Title: Business, As They Say, Is Business
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Rating: T
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not.
Summary: "Mr. Elias." Marcone's hands were steepled on his desk, undoubtedly in easy reach of a button or countermeasure of some sort. "I trust you received my message in... satisfactory... condition?" 2600 words.
Spoilers: Dresden Files novels, vaguely post-"Changes"; Person of Interest vaguely Season 3-ish
Notes: For moonbeamsfanfic, for the prompt: "DF/POI, Marcone + Elias. "I'd love to see Gentleman John Marcone go head-to-head with my second favourite mob boss. I always wonder which of them would outsmart the other, or if they'd actually get along. They are, after all, cut from the same "I do bad things to keep my city safe from even worse bad things" dark grey morality. And then there's that crack Elias made about not wanting New York to end up like Chicago. ::snerk::" Originally posted elsewhere November 26, 2015.
Elias frowned as Anthony applied the bolt cutters to the anomalous sealed freight container that had arrived that morning. He'd been half-expecting such a shipment since his men in Chicago had missed their latest check-in; he'd heard about what had happened to Morelli's boys when they started moving in on Marcone's business. Gentleman John had sent the three highest ranking members of the Boston delegation back by rail freight, payment due on delivery: a drug dealer and a pimp with a fatal case of lead poisoning, and a bookkeeper, dehydrated and driven half-mad by the company.
An inspirational punishment; Elias had taken a leaf from that book the time he'd locked his John into a refrigerated version with the infant the man was trying to protect. He'd known the Man in the Suit would never sacrifice a child; it wasn't in his nature. But he'd also known how effective that sort of entrapment and psychological torture could be. John had chosen to give Elias what he wanted; Morelli's bookkeeper had been given no such opportunity.
Elias abhorred waste. But he also operated much, much closer to Boston than Marcone did. He couldn't afford to appear weak in front of the rest of the East Coast organizations, and not a one of them hadn't tested the waters in Chicago at one point or another since the Vargassis had lost their grip on the city. He'd chosen his men carefully- smart enough not to make stupid mistakes, but not so much as to take unwarranted initiative; self-disciplined enough not to get distracted, but not so rigid as to be inflexible- and sent them off with instructions to fold up shop the minute Marcone noticed their presence. But judging by what was in front of him, those measures had proven insufficient.
The bolt snapped and fell away; Anthony slowly began to open the doors. Then he took a sharp breath and glanced over his shoulder at Elias, stepping aside to clear the opening.
Elias' eyebrows flew up at the unexpected scene revealed inside. Two rows of men, lined up against each side of the container, looked up at the light flooding in. The nearest ones held up a hand, shading dark-adapted eyes from piercing sunlight; several bore bloodstained bandages; all had been stripped down to boxers, undershirts, and socks, and handcuffed together. The inevitable consequences of trapping that many people together in that small a space for that many hours without access to facilities had produced quite the pungent reek- but it held no hint of death. Every single man he'd sent was present and alive, though highly inconvenienced.
He rubbed a hand over his mouth, concealing the relieved bafflement he felt at the sight, and scanned the embarrassed group again for the one he'd put in charge. "Crespo?"
"Yeah, boss?" a rasping voice replied.
Crespo was one of those with bloody gauze wrapped around his shoulder, seated near the far end of the container. Elias glanced at Anthony, then jerked his chin in the younger man's direction. The bolt cutters were employed on the chain of the cuffs; then Anthony dropped the tool at the feet of another prisoner and pulled him to his feet, supporting his elbow as he staggered out of the container.
Elias schooled his face into a stern frown as Crespo came to a halt in front of him, squinting against the light. His men hadn't been aware he'd expected to lose them; best not to give them any cause to doubt him, now.
"What happened, Crespo? I thought I gave you clear instructions."
Crespo winced, looking down at his feet. "You did, boss. But there was no warning- one minute we were going about our business, just checkin' the place out, not dealin' or nothin', just like you said; and the next Marcone's men was everywhere. That big red-haired bruiser of his- he ain't as slow as he looks. We tried to hold 'em off, but- there was this blonde Amazon, too? If I didn't know better, I'd think she was related to that guy in town who's so fond of takin' kneecaps." He paused there, swallowing, at whatever was showing on Elias' face. "Anyway. Once they had us all gathered up, Marcone came, and walked right up to me."
Elias had heard about Marcone's second, Nathan Hendricks; he'd also heard of the blonde, a woman only known as Gard who was one of Marcone's deadliest enforcers. It was a pity John hadn't been willing to take a similar role in Elias' organization; he respected that the man had principles, but it made him a roadblock at least as often as it made him an ally. If Marcone had sent that caliber of employee, he'd taken Elias' men seriously.
"And what did he say?" he pressed, gently.
"That- we hadn't broken the rule, but he didn't tolerate any challengers? And we was to tell you that, as soon as we saw you again."
Elias' brow furrowed. "Rule? What rule?"
"He didn't say."
"And you didn't ask?" He had to have known Elias would need more information.
"Didn't want him to think we hadn't done it deliberately, if it meant so much to him." Crespo licked his lips nervously.
Elias looked over the rest of the captives again, rubbing wrists and ankles and painfully getting to their feet inside the cramped steel container with the help of the men Elias and Anthony had brought with them. All of them returned, versus Morelli's three, only one of whom had still been breathing.
"I see your point," he mused. "Anything else urgent to report?"
Crespo shook his head. "No, sir."
"All right, then. Anthony, delegate someone to make sure these men all get cleaned up, fed, and seen to by a medic. Then we're heading back to the office; I've got a visit to arrange."
"You got it, boss," Anthony nodded, and stepped away to start giving orders.
Elias sighed and shook his head. The smart thing to do would be to let the incident go. But the polite thing to do would be to go to Chicago to apologize in person... and use that as an excuse to evaluate the man himself.
Marcone intrigued him; he was as self-made as Elias and at least as swift to rise to a position of prominence in his city. But rumors persisted that he had nearly been dethroned in violence multiple times since that ascension; the other mafia dons out East tended to assume that made him vulnerable. Clearly, though, he wasn't. And Elias was very curious as to how he managed that.
He got back into the car, gave the driver a nod, and sat back to ponder how best to arrange that meeting.
It took eight days before both his schedule and Marcone's cleared for an appropriate interval, and Elias arrived at the location of a non-descript older building arrayed with scaffolding for renovation. A novel method of camouflage for Marcone's current center of business; it was a pity he didn't currently have control of enough property to arrange something similar.
The blonde Crespo had reported- definitely Gard- was waiting just inside the doors. She was striking, both in person and equipment: she carried a large, ornate yet functional looking axe slung over her back. Not an accessory one commonly associated with a mob enforcer. She gave both Elias and Anthony a cool once-over, then nodded. "You'll surrender your weapons, and the rest of your men will wait here."
"I expected no less," Elias assured her. He'd only brought the men for appearance's sake; he wasn't expecting trouble. At least, not the sort of trouble in which more guns would be useful. He gave them a few quick orders, then surrendered his handgun directly to Gard.
She led them to Marcone's office, through several doors and halls to a large, windowless space at least two stories tall currently stripped down to the plasterboard: a central room still waiting for the renovator's touch. A smallish desk in the back corner was occupied by a largish, red-haired man, typing at a computer. But the focal point of the room was the large wooden desk facing the door: a piece of solid craftsmanship that dominated the space, no doubt concealing as many secrets as the man behind it.
Marcone did not disappoint, either. Elias had often derided old-school mob bosses such as George Massey as being too flashy for the modern era, drawing much more unwanted attention than Elias' chosen technique, gathering the threads of power from the shadows. But for a man with the looks and presence that Marcone had been blessed with, the ludicrously expensive suits, sportsman's physique, and other trappings of understated wealth weren't laziness; they were blending in, at a level of privileged society where Elias stuck out like a sore thumb.
Well; to each their own, as the saying went. He could respect someone else making the most of what they'd been given, even if their styles were ultimately quite different.
"Mr. Marcone," he said, tipping his head respectfully to his host.
"Mr. Elias." Marcone's hands were steepled on his desk, undoubtedly in easy reach of a button or countermeasure of some sort. "I trust you received my message in... satisfactory... condition?"
Elias couldn't help but smile in response, in genuine good humor. It was so refreshing to meet another in his position with good manners; it seemed the story behind the 'Gentleman' John moniker was, at least in some part, the truth.
"I did," he acknowledged. "And it was much appreciated. Hence this visit; to thank you in person. And to apologize for any inadvertent offense my men may have given."
"Business is business," Marcone said, eyeing him and Anthony with a cool, assessing gaze. "I assure you, I took exactly as much offense as was intended."
"As you say, business is business," Elias replied, and clucked his tongue. "It's sad, how few people seem to understand that these days."
"Including those who will form a very pointed impression when you return, unscathed, from a meeting in Chicago after receiving a familiar return-to-sender shipment?" Marcone replied, dryly.
"That may have been a factor in my decision," Elias admitted, tipping his head in acknowledgement. It would, in fact, be a significant feather in his cap; the slight risk of Marcone reacting negatively had been worth it. "But mostly, I just wanted to meet you. We're both self-made men, Mr. Marcone, with very particular codes not always embraced by our fellows." He added that last on impulse, recalling the elusive 'rule' Crespo had mentioned. "Assuming we both continue in our respective positions for the foreseeable future, I thought it might be profitable- for both of us- to tender my respect in person."
Marcone locked eyes with him then, for a long, almost uncomfortable moment; then he shot a sidewise glance at his Amazon. Whatever the glance signified, she nodded in agreement, a faintly condescending tilt to her lips.
"Ah," Marcone said- in tones that signified an unmistakable statement of resolution, not a verbal pause. Though that seemed strange, given that they hadn't even moved from the opening verbal exchange to actual business yet. That left Elias feeling adrift, as though the balance in the air had shifted unexpectedly; had he missed some crucial step in the conversation? What factor had he failed to consider?
But before he could scramble to find some way to reestablish his footing in the conversation- he'd grown rather adept at it over the years since discovering his father's identity and deciding what he wanted to do with his life- a sudden, violent noise split the air like a thunderclap, and the entire building shuddered.
Marcone's gaze went flat, and the red-haired man at the corner desk- the notorious Hendricks- immediately got to his feet, suit jacket swept aside to clear his holster. Gard touched a hand to the Bluetooth at her ear, moving to the room's door, and unshipped the axe from her back with her other hand as she listened.
Elias immediately stepped aside, back against the front wall of the room on the hinge side of the door, the better to remove himself from the line of fire... always assuming it hadn't been his men making that racket. Anthony automatically cleared his own holster, then grimaced as his hand touched air rather than the butt of the firearm he'd surrendered in the lobby; he shifted instead to shield Elias from the others.
"Dresden?" Marcone asked his enforcer in clipped tones, hands going flat on his desk.
"No," Gard shook her head, eyes still fixed on the door. "The others- testing a new avenue into the city. Though I'm sure the wizard will be along shortly; the explosions will draw significant attention."
"Explosions?" Elias blurted.
Gard didn't answer; nor did Marcone. He stood instead, opening a drawer in the desk to retrieve a large handgun. "Evacuate the workers out the back; make the usual calls. Mr. Elias? I'm afraid we'll have to continue this meeting another time. Gard will show you the way out. Hendricks?"
"On it, boss." The big man nodded to Gard; then he and his boss opened the door, striding through without so much as sparing them a final glance.
Once they were gone, Gard extended her axe and turned to face them. "Gentlemen, if you would."
The lack of respect was palpable; but also curiously undeliberate, as though it had nothing to do with Elias himself- it only signified the importance of the event that had produced the explosion.
The ground shuddered again, following another shock of sound, and Elias braced himself against the wall. "Does this sort of thing happen often around here?" he asked, wondering again about the bloody rumors that circulated around Marcone. Home invasions, kidnappings, sudden fires, horror at a horror convention, travel disruptions and odds deaths reported after notable antiquities thefts... the list was as long as it was varied.
Gard raised an eyebrow, then began speaking into the Bluetooth, easily deflecting the question as she went about the process of the evacuation. She sent all the workers out the back; but she led Elias and Anthony back to the entry way, where they'd left their men and their transportation.
Forty-five seconds after the first explosion, Elias found himself out on the street again, staring in disbelief at the crowd of distorted-looking figures pouring up out of two gaping holes in the pavement several streets down. He could see Marcone facing off against them, mostly identifiable at that distance by the hefty red-haired form at his side. Several other men were with them, though their numbers were dwarfed by their foe; muzzle flashes and the repeated clatter of gunfire lashed out from both sides of the conflict.
He seemed to have underestimated how many men he'd need for security; it was like a damn Tarantino movie out there. Like nothing he'd ever seen, even during the worst of the conflict with the Russians back home. Elias stared, and decided he didn't need to know.
"Ms. Gard, thank your employer for his hospitality, but we won't be staying; I'll reach out to him another time," he said, calmly.
"Of course," she replied, then turned and jogged up the street, axe in hand.
The driver gunned the engine the moment everyone was in the car. Elias stared out the bulletproof rear window until the conflict was finally out of sight, and reluctantly decided that if Marcone did decide he wanted to do business, it might be better to wait until he came to them, next time.
-x-