A/N: This is something I started working on right at the end of S2, when I was trying to speculate about what Richard would do after Jimmy's death.
This takes place in NYC, 1925. There is little to no accuracy, either to history, show canon, or the geographical layout of New York. Artistic license, and all that.
More Than Words- Chapter 1
The Diamond Club sounded like a fancy establishment where the society of New York would mingle with Hollywood stars; the kind of place where nothing less than black tie was acceptable attire. But what it was, in reality, was a run down card house that served cheap whiskey to day laborers who needed a bit of wind down time before heading home. Any glory days the club might have had went out with the turn of the century, leaving the place to muddle through an America in the grip of the Volstead Act; this had been the death toll for many small taverns in the first half of the 20s, but the Diamond Club survived, thanks in part to Meyer Lansky being the unofficial owner. Meyer kept the liquor coming, which kept the customers coming to drink and gamble, which put money in Meyer's pocket, which made Meyer happy.
What didn't make Meyer happy was having to go to the Diamond Club to put the fear of Lansky in to a debtor; especially when going to the club meant postponing dinner with a sweet young lady Meyer was very close to finally fucking.
But with power comes responsibility, and one of his responsibilities was getting his money. If word got out that he let something like this slide, Meyer would lose power, and that was something he would not let happen.
So he sat in the dark, dingy office of the club and glared at the man who had ruined his plans for the evening.
"Well, well, well," Meyer said, leaning back carefully in the wobbly desk chair. "We meet again, Mr. Taylor. I would have thought our last chat would have convinced you to walk the line. Did you just miss me that much?"
The man, Jeff Taylor, gave a small chuckle that hurt his (cracked for sure if not completely broken) ribs and made a small bubble of blood mixed snot form and pop out of his left nostril. "What can I say? You have an irresistible charm."
Jeff Taylor was in a great deal of pain but now was not the time to let that show. Not with Meyer Lansky sitting before him, Benny Siegel at his right shoulder and Lansky's pet assassin behind him and a bit to the left. He thought it best to act like this was just like running in to an old friend, so he flashed a grin that had been quite charming until Benny Siegel had knocked out two of his teeth about twenty minutes prior. Lansky grinned back, but it was the grin of a predator setting his sights on prey.
"Don't think I'm amused," Meyer said. "And don't think you're going to get out of this. I had to cancel an engagement this evening to come deal with you, and I do not like having my plans disrupted." His voice was even and calm, but firm; A. R. had taught him well, he realized as he watched the grin fade from Taylor's face. "You have managed to dig yourself a *very* deep hole. And by deep hole I mean you owe me three hundred dollars. How do you plan to pay me back?"
"Well, sir," Taylor had to pause and swallow the lump that fear had put in his throat. "If I could have a couple of days..."
"But you can't. I want my money tonight."
"Umm...tonight might be difficult. Um...I mean it's late and all. But tomorrow-"
"Tomorrow is not tonight. Harrow?" The man stepped forward, coming even with Taylor's left shoulder. Jeff Taylor had never been a very religious man, but he began praying for all he was worth (which anyone who knew him would say wasn't much). Those who had dealings with Lansky said if the man sent Siegel your way, you might live (if the psychopath didn't accidentally beat you to death...that had happened more than once because the nutcase got so involved in the beating), but Benny wasn't the one Lansky sent to kill. No, that was the man with the mask, the man said to become part of the shadows, the man who could put a bullet an inch below your eye and be long gone before you realized you were dead.
The man now standing next to him. The man who, in profile, looked as violent as an accountant. It was when the man looked at you, which he did to Taylor, that you saw how detached from giving a fuck the man was. If the blank stare of the mask wasn't enough, there was the thick scars-one flaring above the left eye, one about a finger thick snaking out of the mask along the cheek. The right side of the face, marred only by a small razor nick on the jaw, was alive and just as blank.
Oh, that green eye was alive, possessed of a gaze that seemed to take every thing in, but nothing came out of it; no compassion, no hatred, no contempt, no indication that the man saw Taylor as a living thing. The fear Taylor had previously thought absolute suddenly intensified as the man stared at him.
"Oh my God!" Meyer shrieked and laughed. "You made him piss himself!"
Harrow looked down and took note of the spreading stain at the front of Taylor's trousers, and took a half step to his left. "It's only fitting since, mm. Benny beat the shit... out of him, earlier."
"Be still my heart! Was that a **joke**?" Benny gasped, clutching his hands over his chest. "Don't tell me our little Moon Pie has a sense of humor!"
Richard turned to Benny, his head tilted slightly as he looked the younger man. "I will, mm. Shoot you someday." It wasn't a threat, or an idle boast; it was a promise. It could be tomorrow, or in a week, or another ten years. But Lansky knew it would eventually happen; Harrow and Siegel were like gasoline and a lit match- great on their own but not the best thing together.
"You can't shoot him without my permission," Lansky told Harrow. Harrow gave no reaction other than turning to look at his boss, waiting for instructions.
"I was going to have Harrow kill you," Lansky said to Jeff Taylor, reminding everyone in the room why they were there. "But *that*," he pointed to Taylor's wet crotch, "makes me want to keep you a little longer. If only for my own personal amusement. That doesn't mean you're off the hook, however." Lansky's boyish face took on a contemplative look. "You will get me money, tonight. I don't care if you have to rob someone to get it. But I will have money. Go with him," he told Harrow. "Use your best judgement." Harrow nodded and grabbed Taylor's jacket, turning him around and marching him out of the office, down a dark narrow hallway and in to the main room of the club. As Taylor and Harrow walked by, the patrons did their best to not look Taylor in the eye; no one wanted to meet the gaze of a dead man walking. And they knew, with Harrow behind him, that's exactly what Taylor was.
Outside, Taylor stopped and thought. He had to get money, from someone, but there weren't too many options. But since his options tonight were 'get money' or 'die', he would have to try every single person he knew. Blood had to count for something, right? Even if every single person in his family had declared him a worthless piece of trash, a leech, an inconsiderate lazy bastard who refused to take any responsibility for his actions...
It would still count, right?
It didn't.
Both of his sisters refused to come to the door, having their husbands tell him to get his worthless ass away from their front door or else.
His parents...well, they had disowned him years ago (for something that wasn't entirely his fault) and as soon as his father saw him, the older Taylor listed every single thing his son had done wrong in his thirty years of existence (most of which Jeff protested was not his fault...but as far as Jeff was concerned it never was)
"Dad, please!" Jeff begged when his father paused for breath mid-litany. "He-" indicating Harrow with a jerk of his head, "-is gonna kill me."
Cyrus Taylor looked long and hard at his only son, and Jeff felt a moment of hope, because he saw a decision made in his father's eyes. Cyrus looked at Richard, and managed to kill any hope that Jeff had harbored by saying "Not sure how you prefer to do it, but this boy ain't worth the price of the bullet." And Cyrus Taylor shut the door on his son, for the last time.
Jeff blinked, his mouth opened and closed as his mind supplied meaningless words he could not voice. His own father...he was stunned. Yes, he had always been a screw up as far as his parents had been concerned; but parents were supposed to overlook things and help their children when help was needed. How could his father stand there, brow beat him for all the stupid things he had done in his youth (things Jeff didn't believe were his fault, none the less!) in front of a total stranger (maybe if Jeff had started of by saying 'Hey, dad, I know you said I was dead to you but old boy back here is gonna make me dead to everyone if you don't help...' maybe that would have worked? But Jeff figured that since he was a bloody, bruised mess and he had a dispassionate masked stranger who, short of a sandwich board advertising his profession, couldn't be any more obviously dangerous,...Jeff had honestly thought that would trigger some parental concern!) But...no...nothing.
There was one more person he could turn to. Sure, she had also told him a time or two dozen that he was worthless, that he had ruined her life, that she wished he was dead, and so on. But she had also helped him out every other time he found himself in this predicament, even if it was begrudgingly and ended with 'this is the absolute last time'.
With his hope renewed, Jeff turned and hurried on his way, slapping Harrow's chest happily and saying "No wasted bullets just yet!" as he went by. Harrow's eye narrowed briefly before he followed after his charge.