On One Condition
The air crackled with intensity as the two old adversaries squared off, staring at each other across the pool table from behind dead, stoic eyes. Behind his left shoulder, Milo shifted. The old man's eyes darted away instantly at the movement, the corner of his lip twitching as he steadily brought his gaze back to rest on his grandson once more. The sunlight streamed in from behind him, casting a halo over his head, but if Jason knew his grandfather at all, it should have been horns instead.
The penthouse was dead silent as Edward rested his fingertips on the polished edge of the pool table. The balls, normally racked with meticulous care, lay scattered all over the green felt. The old man knew from that alone that Elizabeth had been here recently – as if the lip gloss and furry-top pen that she had left on the wet bar weren't clues enough.
He picked up the eight ball, his movements slow and practiced – painstakingly deliberate. Jason's eyes turned to granite as he stroked his thumb over the number, his pale blue eyes never leaving the younger man's as he awaited an answer.
"It's your decision, Jason; it's entirely up to you."
But that was the problem – it wasn't entirely up to Jason. If it was, he would have told the old man to go straight to Hell the minute he showed up at the penthouse, claiming he could bail him out of trouble. If it was only him, he would have told the old man to take his offer and stick it in his ear. If it was only his livelihood and safety on the line, he would have taken great pleasure in watching Max and Milo give the old man the old heave-ho.
But it wasn't just him. If tensions escalated, as they were sure to, his entire organization was at risk. The State Penitentiary would look like Camp Cupcake compared to what their fate would most likely be. No one would be safe – not him, not his prized informants Bernie and Stan, not lowly peons like Milo and Ritchie, not even Sonny and his family though the other man was now far removed from the mafia organization.
And then there was Elizabeth to think about. Not only Elizabeth, but also the child she carried inside her – their child. His greatest fear from the moment she told him the news was failing to be a good father to their daughter, and as much as it killed him to admit it, if he didn't take Edward up on his offer he wouldn't be much of a father at all because he'd either be six feet under or cooling his heels in a maximum security prison.
"Talk."
Edward's pale blue eyes glittered; the battle was as good as won. Max and Milo exchanged uneasy glances as he set the eight ball down on the felt but continued to roll it between his fingers.
"You've gotten yourself in a very tight spot, my boy," he began, his voice affected with false sympathy and concern. "I had a feeling you would, even though you handled the business very well for your first few months. But then again, you were always the sidekick, never the one in charge, so this mishap shouldn't come as such a big surprise to anyone."
A muscle in Jason's jaw ticked but he said nothing.
"I don't delve much into this underground business of yours on principle," Edward continued, now picking up the eight ball once more and tossing it to his other hand. "It's a nasty, nasty mess, and I must say I rather prefer the mess in my own boardroom, thank you very much."
He let out a grave sigh and stared at the ball. "But it's getting so much harder to run a clean business these days, you know. Every day, I get word of more and more of my colleagues at their firms turning to this sort of…shady underside, as you know. In fact, it's become downright unprofitable to run a clean business! Imagine that."
Edward cleared his throat, slipping one hand into the pocket of his custom-made suit as he set the ball down on the felt again. "So I've been forced to keep abreast of these underworld developments simply because it's bad business not to do so. And that is how I learned of your little predicament."
Jason folded his arms over his chest, warning the old man with a lethal glare that he better get to the point soon because a back story was definitely not needed.
"You have much to lose, Jason." Edward's pale blue eyes bore directly into his, holding nothing back. The time for games and taunts had passed; now, he would lay it all down and hope that his brain-damaged grandson would make the educated decision.
"You've lost your most valuable shipping routes. Your product has gone down in quality and quantity. You're being pushed out of the Atlantic City business. You're losing clients fast. And if the final measure from the Triple Entente – that is what they're calling themselves, isn't it? – goes through, you could easily face a life sentence. If they let you live, that is."
His thumb stroked the green felt as he held the ball between his index and middle finger. "Now, none of us wants that. You're a bright young man and you have your whole life in front of you – what you haven't wasted of it already, that is. Despite what you do, you are an asset to this town and this community, and Port Charles is a better place for what you give and who you keep off the streets."
Jason hardly needed the Frank-Capra-esque speech and he conveyed as much with a single bored look leveled directly at the calculating old man.
Edward smiled at the boy's impatience. "And of course, there's the little matter of your family."
His smile grew when Jason's hands curled into loose fists. "Oh, yes, that dear, sweet Elizabeth and the child you two will be having together this Valentine's Day. I imagine that you wish to be present for the child's first moment in the world, hm?"
Max and Milo gulped when Jason scowled. Knowing their employer, he had quickly gone from barely tolerating the old man to seeing red, and if Edward didn't do something within the next ten seconds, there would be hell to pay in Penthouse II.
"And after all," the old man continued gallantly, "I could hardly live with myself if I let you get shipped off to Sing-Sing, knowing full well the whole time that I had the means to prevent it. Your grandmother would be most displeased with me, and no, Jason, I am not prepared to live with that for the rest of my days."
He shook his head, drumming his fingers on the felt alongside the motionless ball. "I told you that I could help you, and I meant it. You might be wondering how I'm in a position to do anything with these unsavory associates of yours, but you'd be surprised."
Jason's eyes remained trained on the old man as Edward twirled the eight ball around on the felt with his index finger.
"Romero – that's the name of the bigwig, isn't it?" Edward nodded to himself, not needing confirmation, and continued. "He's the one that's really got you up a tree. Not a very impressive fellow, if you ask me. Started up in the rough streets of Chicago – Hyde Park, to be exact. His father was a cobbler, his mother an assistant to a seamstress. Ten other brothers and sisters. He came to New York when he wasn't even a day over seventeen and fell in with the Cesar brothers."
The enforcer squared his jaw. If he was surprised at how much his grandfather knew, he didn't show it.
"And now he's running the show, isn't he? He's pushing you out of Atlantic City, sabotaging your shipments, and badmouthing you to the clients so that he can have them for himself." The corner of Edward's mouth twitched. "Obviously, he's not operating on his own resources and reputation."
Jason's brow lifted just a fraction of an inch.
The old man smiled, pleased with himself and his grandson for at least being on the same page. "You know of his connection with Ephram Woodhouse, hm?"
Jason cleared his throat quietly. "Romero got in touch with him down south. Woodhouse's family comes from textile tycoons; he relocated up in Boston after he lost his portion of inheritance by playing the ponies. He's got the biggest operation in Massachusetts and is edging Townsend out of his spot."
"And why not put pressure on Woodhouse, then?"
The enforcer didn't appreciate his grandfather's patronizing tone. "He's untouchable."
Edward's pale blue eyes glittered. "Perhaps. I have to admit, my boy, I'm rather disappointed with your research skills. Did you ever once pause to wonder how Ephram could start up anew in a pricey district like Boston after bankrupting himself?"
Jason blinked. "He had help from an old family friend."
"-One who took great care to remain anonymous, hm?" Edward let out a quiet laugh, enjoying the confused look on his grandson's face. "If you come face to face with him one of these days, ask him if the words Pickle Lila mean anything to him."
The younger man's eyes widened in an uncharacteristic display of bewilderment. "…You?"
The old man twirled the ball on the felt between his thumb and index, grinning now at the enforcer. "When we Quartermaines declared bankruptcy and moved into Kelly's, it was your grandmother's pickle relish – Pickle Lila – that saved us all. Oh, Lila made a fortune off that ungodly substance. And since Ephram's wife was an old family friend of the Morgan family, we loaned them what we could so that they could start over again."
Jason swallowed, understanding what Edward was proposing at last. "So you're saying-"
"I'm saying that if you say the word, I will pick up the telephone and tell Ephram to back off from his support of this Romero hooligan. I can make all of this go away with one sentence, Jason. It's all up to you."
There was that troublesome phrase again. "All up to me."
Edward's cold eyes twinkled at his grandson's bland, sarcastic tone. "On one condition."
Jason squared his jaw and leveled a gaze directly at the old man. "What?"
A wrinkled, age-worn index finger nudged the ball as Edward looked back without flinching. Quick as a flash, he jabbed at it and sent the eight ball into the corner pocket. "I want to be able to see my great-granddaughter."
The End.