A/N: Thank you to the amazing imorca as always for her magnificent beta skills and her endless patience with my ramblings about each chapter. My muse is hot for this story right now. And to whomever nominated this for TheCarylDaily's Fanfic Awards - I love you more than I can say.
I know this is a slower burn than a lot of you are used to, but I promise this will be well worth the wait!
Chapter 7: The Five O'Clock Club
The Five O'Clock Club was Atlanta's own little slice of Hollywood style, mixing Southern class with just enough sparkle and splash of the modern age to make the place seem almost new. Before Prohibition, Atlanta's elite had frequented the bar and front dining room, but bankruptcy left only dust bunnies sipping from the dried up watering hole. The building had played host the first of Hershel Greene's business ventures: a modest, but popular, speakeasy located in what now served as the club's dressing and store rooms. Now, Greene owned The Five O'Clock Club outright and had transformed the formerly modest building into the hottest ticket in town.
The space itself was a giant circle, the walls gently curving towards the stage that spanned almost the whole length of the far wall. The tiered stage and the polished dance floor were bright beneath the high, stained glass dome ceiling and the special lights Greene had shipped all the way from Tinsel Town. The dining areas were darker; two levels, one lower than the other - the tables dressed to the nines with fine linens and polished silver - surrounded the dance floor. The long oak paneled bar itself was the only holdover from the original club, situated on the left side of the room behind the top row of dining tables. Along the sloping walls was a series of dimly lit semi-circular booths, each one separated by a tastefully chosen screen or huge, leafy potted plant.
Daryl sat in the booth closest to the bar, letting the smoke from his cigarette curl and dance around him as he waited for the Rhee kid to finish fixing his drink. The doors hadn't officially opened yet, but there were a few scattered patrons, mostly button men but Daryl caught a glimpse of a city judge with a particularly attractive brunette, as well as the two off duty policemen taking shots at the bar. He let a wry smile twist his lips as he took a long drag, letting the rush of tobacco seep through his veins and soothe his nerves, his thoughts full of his employer.
Greene had prospered during Prohibition, taking over a small time bootlegging operation and building it until he was the primary mover of alcohol from the South to the Northern states. The operation was huge, branching from Atlantic City to the Big Apple and even Chicago, providing the sweet liquid that was more precious than gold to Capone himself. Many had wondered if the end of Prohibition would be the end of Greene's empire, but the old man was shrewd with backup plans for his backup plans. He'd rubbed shoulders with most of the judges and political power in Atlanta, in addition to secret financial arrangements from "out of town", to keep himself in the black and had built an empire that served as the silent, sometimes shadow partner of everyone and everything in Dixieland. As it stood today he seemed unstoppable, as big as any of the Five Families, those Italian idiots that couldn't keep their noses out of the news for five minutes. Daryl, like all his Irish brethren, scorned the hothead garlic-eaters, but at the same time he wondered if they shouldn't be taking more cues from the misfortunes of the North.
They had trouble, serious trouble. The bookies that ran the area south of the railroad tracks were coming in suddenly requesting higher pay. The order for interrogation had been sent down when the fourth schmoe in a week had come in with the same request; during the beat down the Smith brat (Johnny? Jackie? Fuck all if he could remember) spilled that they were getting better offers from a new guy on the scene. Bookies were replaceable easy, enough button men were hot for the gambling action and would do well there, but it was the amount of leg work involved in disposing of the traitors and ensuring the continued cooperation of the leftovers that took time and attracted attention.
It wasn't just the bookies anymore, either. The shift manager at the rail yard plus two of the customs officials, the taxi service centered downtown and, most concerning to Greene so far, one of the handlers for the small but promising narcotics circles on the west end had all reported issues with their dailies, either in requests for more money or more protection. To make matters worse, they couldn't get a beat on the guy causing the problems. All they had was a name; not a face or known associates or even a damn location, just a name: Philip Blake.
It was enough of a shakeup that the mysterious Mr. Blue, Greene's financier, was flying in to discuss matters. Daryl had never met Mr. Blue; as far as he knew, no one had. The man was a ghost and worked hard to keep it that way, known only by his colorful nom de plume, so fierce it opened any safe in any bank east of the Mississippi. If Mr. Blue was coming, things were definitely sour.
"This racket keeps up, we'll all be named in the papers," he muttered aloud.
"Excuse me, sir?" Fuck. Daryl had been so lost in his own thoughts he hadn't noticed the bartender arrive with his drink. The Rhee kid was nosy as fuck, but mixed drinks like nobody's business and worked on the cheap. Probably what's kept him alive so far.
"Never mind, kid," Daryl said, gesturing for his drink. "Give it here, keep the change." Daryl flicked a quarter at Rhee, who caught it deftly in one hand as he set the two fingers of whiskey on the table. Daryl nodded, expecting him to leave but the kid stayed, shuffling nervously on the balls of his feet. Goddammit. "What?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Dixon-"
"Christ, kid, I already told ya: Mr. Dixon is my brother. Call me Daryl," he interrupted, not unkindly.
"Yes, sir." Rhee was definitely nervous, not entirely unusual for him around the higher ranks of Greene's gang. Daryl was half tempted to offer the young barkeep his own drink if it would stop the jittering. "I just… Jim quit today." Daryl's brow scrunched in confusion.
"Who the fuck is Jim?"
"One of the waiters, sir," Rhee replied. "Left a note at the bar, no notice. He was supposed to work tonight."
"Why are you talking to me about this? Ain't Parker the manager here? Tell him."
"I-I would, sir, except it isn't just Jim... Larry quit, too... an-and Parker called in sick again, told m-m-me to keep an eye on things tonight."
Parker was sick again? That's the third time this month… shit and shinola.
"Tell me your first name again," Daryl said.
"Um… Glenn," the bartender replied. "Glenn Rhee."
"Glenn, call Theodore at Lincoln-Oh-Six-Eight, give him the message exactly like you just told me, minus the stuttering," Daryl barked. "He'll have people here in a half hour to cover. Who's on tonight?"
"The usual band," Rhee replied.
"Not Michonne?"
"No, sir, she's scheduled for tomorrow."
"Good," Daryl sighed. "That's one drama I didn't need tonight." Daryl grabbed the tumbler and knocked his drink back in one gulp. "Get to callin', now. And kid?"
"Yes, Mr. Di-Daryl, sir?"
Daryl gestured him closer with his free hand, pulling out a wad of bills and stuffing a couple in Rhee's vest pocket. "You did good. Keep it up, but keep this on the down low, 'kay? And bring me another, but double the double, will ya? I'm fuckin' parched over here."
"Yes, sir."
He was gone and back in a flash, Daryl's drink refilled and back on the table almost before he could blink. Daryl wasn't positive the sudden loss of two members of staff at the club was Blake, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Looks like I've got a few extra stops to make tonight.
"Having a rough night already? It's early, sugar." Daryl looked up at the blonde with more curves than a sine wave settling herself on the other side of his booth.
"Whattya want, Andrea?" he drawled. He almost grinned. Despite himself, he nearly liked Andrea Harrison. He didn't trust her as far as she could pick him up and throw him with her little matchstick arms, but she wasn't half bad for a high class whore, although she preferred the term 'Madame'. She'd have made a good man, if fate had played her hand differently. She performed as the simpering blonde with her clients, but with Greene's men she was sharp as a tack.
"I'm looking for Merle," Andrea said simply.
"Why?" Daryl asked. He leaned back against the plush blue velvet seat, rolling his neck and listening to the snap and pop of his tired bones.
"A mutual friend is having me set up some entertainment for his out of town buddy," Andrea said with a smirk, sliding a folded paper across the table to him. "I'm supposed to discuss the details with big brother."
Daryl arched his eyebrow at the madame as he stubbed out the end of his cigarette in his ashtray and picked up the paper. To him, the idea of Andrea being anywhere near Mr. Blue was a bad idea, but seeing the instructions on the piece of paper, written in Greene's own hand… well, it wasn't up to him.
"You taking personal orders now?" Daryl asked archly.
"Of course not," Andrea replied. "Woke up and found that in my mailbox this afternoon. It's him, isn't it?" Daryl took a long, slow sip of his drink, the alcohol settling low and warm in his belly. Conversation with Andrea required careful, practiced handling. Tip your hand too much and she'd have you by the balls; tell her too little and she'd know you were lying.
Men were always spilling their secrets to her and why not? Andrea was good at her job. Bits and pieces of information sometimes showed up around town that Daryl knew came from Andrea, slight dramas were caused but always quickly settled. It was never serious and Daryl had quietly "forgotten" to pass his knowledge of the source up higher. Daryl didn't have it in him to harm a woman, knew it was his Achilles heel, but he couldn't say the same for Merle or most of the other members of the gang. It didn't make Andrea any less of a spider, though, and men were her flies, caught in a honeyed web of blonde hair and perfumed skin.
"Yeah," Daryl said, deciding a little honesty worked in his favor for the moment. "It's him."
"Jesus," Andrea muttered. "I need a drink."
Daryl raised a finger signaling Rhee again, who had Andrea's usual order of an elementary martini on the table quick as a jackrabbit. Kid does good work. Andrea spun the stick around her glass before pulling it out, tapping it delicately along the rim before popping a plump green olive through her ruby red lips. They both turned towards the stage as the spot came on, highlighting the band in their white coats as they struck up the first tune of the night. Daryl stayed quiet, listening for just a minute to the smooth, brassy sound of the trumpet fill the club.
"So," Andrea asked, all practiced nonchalance, "Merle coming in tonight?"
"Nope," Daryl smirked. "You wanna see him so bad, you're gonna have to go to him."
Andrea grimaced, letting her olive stick drop back into her martini with a plop. Daryl knew she much preferred to meet with him and Merle on neutral territory. Not that The Five O'Clock Club was exactly neutral, but it was public enough that Daryl knew she felt safer there. He supposed, in her shoes, he'd feel the same.
"Every time I walk into the Hibernian, the concierge gives me the stink eye," Andrea said. "You may want to discuss that with him."
"Ain't at the Hibernian anymore," Daryl replied.
"Oh yes, I heard you fellas had moved," Andrea said with a grin. Shit. "How's it living at a… boarding house?"
"It's fine," Daryl replied shortly.
The house itself wasn't so bad. The place was enormous, enough room for them all to have their own space without feeling on top of each other. The widow kept it clean and the food was better than anything he'd eaten in years. No, his problem was the Widow Peletier herself. She put on a good front, but Daryl knew she was cautious of the horde of men she found herself suddenly living with. Skittish as a new colt, he'd realized early on that she never turned her back to any of them and always kept the door in her line of sight. Daryl wondered just how much of a bastard Eddy Peletier had really been to make her this way. Daryl knew she had no idea she was housing her husband's killer and despite her surprising display of indifference to Peletier's corpse at the wake, he doubted she'd take the news well. He, himself, was finding it to be highly unsettling, living with the wife of a man he'd killed. It was her eyes, he'd decided, the same striking blue as a bluebird's wings. They haunted him at night as he tossed and turned in his bed, always waking up in the morning tangled in sheets damp with sweat and blue eyes on his mind…
"What was that?"
"What was what?" Daryl asked, looking around at the club.
"You," Andrea said, eyebrows arched up almost to her hairline. "What was that?"
Daryl realized he'd lost himself in his own thoughts for the second time that night and cursed internally. The Rhee kid was bad, but doing it in front of Andrea was worse.
"None of your damn business, Andrea," he snapped. "Keep your nose in the job and out of my business." A commotion at the door caught his attention and he sighed in relief. Thank the good Lord almighty, T's here. Daryl watched as Theodore Douglas, Greene's favorite chauffeur and messenger boy, made his way to the bar, speaking quickly with Rhee before crossing over to Daryl's booth.
"Good evening, Mister Dixon," the bald man greeted him. To everyone else, he was simply called by his surname Douglas, but to a select few, he was simply 'T'.
"Hey T," Daryl said. "Got things settled?"
"Done and dusted," T replied. "No trouble at all."
"Good," Daryl said. "Don't s'pose you can drive Miss Harrison here on her errand? She's in a big hurry." He caught Andrea glaring at him and bit back a grin, pleased with himself at cutting their conversation short.
"Sure can," T replied. "Got this for you as well." He handed Daryl a sealed envelope, which Daryl stuffed into his inner jacket pocket without comment. He knew the contents would keep him busy for the next several days. "You may wanna split fast, Daryl," T continued. "I'm supposed to pick up Mrs. Greene in an hour and bring her here to see the show."
"Oh fuck that," Daryl spat out. He quickly slurped down the last dregs of his drink to the tune of Andrea's raucous laughter and leapt to his feet. He was not in a mood to deal with The Banshee, who seemed to regard him, as well as well as most of the men, as little more than pond scum. Daryl left Andrea and T at the table without another word, crossing quickly to the cloakroom and retrieving his coat and fedora from the dame inside.
Daryl jammed his hat on his head, flipping up his collar as he stepped outside, past the throngs of citizens hoping to score a chance to get inside the club that night, his mind abuzz with a hundred different plans at once. Focus, Dixon. He was in his car, key in the ignition, when the thought struck him that sending Andrea to the boarding house to deal with Merle may not have been the best idea. One look at the widow and she's gonna know exactly where your head went tonight.
"Dammit," Daryl mumbled. He pulled the envelope out and ripped the flap open. Sure enough, it was the dailies from Greene. Daryl pulled his car out and headed towards the home of the unfortunate Parker Jones, soon to be The Five O'Clock Club's former manager.
A/N: The Five O'Clock Club was an actual club in Atlanta (on the corner of Peachtree and Forsythe). The club itself no longer exists, but it primarily served, during the 1920's-30's and again in the mid-50's, as a burlesque, although it did have a short stint as a small time jazz club. I've re-imagined it as a high class mob-run jazz club for the purposes of this story, mostly because I dig the name.
