It just won't stop.
When he gets to the office the next day ("the office" is how he refers to the back room of Greenberg's Delicatessan, one of A.R.'s many fronts and Meyer's official employer), Lucky is already there, sitting on an overturned bucket. A.R. himself is there, too, much to Meyer's surprise. Rothstein likes to keep as much distance between himself and his operations as possible.
Lucky looks a little cleaner than he did yesterday, and he actually blends right in with the other legitimate employees of the deli (as does Meyer) with a white T-shirt, the same faded jeans as yesterday, a different plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and scuffed black Converse. Meyer is dressed comparably—a nondescript gray T-shirt and black jeans, and black sneakers. A.R. in his business suit looks extremely out-of-place.
Of course, A.R.'s presence is significant, and Meyer is pretty sure he's about to find out what's going on.
"Morning, Meyer," A.R. says pleasantly.
"Morning."
"We were waiting on you, so now that you're here, let's go."
Meyer's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline as Lucky stands up and A.R. heads toward the back exit, clearly expecting Meyer and Lucky to follow.
"Do you have any idea what this is about?" Meyer hisses to Lucky.
Lucky shakes his head. "Man, I got no fuckin' clue."
They don't really have a choice, though, so they follow A.R. out the door and to where his limo is idling. Where the fuck are we going? Meyer wonders, sliding into the back seat with Lucky right behind him. A.R. is the last one in, and Jordan closes the door behind him and gets behind the wheel.
A.R. chooses to sit across from him and Lucky. He looks from one to the other, and Meyer wonders if they're supposed to guess what's happening.
Meyer really despises guessing games.
Lucky shifts uncomfortably in his seat and Meyer suddenly realizes how close they are. Part of him can't believe it's been seventeen hours since they had sex and neither of them has said a word about it even though all three of them know it. It's not a conversation to be had right now, either—it should be saved for when it's just the two of them.
What would he even say to Lucky, though? "I really liked sexing you and we should do it again"? It's true enough—for some stupid reason, he likes Lucky and the guy isn't yet grating on his nerves. Hell, spending fifteen minutes on the subway with him was actually pretty comfortable.
"I have a certain investment in Chicago," A.R. starts abruptly. "A partnership with a man named Johnny Torrio. He and I have discussed several business ventures and one he is particularly interested in pursuing is a heroin operation."
Meyer feels his eyebrows raising. This isn't something A.R. normally discusses with him. He's just a numbers-runner, not one of his messengers. A.R. mentioned yesterday that this would be part of Lucky's job, so why the hell is he here?
"An' you need us to hash out the details," Lucky guesses.
Not us, you slime-ball, just you, Meyer thinks, but A.R. is nodding, actually nodding.
"Precisely."
"Us?" Meyer asks, silently demanding clarification.
"Yes. Both of you."
"But this isn't—"
"It is now," A.R. says. He looks from Meyer to Lucky and back. "I prefer to send two people to these types of meetings. You two are partners now. You're leaving in two days—I have your travel already arranged. But we have a few stops to make first. My tailor, for one. You," he says, pointing at Lucky, "especially need different attire for this task. A good first impression is imperative."
Meyer's conflicted. This new job facet of his would actually be considered a promotion, and it means he'll be working more closely with A.R. than he has before. This is what he wanted—to learn from Rothstein and plan his own legacy because, well, no empire lasts forever. A.R. and Carolyn are two of the best, so following them is only a good thing.
But this deal already seems fishy to him. There's something A.R. isn't telling them, something nagging at the back of Meyer's head. He doesn't have time to ask, though, because the limo is rolling to a stop and A.R.'s climbing out. "Come along, boys."
Meyer and Lucky stand practically back-to-back as two tailors stretch out measuring tapes against them. Meyer normally hates this sort of thing but A.R. already picked out a few pinstripe patterns for the suits he's springing for, and that, at least, will give him the illusion of height (although standing next to Lucky, who's five-foot-eleven, will shatter that illusion). He's been measured for suits before, but Charlie clearly hasn't because Meyer can feel him tensing up and hear him inhale sharply as the tailor goes to measure his inseam.
A.R., meanwhile, has hardly looked up from his Blackberry in the past ten minutes. Meyer wishes he'd just leave for a few minutes—he wants to talk to Lucky about this job, and he really doesn't want to do it with A.R. around. They need to come up with a plan for this—Meyer's heard of Torrio but has never actually met the man before, and they need to figure out a contingency plan. Besides, he's not sure Lucky's ever done something like this before.
He hasn't, either, but at least he's used to the idea of it.
He consoles himself with the idea that they'll still have plenty of time to go over this. It's not like A.R. is going to expect them to follow after him for the next two days. Meyer just doesn't like not knowing where all the proverbial cards are. He doesn't like not having a plan.
Once the tailors are finished, A.R. stands up and glances at Meyer and Lucky, just long enough for Meyer to catch the unspoken command for them to follow him. He and Lucky exchange glances—Meyer keeps forgetting that Lucky isn't used to picking up on A.R.'s signals yet—and he hands Lucky the flannel shirt he'd been forced to remove for the taping.
"Where're we goin' now?" Lucky whispers as he buttons up his shirt.
Meyer just shakes his head. "I have no idea. Until he told us in the car, I had no idea I was even going to be involved with this."
"So this is all new for you?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
"So... what did you even do before this?"
"Numbers. I ran numbers. Before all this, before A.R. became this big gangster and founded this empire, he started off a gambler." Meyer looks straight into Lucky's eyes. "And considering you, I'd say he still is."
Lucky shoots him a puzzled look but Meyer heads out. The two of them hurry out of the back room, through the main store, and out the front door after A.R., who's waiting on the street for Jordan to bring the limo around.
"Your clothes will be ready tomorrow morning," he says once they're right behind him. "If any issues arise with them, they'll be fixed immediately. It is imperative that you both look professional. Of course, you must also conduct yourselves at all times with the utmost professionalism, even when you're not actually with Mr. Torrio. This is mostly for you, Charlie."
Charlie? Meyer thinks, raising his eyebrows and glancing at Lucky. He's calling him Charlie now? When the fuck did that happen? He wonders what he missed because Lucky doesn't react to the different name. He's heard it before. But this time, it's Lucky who doesn't return his glance.
The limousine rolls up on the street, and A.R. doesn't bother waiting for Jordan—he just opens the door himself. "For right now, though," he says, getting in, "we have other things to do today."
When they step out of the limo next, Meyer only has to glance around for a minute to recognize where they are. This is one of the Rothsteins' many warehouses, and if he's not mistaken, this one houses a heroin processing operation.
His suspicions are confirmed when they head inside and the first person he sees is a tall blond woman in a charcoal pantsuit overseeing a small cluster of people packaging heroin. "Hello, darling," A.R. says, approaching her and giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.
"Morning, Arnold." She looks over his shoulder toward Meyer and Lucky. "Are these the two you're sending to Chicago?"
"Yes, darling."
"I recognize you. Lansky, right? Meyer?"
"Yes, ma'am," Meyer says, suddenly uncomfortably aware of his hands in his pockets. He takes them out to shake Carolyn's proffered hand.
"And you are...?" she asks, looking at Lucky now.
"Lucky Luciano," he replies.
He shakes her hand, too, as she says, "Carolyn Rothstein. Good to meet you."
A.R. glances quickly at his phone before saying, "Mr. Luciano here is a very recent addition to our team. He was recruited by Mr. Lansky, as a matter of fact."
Meyer's eyes widen. Don't you fucking dare. A.R. absolutely cannot be about to retell this story.
A.R.'s mouth is halfway open—to say what, Meyer has no idea—when Carolyn cuts him off. "I know how busy you are, Arnold, so I can brief them from here. Give us ten minutes—I know Mr. Thompson has been calling you all morning, hasn't he?"
A.R. blinks and then nods, pulling out his phone again. "Of course. Take all the time you need, darling."
"I like her already," Lucky says, so quietly that only Meyer can hear him, and he's pretty sure that's what Lucky intended.
"Follow me, gentlemen. This—" Carolyn gestures to the small knot of people next to them "—is just the tip of the iceberg."
A.R.'s already on the phone and speaking to someone by the time they walk away.
"You don't need to know all the details of what's going on here—no sense putting all one's eggs in the same basket," Carolyn starts, walking toward the back. "However, I can tell you that this is our smallest operation. Through this facility, we process—that is, receive, cut, and package—ten kilos per week. I'll let the numbers man crank out the value."
The bottom drops out of Meyer's stomach. He's already doing the calculations. Ten kilos is worth millions. He knew the Rothsteins had a fortune, but he didn't realize it was this substantial. And this was just one warehouse!
"That may not sound like much," Carolyn goes on, oblivious to Meyer's silent shock, "but we're very careful with how we do business. Six people here actually doing the work, plus another twenty to work security, and that's not counting handlers. Every individual is searched upon entering and exiting, even if they only leave for a smoke break. No one with regular access to the facility is permitted to bring their cell phones to the premises, either."
"But A.R.—" Meyer starts, pointing back over his shoulder.
"Arnold is seldom here. This is all my domain. He's the brains and I'm the muscle. So while it's not necessarily smart for him to bring his phone, it happens so infrequently that I permit it. Speaking of which, where are your phones?"
"I never bring my phone to work," Meyer says. He's acutely aware of the risks of wire-tapping. He refuses to let himself be the Jenga piece that topples the whole organization.
"A.R. told me not to bring it," Lucky says.
"Good." Carolyn examines her nails for a moment before looking back up. "I've only met Torrio once, and it was unfortunately in a social setting. He seemed alright, but I have no idea what he'll be like in a business scenario. The Chicago gang, they're a rough group. Torrio has this guy working for him, younger guy, about twenty-five, maybe twenty-six years old, by the name of Capone. He and his brothers are originally out of Brooklyn, so Capone may not be the most pleasant individual. From what I understand, he left Brooklyn under some rather strained circumstances. Watch out for him."
"Who else is out there that we should know about?" Meyer asks.
"Well, there's Big Jim Colosimo, of course. Between him and Torrio, they essentially run Chicago. There's a few other up-and-comers that you probably won't see, like Dean O'Banion, Ed Sheridan... That's actually it for the Irish. They're stronger up in Atlantic City."
Meyer nods. He knows about the distribution of power between the major cities. The Irish have Atlantic City, New York City is primarily run by the Jews, and Chicago is run by the Italians. Philadelphia has done an interesting consolidation with mostly Irish heads but a few Jews to be found in the upper tiers as well. The Mexicans are all out in Los Angeles, and the blacks run Detroit. Those are the main strongholds, although there are still a few other pockets here and there—Miami, Atlanta, Houston, Kansas City, St. Louis, and Green Bay (he can't fathom the last one) all have some type of national-level organized crime ring.
"Since this is your first time doing anything like this, I'll give you a bit of advice. Not everyone there is looking to make this connection. Torrio usually holds all his dogs on a tight leash, but there could be some backlash since you're outsiders. Always make sure you have an exit strategy—whether it be physically or socially. Keep your heads down once you get there—don't go making waves. And if shit does go bad out there, you get out of there. If you get a bad feeling, you leave. This isn't Prohibition anymore, guys. Corpses don't just bring flies—they bring the federal hounds sniffing around. No one wants or needs that." The deadly serious look melts off Carolyn's face, replaced by a glowing smile. "Now, then, I think we've left my husband alone long enough. I'm sure he has other places he intended to take you today, so I'll return you to him."
A.R. bought both of them three suits each. It's not until he actually puts one on that he truly realizes—he's a gangster now. He looks good, older than his twenty-two years, which is only a good thing. He doesn't know much about Torrio but most people have issues respecting anyone who still looks like they're barely old enough to shave.
And then, when he shows A.R. the first ensemble, he catches sight of Lucky in his suit, and it's like night and day. Lucky's slicked his hair back in an effort to manage his wild dark curls, and if Meyer thought he looked attractive in jeans and a faded flannel shirt, it's nothing compared to Lucky in gangster attire. He looks dangerous, and though Meyer is loathe to admit it, he likes it.
Lucky notices, though. Just before he ducks out to change into the next suit, he catches Meyer's eye, smirks, and winks.