Because apparently, this is getting its own whole 'verse now.

He's halfway out the door of his apartment when his cell phone rings in his pocket. He's tempted to just let it ring, but he recognizes the ringtone, the only person in his phone to have it, so he sighs and answers it. "A.R., good evening."

"Good evening, Meyer," his boss says silkily, and if Meyer didn't know better, it would sound like Rothstein was about to instigate some hardcore phone sex. He always sounds like that, though. "Did you have an eventful trip home from the office?"

And that's another strange thing about A.R.—Meyer hasn't been able to figure out how yet, but he always seems to know everything. It's like he has cameras everywhere. Or a crystal ball. Hell, Meyer thinks sometimes that A.R. has tails on everyone who works for him. At least this time, though, he hasn't done anything wrong. "You could say that," Meyer admits, heading to the door. "Someone attempted to steal my wallet."

"Interesting. And they didn't succeed?"

Fuck you. You probably know all this already. "He did, just... not at the time."

"What do you mean?" A.R. asks, sounding slightly interested. He doesn't typically do "curious," even when he genuinely wants to know something.

"I mean that he managed to steal my wallet on a second attempt." There is no way in hell Meyer is telling his boss he slept with someone after the guy attempted to steal his wallet.

"Well, I certainly hope nothing important was in your wallet."

"Just some cash," Meyer says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He juggles his phone to his other hand, closes his front door behinds him, and locks it. "Nothing else. I still have my ID and my bank cards."

A.R. makes a hmm sound that Meyer doesn't like. "Where are you off to?"

Meyer strides to the elevator and stabs the button to go down. "Not sure yet. The goal is dinner."

"Wait in the lobby. I'll have my driver come get you."

"Wait, I—" he starts, but his phone beeps at him. A.R. has already hung up. Meyer pockets his phone and rubs his eyes as the elevator doors slide open. "Prick," he mutters to the empty elevator, and he hits the lobby button and waits. He's starting to have second thoughts about working for A.R.—not because of any supposed illegality (it's nothing explicitly illegal, it's more of a gray area, and that doesn't bother him), but because he has a way of ordering him around that doesn't lend itself to argument and leads Meyer to the conclusion that A.R. really doesn't give a shit about him as a person. But Meyer puts up with it, not because he has low self-esteem, but because for all of his personality flaws, A.R. is actually a master businessman, and Meyer still has a lot he wants to learn from him. He can handle the personality conflict.

For now.

"This gentleman who picked your pocket. Tell me about him," A.R. says, looking at Meyer over a heap of noodles clenched in his chopsticks.

Meyer takes a few moments to gather up a cluster of rice in his own chopsticks and raise them to his mouth before answering. He needs to come up with something, because the full story is a bit embarrassing.

Oh, what does he give a shit, anyway? It's my sex life, not his. Although it could hint at a poor judgment of character, Meyer never actually believed that Lucky wouldn't try to steal from him again. "His name was Charlie, but he told me to call him 'Lucky.'" Not entirely true, Lucky had said that his friends call him Lucky, but he'd signed his later note with his nickname, so Meyer just goes with it. "He posed as a tourist, asking for directions to Greenwich Village of all places." He takes another bite of rice and decides to leave out the part about Lucky kissing him. "He distracted me and attempted to lift my wallet out of my pocket, so I punched him in the stomach."

"Distracted you? How did he accomplish that?" A.R. asks with a small smile, and Meyer just knows that he already knows.

The heat rises in Meyer's face and he pretends he doesn't notice. "He kissed me."

"Clever," is all A.R. has to say about that particular detail. He sips his tea for a moment. "And then what? What led to this second chance?"

"Pity," Meyer says. Knowing that won't suffice—not for his boss, who has to know everything about everything—he explains, "I felt bad for him. He seemed sort of... nice, I guess, so I offered him a hundred dollars."

"Which he accepted, of course."

"He didn't. He told me he didn't need my charity and that he preferred to work for his money, even by stealing it."

A.R. sets down his cup of tea. He's silent for a few moments, and then he nods to himself, looking like he's just decided something. "Alright, go on."

Meyer's a bit reluctant to continue—he gets the feeling that A.R. is going to find some way to twist this around; this story makes it seem like he just randomly propositioned some guy he met on the street, but it really wasn't like that—but he sighs. "So I told him that if he wanted to earn a hundred dollars, I could make him work for it." He hadn't known at that moment what exactly he was going to do, but he'd had a pretty good idea. Lucky had, too.

"And he agreed?"

"Yes." He probably looks visibly uncomfortable, but he disguises it by taking another bite of his rice.

"And then... what? You and he went back to your apartment, I assume?"

"Yes." He's definitely not telling A.R. that he gave Lucky the hundred bucks before they even got horizontal. That's a sure way to earn his ire. "And then we had sex, I fell asleep, and when I woke up, he was gone. And so was my wallet," he adds, forcing out the rest of the story as quickly as he can.

A.R. nods slowly. "You know, that's the most illegal thing you've done."

"Come again?"

"Soliciting sex from someone? That's illegal." Damn A.R. for seeming pleased—like he's been hoping Meyer will do something flat-out illegal like that.

"I didn't pay him for sex," Meyer says coldly. "I paid him for his company. He was free to leave anytime he wanted after we got back to my apartment—he just happened to stay."

A.R. practically seems giddy now. "Free to leave? How so? He was there for a hundred dollars."

Fuck me running. "He was free to leave because I gave him the money two minutes after he walked in. He could have walked out. He didn't."

A.R. chuckles. "Are you still absolutely sure you don't want to be a lawyer? You have a gift for sidestepping limitations."

Meyer sets the carton of rice aside, chopsticks and all, and rubs his temples. He can't believe this right now. He was feeling pretty okay with the idea that he'd just had some pretty excellent no-strings-attached sex (although for some reason, Lucky seemed nice and Meyer was thinking that maybe he would call him back, and not just to get his wallet) with a near-stranger, and in three minutes, A.R. makes him feel like trash.

"Well," A.R. continues, "this Lucky seems rather resourceful. I'd like to meet him."

You gotta be shitting me. "Yes, he was resourceful. And opportunistic," Meyer adds, unintentionally remembering that, the whole time, Lucky had probably just been waiting for another chance to swipe his wallet.

"Once you're done eating, call him. I would like him up here as early as possible."

Meyer shouldn't be surprised that A.R. somehow knows Lucky left him a way to get in contact. Hell, the bastard probably knows he already saved the number in his phone. He just nods and finishes eating his rice.

The line rings in his ear for twenty seconds before there's an answer. "Yeah?"

That's definitely his voice. "Lucky." Meyer begins pacing the hallway outside A.R.'s office, running his fingers through his hair.

"Meyer," Lucky guesses, and the smirk in his voice is practically audible. "Want your wallet back?"

"Among other things."

"I didn't steal anythin' else."

Aside from my heart, he's half-tempted to say, but he isn't that big of a loser. "I mean that my boss wants to meet you."

"An' what kinda Mafia-type job you got that your boss wants to meet me?"

"I work for Arnold and Carolyn Rothstein," Meyer says. "Perhaps you've heard of them."

Lucky's quiet for a minute. "Yeah. Yeah, I heard a' them. They wanna meet me?"

"Just Mr. Rothstein for the moment, but I imagine that you'll probably meet Mrs. Rothstein later."

"When does he wanna meet me?"

"In A.R.'s words, 'as early as possible.'"

"Like, today?"

Meyer knows by now that when A.R. says "as early as possible," he means "now, if not sooner." A.R. does business at odd hours and doesn't rest until the job is done. Meyer's certain that if he could get Lucky in here in five minutes, A.R. will be satisfied. "Like, within the next hour, if you're available."

After a few more moments of silence, Lucky says, "You tryin'a set me up? It's a fuckin' wallet, man."

"The wallet is the furthest thing from my mind right now. Mr. Rothstein has a very tight schedule, so if he wants to meet you, it's a big deal."

Lucky exhales sharply, and the sound crackles Meyer's speaker. "Yeah, alright, fine. Not like I got anything else goin' on. Where is this place?"

Meyer looks up and flashes a thumbs-up at A.R. through the glass and blinds of his office. A.R. nods in acknowledgment. "He'll be sending his driver. It'll be faster that way. Where are you?"

"Broadway an' Seventh."

"See you in twenty minutes."

"This better be good," Lucky grumbles before Meyer hangs up. He pockets his phone and strides back into A.R.'s office.

"He's at Broadway and Seventh awaiting pickup."

A.R. nods. "Send out Jordan. Go with him."

"Go with him?" Meyer asks, not sure he heard A.R. correctly. Why does he need to accompany Jordan on this?

"Yes. You know what this Lucky looks like. Jordan doesn't. You will be able to find him far more easily than Jordan."

Meyer doesn't really want to go—this isn't at all in his job description, such as it is—but he doesn't really have a choice. He nods grudgingly and heads out to find Jordan.

Meyer raps his knuckles on the back of the driver's seat. "That's him. Right up there on the corner. Dark hair, cigarette, sleeves rolled."

Lucky's looking around but he doesn't see them. The cigarette between his fingers is burned halfway down, and he leans against the Broadway street sign. He looks bored but watchful.

Meyer slides across the leather seats, opens the car door, and gets out. "Lucky!"

Lucky turns. His eyes widen, he takes one last drag on his cigarette, and then he flings it to the pavement, walking to the car. "You weren't kiddin'. You really work for the Rothsteins, huh?"

"Yes." Meyer motions for Lucky to get in, and he does, looking out-of-place in his faded Levis in the back seat of A.R.'s limousine. In the blast of air-conditioning, a relief from the sweltering August air even at seven-thirty in the evening, Lucky rolls down the sleeves of his flannel shirt.

Meyer slides in next to Lucky and slams the door closed. Jordan pulls away from the curb, and Lucky looks around, looking a bit awed. Then his eyes settle back on Meyer. "So what's Rothstein want from me?"

"Aside from meeting you?" Meyer asks. He has an idea, thinking that, just maybe, A.R. wants Lucky to work for him, too, but he isn't going to say it out loud in case he's wrong. "I can't imagine." Except he can.

Maybe A.R. wants to put a bullet in Lucky. Meyer hopes not—although why A.R. would care about a street punk like Lucky is something he can't fathom. His boss has ordered a few executions, but he doesn't make a habit of it. He sees usefulness in people after others don't anymore. Besides, Lucky (he thinks) wasn't even on A.R.'s radar until this afternoon. So he stole Meyer's wallet—why does A.R. care?

Maybe he wants me to put a bullet in Lucky. Meyer really hopes that isn't the case, either—that's fucked-up, especially for A.R.'s standards. If it comes down to it, Meyer doesn't think he'd be able to kill anyone.

So he keeps his thoughts to himself because he doesn't want to worry Lucky unnecessarily.

The sun's set by the time the limo rolls up in front of the Rothmere building. Meyer gets out first and motions for Lucky to follow. Jordan drives around to the parking garage in the back and Meyer leads the way into the building.

Across the lobby, into the elevator, up to the twenty-eighth floor, and down the hall to A.R.'s office, Lucky doesn't stop looking around. At first, Meyer thinks he's impressed, trying to take it all in, but it occurs to him as he knocks on A.R.'s door that Lucky could be planning egress routes. He has a look of concentration on his face.

As Meyer opens the office door and walks in, A.R. closes up his laptop and stands up, looking right at Lucky. "Lucky, I presume?" He holds out his hand for Lucky to shake. "My name is Arnold Rothstein. Call me A.R."

Lucky hesitates for just a moment before shaking A.R.'s hand. "Charlie Luciano. Call me Lucky."

"Sure, Lucky. And you're already familiar with my associate Meyer Lansky over here." Meyer really doesn't like the way A.R. says "familiar." Lucky looks right at him and Meyer pointedly doesn't return the glance.

I should have told him that A.R. already knows we fucked. Right now, Lucky is probably wondering where all the cards are.

"I stole his wallet," Lucky says simply.

"Rather resourcefully, I might add," A.R. says. "Very impressive."

Lucky again glances at Meyer—he can practically see the question marks forming over his head—but Meyer keeps his eyes front. He's gotten very good at keeping his expression blank. "Thanks."

"Sit down, both of you," A.R. says, gesturing to the chairs across from his desk. Once the three of them are seated, A.R. lightly taps the surface of his desk for a moment and quickly looks over Lucky. "We just ate about a half an hour ago, but if you're hungry, I can have something else brought up."

"I could go for a pizza," Lucky says.

A.R. nods and pushes the intercom button on his phone. "Frankie, have Benny go pick up a pizza."

Oh, Jesus. Resting his elbow on the arm of his chair, Meyer rubs his eyes. Benny's a pretty decent guy, but he's crazy. He starts his senior year of high school in a few weeks, but in the meantime, he's running around as a package boy for Rothstein. There's no need to expose Lucky to Benny's crazy right now.

"Now, then, Lucky, I'm sure you're wondering why I wanted to see you."

"The thought crossed my mind."

"Of course. The most succinct explanation is that I want you to work for me."

"Work for you?" Lucky repeats, sounding stunned.

"Yes. Like I said, you're resourceful, you think on your feet, and so far, you seem fairly intelligent. I'm impressed."

"What would I be doin', exactly?" Lucky asks. His tone is suspicious but definitely interested.

"Nothing illegal, per se," A.R. says with a sardonic smile. "But I can't be everywhere at once. I need emissaries, representatives to meet people in my place. And my wife needs some assistance with her side of the house—transporting packages, things of that nature."

Drug running, Meyer thinks. That is definitely illegal.

"Compared to what you've been pulling down in the street, the pay will be substantial, and it's all off the books. You can ask Meyer—he's been working with me for six years. And there are other benefits, too. Rothmere Surety takes care of its employees—even the ones who aren't officially on record," A.R. says. "So what do you think?"

Lucky only takes about five seconds to think it over. He grins. "When do I start?"

I love the difference between what Meyer thinks and what he says. It's amazing.