tampered | Gangsters and thugs / criminals and hoods

Entry tags:

Gangsters and thugs / criminals and hoods

When; January 17th
Rating; R because... it's them.
Characters; Al Capone, Meyer Lansky
Summary; It's Al's birthday. Meyer decided to bring him a present. I think we all know how well that'll go.
Log;

Meyer's been accused of working all the time and of never having any fun. And of course, it doesn't escape his notice that one of his biggest accusers is Al. To be fair, Al's decidedly better at having fun than he is. In fact, he might go so far as to say that Al's excellent at having fun, whereas he himself is only middling at best.

But he's determined to change that, if only for today, because he's caught wind of the fact that it's Al's birthday. And that deserves just a little bit of indulgence, doesn't it?

So although Al may not be expecting to hear a knock on his door shortly before he'd be heading out for his shift at the casino -- if he'd intended to come in to work on his birthday at all, which Meyer's doubtful of -- he'll open the door to find Meyer standing outside of his apartment with an immaculately wrapped gift tucked under one arm, looking expectant.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Parties aren't all that hard to understand-- just don't worry about a thing and the rest quite literally falls into one's lap. It's not a terribly important skill, but he wouldn't trade his keen sense of smell for a good time for anything in this world or the next.

After removing the bourbon, he places the box on top of a cabinet near the fireplace. The wood can shine regally there, but it's just out of reach: enough to be noticed and admired, but not touched.

"And we know each other pretty well."

Like middle names and birthdays, right? Al steps up from behind Meyer, reaching over to grab his own drink from the table, not sitting quite yet.

"We know each other pretty well," he concedes. And for him, it's a big concession. It's one thing for him to admit that he knows Al pretty well, but it's another thing to admit that the knowledge goes both ways. Of anyone in the City, Al probably knows the most about him. That makes him closest to Al, doesn't it? Strange, if they were back home, he knows for certain that never would have happened. Too much to get in the way, no real chance to connect in this bizarre way that they have here, if their occasional enjoyment of each other's company can be considered a true connection.

He admires where Al places the box, thinks that it suits the apartment well, nods a little in appreciation. It does look good, and he's proud of it, proud that his present has been well-received and proud that it complements the rest of the apartment that Al has clearly put so much work into.

"Well, it's your birthday, so I guess you get to choose -- do you want to go somewhere, or stay in?"

Either way, he figures, it's only a matter of time before Al suggests trying out the new and exciting drugs. He'll leave whether they do that at home or elsewhere up to Al. It's remarkable that he trusts him enough to even give him that amount of choice.

The City doesn't give much, but he's more grateful for Meyer's presence than he'll ever say. Sure it's not a friendship in the textbook definition, but it's a link to home and that's reassuring-- a healthy one. No strings attached, no expectations considering they're both isolated parties...plus, turns out, the guy has a sense of humor. It's been alright getting to realize there's some life left in New York.

"You can get the home tour another time. Since it's a blue moon and you're taking the day off, might as well make the most of it."

Really, he might just end up calling or dropping by the casino just to make sure things are really on lock-down like Meyer says. It's something to keep in mind for later in the night.

"I gotta check up on something today. Short errand. You oughta come."

"Sure, okay, I'll come with you."

He says it, but he has the distinct feeling that Al having to check up on 'something' could lead to trouble. But he's already called off work, and he's already made the distinct impression that he's here to have fun, so he might as well go along with what Al says, assuming it's not all ridiculous (that's debatable.)

"Long as you don't think I need to be armed for this short errand."

Yes, will wonders never cease? He's actually left his gun at home for once in his life, which is a remarkable amount of lenience on his part. He usually shows up armed to the teeth, but that doesn't seem like the appropriate thing to do for what he's expecting will be a relatively low-key party.

As though he could really apply the words low key to Al.

"I don't know," it's hard to gauge if he's serious or not. His hands perch on his hips, seeming to assess the situation.

"It's, ah, routine, but better safe than sorry, right?"

After a short, reassuring smile, he disappears down the hall. The echoes of his footsteps grow more distant indicating a long hallway or room of some kind. There's silence for a moment, then he returns, now dressed for the afternoon and holding something. It's a massive handgun, something from a much later time than theirs. He extends it to Meyer placidly.

"Here. You can borrow it."

He's assuming Meyer's going to take it, because he's already busy adjusting his own weapon, another pistol that is not quite so large. Be a sport, Meyer.

"Right."

And of course he takes the gun, after gazing at it with something very like affection for a moment. He's always been fond of firearms, of the way they feel in his hands, of the power they give him, and this one is particularly impressive for the sheer size and weight of it. After giving it a thorough once-over, he stashes it away underneath his jacket. It would never occur to him to turn down a weapon when one was offered, of course.

"And here I thought we were going to celebrate your birthday."

Although maybe going on errands counts as celebrating. He can almost get behind that. That's the kind of thing he'd do, after all.

The look doesn't go unrecognized and there's nothing but approval for Meyer's good sportsmanship. It's an expensive gun that leaves a hell of a hole, and anyone who can handle that and appreciate it is someone worth knowing.

"We're getting to the cake and ice cream. Get the business out the way first."

It's sort of like priorities. Sort of.

"Try not to fly off the handle, killer. Like I said, just a routine precaution."

He's only poking a little fun. Finishing off his drink, he pockets the selected bag of ecstasy and makes for the door.

"When have you ever known me to fly off the..."

Oh. Right. Al was the only person in the City, as a matter of fact, who had known him to fly off the handle. It could be embarrassing, but he feels remarkably relaxed today, and so all it gets as a way of finishing the sentence is a slightly amused little smile, the slightest quirk of his lips, nothing more. He's never exactly been effusive.

"Do I get to know what kind of business it is?"

He might be asking questions, simply for the sake of information, but he's still willingly following Al right out the door, just as soon as he downs his drink, too.

Funny guy, funny guy. Reserved as the realization may be, it gets a good laugh that surely his neighbors have come to appreciate by now.

As they exit the building, there's some pep in his step. He enjoys this game, a little blind man's bluff.

"You'll see. I'll give you a hint: you had some business consulting involved in this particular matter. It's about time you see the face of it."

He's not too sure he enjoys this game, for his part, mostly because he doesn't like walking into a situation blind. He likes having all of this information he can possibly have, maybe to the extent of being ridiculous. But, hey, it's Al's birthday, and this appears to be how Al wants to spend it. Might as well indulge him; the weight of the gun feels comforting, at the very least.

"I have business in a lot of things. That doesn't narrow it down too much."

And if they're taking guns, he's got the distinct sense that things're going to get worse before they get better. Wonderful. He knows he should be wary about this, but there's something of a thrill in it, too. It feels like being back home, conducting business the way he's used to.

"Not my problem."

The walk isn't too far, cutting through alleys and gradually less populated sections of the City until they finally reach a more industrialized section of town, spacious with no shortage of warehouses. They arrive at one via the back. It's not very large or extraordinary in any way.

Meanwhile Al's reaching for his gun.

"Knock on that door. If nobody answers, we let ourselves in."

It's a large, metal door that looks as though a knock would result in a resounding reverberation of emptyness-- the kind of door no one is really behind because it speaks for itself. Keep out.

"You want me to knock on it?"

Of course he does. Well, fine. He's already here, so what does it matter who knocks? He can recognize that whatever or whoever's behind that door probably isn't good news, but he figures they're already setting themselves up for something potentially dangerous no matter what they do -- that's just the consequence of letting Al have a gun. Or handing him drugs. He can count himself responsible for that one.

So he knocks. And waits, hand on his gun. As ever, his discipline with the weapon is perfect: he never holds it clumsily or casually, never lets his guard down with it, never waves it around. He's calm and collected, and that's what people expect out of him. Al's seen a different side, but, well, that's not on display here, not just yet.

The knock goes unanswered. Outside from some machinery droning in the distance, there is an uneasy silence that hangs in the air. This goes on a moment too long for him. Now his gun is out and he steps forward, staying at an angle of Meyer as not to put him in any compromising position of friendly fire.

"Open it. I've got you covered."

There are many things Meyer's good at, but backing down has never been one of them. Even though their knock isn't responded to, even though it's just a little too quiet (strange, how that seems like such a cliched thing to say, and yet applies so well in situations like this) he goes ahead and pushes open the door anyway. At least Al knows how to handle a weapon and isn't liable to accidentally shoot him in the head if things suddenly get chaotic.

There's a paranoid part of him that wonders whether he's being set up for something, but that's ridiculous, isn't it? They're just here for an errand, and then they're going to properly celebrate. Gun drawn, hand steady, he advances, not sure what kind of place they're entering or what they're supposed to be finding here.

"We just gotta get one thing outta the back. Should go quick with no one around, just head for the light."

The interior is dark, the walls, floor and ceiling indistinguishable even to those with keen eyesight. Once inside, Al takes more initiative to lead. It's clear that there's a source of light somewhere, not terribly close or large, but an indication of another exit.

Then there's the sound of some kind of shuffling and vague movement in the dark.

"Shit! Shoot 'em!"

That's when the shots start. The echo of the interior doesn't make things terribly clear as to where they're coming from nor how many guns are involved.

That's when, amidst the popping and flashes, Al grunts audibly in pain. The sound of a heavy fall follows. All that's visible between bursts of light is a large figure across the way, a man, ready to fire again.

He's about to make some kind of under his breath quip about how just head for the light sounds an awful lot like what you'd instruct someone who was dying to do, and he vehemently hopes this errand doesn't involve dying, but he doesn't get the chance to say anything at all before the noises start, then the shots.

His motions are smooth and self-assured as he raises his weapon and fires it twice in the direction of where he thinks the shots are coming from -- and damn, this gun really has some kick to it, but it doesn't throw him off; in fact, it makes him relish firing the gun more, liking the solidity of it in his hand. He's trying to ignore the chaos, trying to find something to focus on so that he can aim his gun correctly, but it's hard in the darkness, with the auditory distortion from the echo.

And that's when he hears Al's noise. It's unmistakable as anything other than pain, and his instincts take over. In the flashes of the gunfire, he catches sight of the man raising his gun again. Gritting his teeth, he takes several determined steps towards him, quickly enough to get within range, quickly enough that maybe the guy won't see him moving, that maybe he'll just be firing wildly. He keeps his gun trained on the position he'd last seen the man in, when the last burst of light had occurred, and fires off three shots, one right after another.

It gives him a sick little spike of adrenaline and pleasure to hear the man hit the floor without even crying out in pain. One or maybe more of those shots had been clean. That doesn't mean they're safe yet.

Edited 2014-01-18 08:36 (UTC)

Suddenly the room illuminates, revealing a rather unorthodox setup. There seems to be some sort of crude conveyer, decorated with silhouettes of guns with lights attached to the fake barrels. The body, slumped awkwardly, is riddled with holes and seems to be leaking hay. It's much less realistic in the light, but it's also attached to the conveyers...at least somewhat.

It might be some overly elaborate security system. Hard to tell, with so many pieces that don't seem quite fluid with each other yet.

And there, on the floor, is Al, lying on his back and laughing quite openly.

"S-shit there's that dead eye again. I had to test it out, pal."

And just audible under the choking laughter--is that the sound of a horse? It certainly is, and it's whinnying up quite a storm somewhere close by.

There's...

It's...

Even his mind is speechless. That takes some doing. Usually, even if he's struck dumb and unable to articulate a sentence, he can get some kind of coherent thought going through his mind. At the moment, he really, really can't. He just stares. Stares at the elaborate setup. Finally breaks his gaze to turn around and stare at Al, face completely motionless, except for the almost imperceptible twitch of his upper lip. Is it going to turn into a scowl or a smile? It's imposible to tell.

"Did you really..."

How does he even begin to finish that sentence? It all sounds ridiculous, if he's to phrase it out loud. He finally stuffs the gun back into his coat and takes a few strides towards Al, shaking his head very slowly. "You're lucky I don't shoot you right now for that."

The lip twitch grows a little more noticeable. And will wonders never cease? It appears to be turning into a very grudging, very tiny little smirk.

He's laughing too hard still to catch the first bit, but when he finally manage to breathe and get up to his knees, he finds his voice again.

"You're a sport, I tell you," the gun hadn't been much of a forethought, honestly. Meyer could have shot him, he supposes, but it didn't come up as much of a concern when he thought it through. Maybe he trusts him or gives him some kind of credit-- or maybe his foresight is just a bit dim.

"Oh," he hauls himself to his feet, picking up the bullet-ridden dummy and dragging it towards the other door that's now visible.

"Come on, Wyatt Earp. This horse isn't gonna feed itself."

"Why the fuck do you have..."

Oh, right, Al had said something about having a horse, hadn't he? Some kind of strange scheme with some other guys that he'd tried not to pay attention to (but had considered ill-conceived, either way.) It seems that Al is bound and determined to leave him with half-finished questions tonight.

At least Al is up off the floor now, and not laughing quite so uproariously. He purses his lips together in an attempt not to look amused by this, because looking amused is only going to encourage Al to do this kind of thing more often. That's the type of guy Al is, it's just becoming more and more obvious over time.

"Okay. We'll feed the horse. Then maybe we'll do something that doesn't involve fucking me around, yeah?"

By now he'd assume that Meyer would learn to fill in some of the gaps for himself. There's a certain appeal to an impulsive nature that he maintains with ease and enthusiasm. Sure there's moments to conduct business, to be serious...but outside of that, there's a lot of time to fill and plenty of world to fuck with.

The horse...has never been an ideal situation. One by one the partners seemed to disappear or lose interest. He himself had forgotten about it until he had been forwarded a bill for feedings and stable cleanings. After a few less-than-kind words with the stable manager, he'd decided to move the bag of glue somewhere where it could at least have some space. Maybe he feels bad for it, or maybe he's feeling a little cheap. He himself can't really decide.

Without a hint of grace, he chucks the body into the corral outside and the horse begins to greedily nuzzle at the exposed hay and eat. It's considerably heavier than before, no longer fit for racing. Still, it seems to enjoy its life and doesn't seem to mind the noisy, industrial surroundings.

Al dusts some hay from his hands, then his suit.

"Guy goes around acting like he's in control all the time, he's gotta expect a few curveballs."

"You don't think I get enough curveballs when I spend time with Charlie back home?"

That bespeaks a certain kind of homesickness and sentimentality that he doesn't particularly want to get into, and he immediately regrets saying it. Sure, Charlie fucks with him all the time, in a similarly enthusiastic and completely asinine (yet surprisingly endearing) way, just like Al, but he's not here. Pointless to bring him up. He just stares at the horse for a moment, oddly surprised that Al's kept it around when it doesn't exactly seem like a prime racer. Oh well, maybe Al likes having a pet horse. Who's he to judge.

"Anyway," he says, forcibly drawing the topic back to something more, well, topical, "Maybe we could entertain ourselves in a way other than at my expense? Believe me, I'm not in control all the time."

That could be true. It also could be a futile protest to get Al to stop fucking with him. Either way, he does act like he's in control all the time, so by those standards, Al's probably well within his rights to continue the campaign to get him to loosen up.

The comment gets him to raise a brow, picking up on the ounce of humanity Meyer has managed to put forth. It's with an unspoken form of decency that he otherwise does not acknowledge the reference nor the person involved.

"Alright, alright. You did your time," Al claps a hand on Meyer's shoulder twice, giving it a little squeeze and a shake in the process. Buck up, kid, you've been a good sport so far.

"There's a place a few streets over, nothing special but they've got pool, cards and plenty to keep the attention."

He's assuming you're cool with this, Meyer, because he's already headed in that direction.

That hand on his shoulder might have startled him a few months ago, but he's gotten pretty used to the fact that Al's just much more of a touchy-feely guy than he himself will ever be, and has come to accept it. He's still never going to be affectionate himself, but at least he's no longer actively paranoid about people clapping him on the back or shoulder in a friendly way. That qualifies as progress, right? One step on the long road towards becoming a slightly less tense control freak?

"Yeah, sure, sounds just fine."

It's Al's birthday, after all. He wouldn't be so rude as to tell him they can't go where he wants, and he sees nothing objectionable about pool and cards, anyway (unless Al has some other prank up his sleeve, which he wouldn't put past him.) He just follows after him, lighting up a cigarette, chronically unable to go without one for the space of more than about fifteen minutes. People around here have told him he needs to cut down. He's pretty much told them to fuck off, in his own special, eminently polite way. He offers Al one.

He takes the cigarette. It's strange, how some people of the future react so adversely to things such as smoking indoors or outdoors or wherever one may please. It's a god-given right, in his book, and he will seldom turn down a free smoke.

"So when do you feel out of control? Curses aside, I mean. Nobody sees those coming."

Because why not. He's genuinely curious about any guy that admits that sort of thing-- also to the nature of what out of control means. He can't catch the bus? Can't pick the cuts on his sandwich? Anyway, they've got time and so far the path has been clear and free of trouble. Where's the fun in a nice, quiet walk?

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There is no appropriate icon for his face right now I hope you know

Fffff yes good

This face, on the other hand, is utterly accurate

And this birthday goes on for a whole week.

Re: That's the best kind of birthday tbh

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