links are NSFW due to language and sexy hooker flashmobs. Other than language, situations shouldn't get above PG-13.
Characters; It's a party-- come one, come all!
Summary; Surprise birthday party for Meyer Lansky. Everyone is welcome!
Log;

Lucky's casino is busy as usual on Thursday, but those inside will notice that the stage normally reserved for entertainment is shrouded in a large curtain. The owner is seated, prepared to listen to the audition of a buxom blond who seems shy and has no real command over the stage. After a deep breath, she begins to sing in a voice barely above a whisper:

"Happy birthday to you~"

Before she can really get into the meat of the song, the curtain rises to reveal an unusual spectacle. Women of all sizes and shapes dressed comfortably in next to nothing. Those inside the casino can see them make a musical entrance. They seem to dote especially on the owner, who appears to be hoisted in his seat by two beefy men in shiny speedos. They carry him closer to what appears to be a cake.

It's not.

The exterior slips away revealing a mounted pole and another woman who has no problem steadying her stilettos on the arms of the chair the owner is being held captive in from time to time.

Looks like it's SOMEONE'S BIRTHDAY

All varieties of business continue as usual after the reveal. The women and men will flirt with anyone who has the means to earn their attention. There's even a new racehorse to the circuit being promoted out back! Come evening, patriotic Americans launch fireworks into the night sky. So come! There's good company, gambling, drinks and dancing-- eat, drink and be merry in honor of the holiday and Meyer Lansky's birthday!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Twenty two today."

Younger than Al, he's pretty sure. Younger than most people he knows or works with, and yet, he often feels older. It's strange to think about -- he'd arrived in the City initially as an eighteen year old, gone home for three years, and come back to the City only two City days later but suddenly twenty one. Age gets a little confusing around here. All he knows for sure is that today is, theoretically, his twenty second birthday.

"Why?"

Lansky is his junior by a couple of years, but that old man attitude makes their difference in age seem like decades anyway. His own birthday has passed in this calendar once only a few months after it did back home. This stuff can get complicated, he's aware.

"Just askin'. People do that when they're making conversation."

The sarcasm is noticeably absent from his tone, instead casual and intent on informing the other man of an important fact.

"Really? I wasn't aware."

There's not sarcasm in his tone so much as a relaxed amusement, which is uncharacteristic but not necessarily unpleasant. He takes a moment to study Al curiously, mostly trying to determine whether the drugs are having any noticeable effect on him. It's hard to tell, maybe because his own perceptions are decidedly altered by this point.

"How do you feel?"

In other words, are you incredibly high yet? If not, that should probably be resolved quickly.

"I told you, I don't feel nothin'. Sorry."

Momentarily he checks out of the conversation to wave the waiter down and order a drink. The waiter scurries off soon after the order is complete knowing his priorities and the drink is better to come sooner than later. Then, without any preface or permission, Al helps himself to another small sample from the bag.

"Alright," he replies after a satisfied sniff, not really to any question in particular but by the sound of his inflection they might as well have been shooting the breeze for hours about something.

"You sure about that?"

He's certainly feeling something himself, but then, he's had both more drugs and more time to let them hit him. Maybe Al just has an incredibly high tolerance. He finishes the drink that had been sitting there on the bar, vaguely wondering what was in it.

"Alright. How old're you?"

It's going back to the previous part of the conversation, but that's how his brain's working right now, and he's genuinely curious. He'd guess that Al's somewhere around Charlie's age, but it's hard to tell.

"Fuckin' positive," he squints at Meyer's empty glass, suddenly his point of focus. Wasn't it just full? And wasn't the waiter just here? Fortunately the next question diverts his attention again.

"Twenty four. 'Least I was when I left."

Best to keep things simple and not worry about technicalities.

"If you say so..."

That's a tone of deep skepticism, but he's not going to argue. He's not in Al's head, thankfully, and he has no idea just how altered it is.

"I know I'm gonna regret asking this, but how long did you and Theo spend planning this?" He gestures around to the room, shaking his head. It's elaborate and impressive, he'll give it that. It had probably cost a fair bit, too, but since Theo had assured him they hadn't used casino money for it, he won't be bothered by that.

"Not as long as you'd think, maybe a week? Once you get the girls going they talk to their friends, say they can bring this or that--" he laughs and offers a slight shrug, "I'd say getting you outta here was the hardest part of it all."

The waiter returns with a tray loaded with orders from the floor. As he leans in to deposit the single glass down, Al catches him mid-reach and instead takes the tray itself and sets it down on the counter in addition to the single glass he ordered.

"That's great, thanks."

Once again knowing when to cut his losses, the waiter scoots.

"Yeah, I did wonder why Theo was so intent on getting me out of here last night."

And now he knows. The setup had likely taken quite awhile. It's almost flattering, really, that they'd put this much work into it, but he's pretty sure that's definitely the drugs talking. He shouldn't be flattered. He should still be irritated. Irritation takes a lot of work, too, though, and he's not up to it.

He raises an eyebrow at the entire tray full of drinks, but he's not above taking one for himself and raising it in a mock toast.

"Kinda surprised he didn't end up having to throw you out. Either way, it didn't turn out half bad."

Flattery and compliments are not his intention nor would it be well-received. There are some things in this life that you just accept when they're thrown at you and this is one of them. Al is all shock value and being noticed, if nothing else than to say he can take advantage of the moment.

"Salute," embracing the mock toast, he helps himself to his original drink, or at least whatever he finds first.

The drinks on the tray turn out to be quite the assortment, and the one that Meyer grabbed turns out to be some kind of tropical concoction, heavy on the pineapple juice and rum, complete with a little umbrella. He takes one sip and makes a face, though not because it tastes bad.

"There's glitter in my drink," he proclaims, sounding somewhere between baffled and amused. He moves to set the drink back down, maybe to grab a different, less glittery one off of the tray, and sways unsteadily on his stool, nearly falling.

The sway happens slowly, so slowly in fact that he seems to notice the lack of balance right at the tipping point. Even so, he doesn't feel particularly compelled to do anything about it, just to watch.

"Oh," the concern in his voice is emphasized and soon neatly undercut by a chuckle.

"Easy, tiger. Where's glitter? I don't see any glitter."

He catches the edge of the bar to stop himself from tipping over entirely. Falling on the floor doesn't exactly appeal to him, and yet, he's not embarrassed by his unsteadiness as he normally would be. He mentally notes that he really should be counting how many drinks he's had.

Pointing to the glass vaguely, he shrugs. "There's glitter everywhere. There's probably glitter in your drink, too."

There's even glitter in Al's hair, but maybe he shouldn't point that out.

Probably a good idea. One might live a little longer.

"No," he dismisses but it's only a few more seconds before he's drained his glass and is holding it up near his eye just to be sure the bottom of the glass isn't holding any sparkly secrets. Sure enough there's a little bit of a gleam but...he's not going to mention that.

"You know, I think I'm starting to feel something."

"Well, it's about time."

He picks up another drink off the tray at random, and takes a much more cautious sip of it. This one doesn't seem noticeably glittery, at the very least, so that's a step up.

"What're you feeling?"

It's essentially his version of market research. He knows how it makes him feel, but he has to sell this stuff to other people, too, and you don't base your expertise in your products off your own experience. This is for the sake of science and business, clearly, not just for the sake of seeing Al get high, although that's an amusing perk.

Your marketing strategies leave something to be desired, Meyer, but at this point he's not going to question much. Al takes a break from his drink, steepling his hands and placing them against his lips thoughtfully. He inhales before speaking: slowly, calculating and thoughtful.

"Good," it's the first word that comes to mind and the easiest that conveys his feelings, but not enough.

"It's like I just accomplished something, you know, the kind of thing you're proud of but you don't gotta jaw about. Satisfied-- that's the word. Or-- or..."

"Like I been home for the first time in forever. I mean, it ain't the moon, but, it's something, you know?"

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

If only he could be taking notes right now. These all strike him as incredibly important, salient observations, although maybe that's the drugs speaking through him. Everything seems particularly relevant right now, every topic of conversation fascinating, everything Al's saying both amusing and inexplicably philosophical somehow. It's not a bad feeling -- it's something he could get used to.

"You feel tired at all? Sometimes, if you're not used to this stuff, it can really knock you out."

It'd happened to him the first time he'd tried it. He'd been feeling great for about five minutes, and then he'd practically passed out, facedown on the carpet. Nobody'd ever let him live that one down.

"No." It's a perplexing question. He feels many things, but emotion seems to stand out in particular. Good comes to mind again. Maybe he is a little tired...but it's nothing troublesome. If he feels the need to lie down, he knows the stockroom is now cleared and that all goods are properly identified and accounted for. It's a perfectly good place to rest one's head.

"I passed out on the ferry once when I was a kid," he cradles his head in his hand, half resting, half as an effort to job his memory to his perfectly relevant story. They're sharing after all-- it is the most he's spoken to Meyer without him being a smug little prick.

"Got a pretty good licking for being late for dinner or something."

"You grew up here, right?" he asks, and then immediately shakes his head, looking amused. He'd said here like they were back home, like they were in New York or Chicago, not like they were stuck in some city that seemed to exist nowhere in the world they were used to.

"I mean America," he amends. His reason for asking is simple curiosity -- he realizes that he doesn't know a whole lot about Al, doesn't even know whether he's an immigrant like the rest of the guys he works with, or whether he's really from the US. It doesn't matter, not really, but then, most of these conversations don't matter.

Regardless of the importance of whatever they happen to be discussing, though, he finds something pleasurable in the fact that they're able to discuss something without getting into an argument; he thinks it's probably the drugs, but he's not going to argue with the results.

There's a laugh, a giggle really, at the mistake that carries over into his answer.

"Yeah. I was born here--" he corrects the same mistake with a lazy waft of his hand, "In Brooklyn, I mean. My parents came over from Naples...you know it? It's in Italy."

Where Al's never been himself, but in a land of opportunity? Why bother. Nowadays he can't say that he isn't well-traveled anyway.

"Sure, I've heard of it. Never been there, though. Maybe someday."

He vaguely thinks he might like to travel, just as soon as he's seen all New York has to offer -- and after having lived there for the better part of twelve years, he still hasn't seen everything, he knows full well. And now they're stuck in the City, where there's a whole bunch of other, even stranger stuff to see. Yeah, maybe he'll make it to Italy someday, but probably not for a long time. Never, if they don't get out of here.

"Things are a lot slower there," he's worldly in the sense that, from time to time, he listens and picks up on little details. "People take their time to eat. Drink. Fuck. I don't know."

"What about you? I--" How to phrase it... "I know nothing about you. You're like a goddamn shadow or something."

It's not that he's particularly interested in specifics, more that he's astounded someone can be up and coming in the world without showing their cards.

"What about me?"

He shrugs, movements slightly more expansive than usual, slightly less guarded. "There's nothing to know. I'm not a very interesting guy."

Whether or not that's true isn't particularly the point. He prides himself in the ability to remain hidden in plain sight. Being short, slow to anger, and polite has done far more for him than anyone knowing his life story ever could.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[OPEN LOG] A LITTLE PARTY NEVER KILLED NOBODY

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject