"So you guys are from Brooklyn?" Capone asks, glancing at them in the rearview mirror.
"I am," Charlie admits.
"Lower East Side," Meyer murmurs, looking out the window.
He doesn't know what he expected Chicago to look like—mostly, from the ground level, it looks a lot like New York. The streets are laid out differently, more logically, he thinks (instead of a few streets skewing off in random directions), but he's used to New York by now.
"Well, Johnny Torrio ain't like Rothstein, I can tell ya that much right now," Capone goes on. Meyer can tell he means to be intimidating, but he's not worried—he knows how to handle people who don't let logic rule.
"Well, isn't that a relief?" Meyer says instead, surreptitiously sending a text message to Charlie. Do not mention that you've only been working for AR for four days. They won't give you any respect.
"You ever met him?" Charlie asks.
"Who, Rothstein? Yeah, I met him once or twice. Didn't like him much. A' course, I don't really like doin' business with Jews in the first place. They're all cold bastards." Capone meets Meyer's gaze in the rearview and grins. "No offense."
Fucking dago prick. "None taken," Meyer says calmly. His fingernails are digging so hard into his palms he's surprised he's not drawing blood, the only outward display of his inner boiling rage. Capone completely misses it, but Charlie doesn't. He glances at Meyer's balled fists and up at his face.
"I hear you got some Irish around here," Charlie says quickly. "O'Banion an'... what's his name, Mey?"
"Sheridan."
"Yeah, Sheridan."
"Oh, man," Capone laughs. "Those pricks. Too big for their britches. Fuckin' Sheridan tryin' to muscle in on Greektown—I tell you what, Torrio ain't havin' any a' that shit."
As Capone continues with his feeble attempts at intimidation, Meyer slowly relaxes. He's suddenly more grateful for Charlie's presence than he can say—he never gets overwhelmed by his temper, but Charlie somehow managed to pick up on his elevated mood and distracted them all, diffusing the situation and letting Meyer get back in control.
Blatant antisemitism is the only thing that sends him into a rage. Everything else he can tolerate with all of A.R.'s cold and calculating indifference, but this one thing is the only thing that gets him livid, almost beyond rational thought.
This whole mess aside, though, he can't wait to get back to New York already. If Torrio is anything like Capone, Meyer's going to need every scrap of patience he can muster.
"So I'm droppin' you guys off at your hotel right now. You're havin' dinner at nine tonight with Torrio and Big Jim himself at Colosimo's, so I'll be out in front about eight-fifteen. Traffic's a bitch at that time a' night," Capone laughs, "but I remember New York traffic bein' worse, so compared to that, it'll be a breeze."
"I'm sure," Meyer says coolly. Inside, though, he's reeling at the revelation that they'll be meeting with Big Jim Colosimo as well as Johnny Torrio—A.R. didn't mention that possibility. He's not sure what to make of it.
Capone pulls up in front of the Ritz and puts the sedan in park. He unlocks the doors and gets out to pull their suitcases out of the trunk. "See you guys in a couple a' hours," Capone says, grinning, and waves at them as he gets back into the car.
Meyer and Charlie stand on the sidewalk outside the hotel until Capone pulls away.
"If I never see that prick again, it'll be too soon," Charlie mutters.
Their moods lighten considerably when they arrive at the suite that Rothstein reserved for them. Torrio had obviously heard which suite would be theirs and had several bottles of wine, different types of snacks, and a bunch of other gifts sent up. Charlie grins as he takes in the whole spread.
"Y'know, I've had worse jobs."
Meyer examines one of the bottles of champagne and is forcibly reminded of a stereotypical honeymoon suite. He isn't sure if it's just him being odd—probably, since Charlie hasn't commented on it yet.
Charlie flops onto the sofa and stares up at the ceiling for a minute. "Hey, they send any whiskey or scotch, or is it all wine?"
"It appears to be all wine and champagne," Meyer says, setting the bottle back in its bucket of ice.
Charlie scoffs. "Who do they think they're dealin' with here?"
"A.R. doesn't drink at all," Meyer says. He takes off his suit jacket and goes to hang it up.
"Wait, not at all?"
"No. He's a teetotalar. So it's possible they think we are, too."
"Fuck that." Charlie checks his watch and rolls his eyes. "So it's almost nine. I'm fuckin' starvin'—did they send up anythin' worth eating?"
"If they didn't, you could always order room service," Meyer points out. He scans the rest of the room and, though it's gorgeously decorated, he can't help a slight unease, like they're being watched. Maybe it's just the fact that they're miles away from home, but, knowing the sort of people they associate with, it wouldn't surprise him to discover that they're being watched. He pulls out his phone and sends another text to Charlie. Be careful what you say in here. I wouldn't put it past them to bug the room. The gifts could be to give us a false sense of security.
Charlie's phone buzzes in his pocket and he shoots Meyer a weird look but checks it anyway. As he reads, the puzzled expression melts away into realization and he glances up at Meyer with a raised eyebrow and a look that seems to ask, You really think they're watching us?
Meyer half-shrugs, as if to say, They could be, you never know, and Charlie nods.
"Alright, well, I'm gonna order some breakfast. You want anythin'?"
Meyer rubs the bridge of his nose. "Just... a bagel and cream cheese, and some coffee. Black."
"Sure." Charlie vaults off the sofa and picks up the room's phone, and Meyer hangs their garment bags in the closet. He's restless, not knowing if they're being watched, and it doesn't sit right with him. Moreover, he's not entirely convinced A.R. wouldn't know about it in the first place.
A.R., arrived in Chicago. Torrio's man Capone is picking us up from the Ritz for dinner at 9 tonight with Torrio and Colosimo.
Charlie hangs up the phone as Meyer finishes unpacking his small suitcase. "Thirty minutes," he says. "Man, this place is great an' all, but I can't wait to get back to New York."
Meyer rubs the back of his neck and looks around. Loosening his tie, he can't stop his mind from racing. The room might not even be bugged and his paranoia could be completely unjustified, but a little paranoia never killed anyone.
He entertains the notion that maybe the room is bugged, only it wasn't the Chicago gang that did it. The federal authorities could have...
His blood runs cold. Pieces fall into place. Of course. It could very well be a setup. It's so obvious now—A.R. hires Charlie and three days later, sends him and Meyer to Chicago with a hundred dollars' worth of heroin, and they take the fall. He and Charlie are expendable, after all. To what end they take the fall, Meyer can't figure out yet, but it'll come to him soon.
"Hey. What's goin' on?" Charlie asks, catching sight of his expression.
"I just thought of something," Meyer murmurs.
"It's a setup," Charlie guesses.
"Maybe. Something occurred to me, and A.R. suddenly hiring you makes a little more sense now."
"How so?"
"What if we're being set up by A.R. and the feds? So he picks me and hires you and sends us here so we take the fall for it."
Charlie nods slowly. "Okay, but why? We're still connected with A.R. It's obvious he sent us. He'd get busted, too."
Charlie has a point. Meyer still can't come up with a plausible end game strategy, and he's usually good at seeing those. He changes tack. "What if A.R. expects this deal to go bad, which is why he sent us? Again, we are still expendable. A drop in the proverbial bucket."
Charlie shrugs. "I brought some insurance. You ever fire a nine-mil?"
Meyer feels his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. "Once or twice. It's never been part of my job."
"Looks like it is now," Charlie says with a grin.
"Carolyn's right, you know," Charlie murmurs eleven hours later. "This ain't Prohibition anymore. No one expects a gunfight in the middle of a restaurant. Just stay calm."
Meyer snorts with involuntary laughter. "Calm" is one of the primary facets of his personality. To hear Charlie tell him to stay calm is hilarious, bordering on hysterical. Still, the pistol under his arm is both reassuring and ominous.
The familiar black sedan pulls up, and Capone rolls down the passenger-side window. "You guys gettin' in, or what?"
Capone talks a lot on the drive to Colosimo's restaurant, but Meyer doesn't recall him actually saying anything until the very end, when he says, "Just tell the guy you're guests a' Big Jim and Torrio."
"The guy?" Charlie asks quietly as they walk to the front door of the restaurant. "The fuck does he mean, the maitre 'd?"
"Probably." Meyer had felt over-dressed in his tuxedo, but as they draw level with the maitre 'd and he gets a quick look around, he realizes that everyone is in formal evening wear. He relaxes a bit and tells the maitre 'd, "We're guests of Big Jim Colosimo and Johnny Torrio."
The maitre 'd nods like he's been expecting them. "They just arrived a few minutes ago. Follow me."
As they wind their way through the restaurant, he and Charlie both look around, taking stock of the other patrons. Meyer tries to force down the idea that every single person here could be in on this plot to set them up—if there even is one—but he still finds himself trying to decide who'd be most likely to have a gun. A woman—that would be the smartest choice, he thinks. No one would expect a woman to be the one holding a gun to their heads. He finds the least-suspicious-looking people the most worthy of his suspicion, mostly because they don't look suspicious.
And then at the back table, in a completely separate room, sits two stern-looking men. If the nickname is to be believed, Meyer guesses the bigger man is Colosimo, and the other one, the older-looking one, is probably Torrio. As Charlie and Meyer approach, the other men stand up to greet them.
"Welcome to Chicago, boys," the older man says. "Johnny Torrio. This is Big Jim Colosimo," Johnny says, gesturing to Big Jim.
"Meyer Lansky," Meyer says. He quickly shakes hands with Torrio and Big Jim. Torrio smiles at him but Big Jim appears altogether indifferent.
"Lucky Luciano," Charlie says, shaking hands with them, too, but suddenly, Big Jim's face lights up.
"Luciano, eh? Parli Italiano?" Big Jim asks.
Charlie nods. "Sì, ma il mio compagno non lo fa."
Meyer doesn't speak Italian, but he understands roughly what's going on. Big Jim asked if Charlie speaks Italian, and Charlie said that he does, but judging by his tone, he doesn't want to.
"Ah, let's just keep it in English, then," Torrio says with a good-natured smile. "Less confusing that way. Sit down, sit down. We have a lot to talk about."
The conversation doesn't stray to business for almost two hours. It's actually rather enjoyable, and Torrio doesn't seem so bad. Sure, Big Jim's a little difficult to understand through his accent sometimes, but then he repeats himself in Italian and Charlie translates for Meyer so he doesn't really miss out on anything. Between the four of them, they manage to drain a bottle and a half of wine, although Meyer just nurses his one glass. He doesn't like being drunk, and right now, he prefers to keep his wits about him.
Torrio notices, and he says, "I'm sorry—Meyer, was it? I thought you were over twenty-one. I mean, you look young, but..."
"Oh, no, Mr. Torrio, that's not it. I am over twenty-one." He purposely neglects to mention that his twenty-first birthday was only about thirteen months ago. "I just want to stay clear-headed. It's a dangerous business we're in."
"That it is," Torrio says with a sage nod. "And call me Johnny. Well, since we're on the subject now, let's talk business. Meyer, Charlie, the Rothsteins sent you here to negotiate a deal—am I right in thinking that?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Okay. We'll talk more about it tomorrow at lunch, but for right now, I want to give you a few things to consider. Firstly, your deal is with me. Big Jim is only here because no deal is struck in Chicago without his blessing. He and I have already discussed this. Secondly, though both of you look like you're barely out of high school, I'll deal with you just as I'd deal with Rothstein if she were here. Whatever you agree to is what I'm assuming she agrees to, as well. And thirdly, I don't take kindly to being fucked over by anyone, even people I've been in business with for years. Especially by people I've been in business with for years. So if the Rothsteins are planning on fucking me over, I have no problem sending a message. Are we clear?"
"Crystal clear, Johnny," Meyer says, maintaining his outward composure, but internally, he's reviewing everything Johnny said. Specifically the parts about dealing with Carolyn. He'd thought Torrio was dealing with A.R., but apparently not. It put an interesting spin on things.
"Good. So when we meet for lunch tomorrow, I need five things from you. Routes, amounts, prices, when shipments can begin, and a sample of the merchandise. I assume you have that last one readily available?"
"Of course," Charlie says.
"Of course." Johnny grins. "I didn't think Rothstein would send you all this way without it. Do you have any questions for me?"
Meyer shakes his head. "I think I have all the information I need. Lucky?"
"Nah, I'm good."
"Good, good. Well, Al should be out front waiting to take you back to the Ritz, but if you think of anything you need or something you want to ask..." Johnny pulls out a business card and hands it to Meyer. "Just give me a call and we'll get it straightened out. Have a good evening, boys."
"Have a good evening, Mr. Torrio, Mr. Colosimo." Meyer pockets the business card.
"Night, Johnny. Buonanotte, Big Jim," Charlie says, and when Big Jim grins and says something in rapidfire Italian, Meyer thinks maybe Rothstein knew exactly what he was doing by sending them. Rothstein doesn't have many Italians in his organization, but it's clear that Charlie's presence made Johnny and Big Jim a lot more friendly than if Meyer had come alone. And Meyer was able to keep the business side of the conversation on-track, far better than Charlie would have been able to, he thinks.
They make a good team, and the dinner went better than he expected. He feels far more comfortable walking out of Big Jim's restaurant than he did walking in.
Parli Italiano? = Do you speak Italian?
Sì, ma il mio compagno non lo fa. = Yes, but my partner doesn't.
Buonanotte = good night
I checked that through Google Translate, so if it's not right, I'm sorry.