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goatsandgangsters · 3 years

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Connect (Con Man AU; Chapter 3)

Characters: Meyer Lansky, Charlie Luciano, Benny Siegel, Frank Costello Pairing: Meyer/Charlie Word Count: ~5,000

(also on ao3)

“How’s it looking?” Meyer’s voice—though he seldom raised it—echoed louder than usual as he entered the empty room. The ceiling wasn’t high, but the exposed concrete and beams made everything sound louder than it was, his footsteps sharp and distinct.

Benny sat perched on the windowsill before a wide expanse of tinted glass, the large Citgo sign behind him. He looked up from the wad of cash he was counting, a plastic spoon dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Not great,” he said around the spoon.

Meyer stopped in front of him and bristled. “Not great?”

Benny offered a toothy grin, plucking the spoon from his mouth. “The clam chowder, I mean. Not all it’s cracked up to be, you know.”

Meyer let out a sigh that was equal parts relief and frustration, rounding instead on Frank for a straight answer. “What about you?”

“I didn’t have any. Seafood doesn’t agree with me. Besides, my wife’s got me doing this cleanse, so I’m only supposed to eat—”

“Will somebody—” Meyer said sharply, “please tell me about the damn Red Sox.”

“Oh, yeah, them. Probably gonna win,” Benny shrugged. “Unless they all get sick from this clam chowder. Chowdah,” he amended, adopting a mocking accent as he tossed his half-full cup halfway across the room into an open box.

Meyer smiled wryly, clasping his hands together as he looked out the window. It was early afternoon, the sun still high in the sky, but he knew that soon those stadium lights would be burning hot and bright around the green edges of Fenway Park. “Well, don’t go slipping them any. We need them to win the World Series.”

Frank scooped Benny’s chowder cup out of the box and set it on the ground. “And don’t go messing up the merchandise, alright?”

“And this location. It’s secured?” Meyer asked as he cocked his head and peered down into the boxes. Frank was good with logistics—he knew people, knew which palms to grease, plus he had out-of-town connections in several major cities outside of New York. But, for as reliable as he knew Frank to be, Meyer knew it was better never to rely on anyone else.

“Secure and discrete, with a backdoor in case of emergency,” Frank confirmed.

From the windowsill, Benny laughed. “Sounds like a Craigslist ad.”

Neither Frank nor Meyer paid the comment any attention, as Frank continued rattling off a list of checks and information.

“Good. I want everything set up before Game 1,” Meyer said as he and Frank finished talking over the finer points.

“Where’re you goin’?” Benny asked, jumping down from his perch. The sound of his turquoise sneakers slapping the concrete floor reverberated around the room.

Frank handled moving the merchandise, buying, reselling, underselling, overselling. He took care of the practicalities of the operation with the same care that Meyer took in the planning. Meyer handled the numbers, the details, all the information they needed. They didn’t need to worry about encryption when they had the most secure data storage in the world—Meyer’s memory. Betting, selling, scamming. Credit cards. Even hacking when things got slow. Gambling was the big money-maker for sports, but any large event brought all kinds of other opportunities with it. It was all about volume. Keeping as many fingers in as many pies, but never an entire hand—so to speak. Enough to get by, to keep moving, to afford the next round of jobs, but not enough to be noticed. Not enough to raise suspicion.

“I need to crunch some numbers in peace. No distractions.” He pointed a finger at Benny as he turned back towards the door.

Benny fixed him with one of those looks that used to mean his mother was about to get a call home from the principal’s office. “When have I ever been distracting?”

Fortunately, it was a short trip back to the hotel—only a few stops by train. He had been advised by everyone to avoid driving in Boston at all costs, which was a shame. Meyer had so little opportunity to get behind the wheel back home that it was one of his favorite parts of out-of-town jobs. Certainly better than the little bars of soap he still felt wasteful leaving behind in hotels.

The hotel itself was an ornate building downtown. It was fancier than suited Meyer’s personal tastes, but this wasn’t about his preferences. Besides, he noted as he crossed the street from the train and walked across the brick plaza, the hotel was right next to the library. Not that he would have much time for reading during the World Series, but it was nice to have close by all the same. Maybe he could bring his notebook across the street for some quiet.

The doorman held the door as he entered; Meyer nodded and thanked him. It would always make him a bristle a little, being treated like some kind of big shot when he was more than capable of opening his own doors, thank you. His ego didn’t need someone to do it for him—but this was a “big shot” kind of job. The World Series was a big deal. He had a part to play.

He fished his key card from his wallet as he entered the lobby, but the woman behind the front desk waved him down. “Sir? Excuse me, sir? Your husband wanted me to let you know that he’s waiting for you in the hotel restaurant.”

“My… husband?” Meyer hesitated, keeping his face neutral.

“Yes, he said that his phone died and you’d already checked in, so he’d wait for you for dinner.”

Meyer managed a tight smile. “Thank you,” as he reversed direction from the elevators and through the doors into the plush, maroon-carpeted hotel restaurant. It was early enough in the day that there were not many people inside. A couple at the bar, one or two tables filled. At the far side, by the window, a familiar face sat with his knees up against the table, typing away on his “dead” phone.

So much for no distractions.

He walked over, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “When exactly did we get married?”

“You’re so bad at rememberin’ our anniversary,” Charlie teased, looking up at him with a smirk. He dropped his feet back to the floor, grinning, but Meyer was all business.

“How’d you find me?” he asked, giving Charlie a steady stare. Running into each other by chance in Manhattan was one thing. Charlie finding his hotel in Boston—when he had no reason to even know Meyer would be in another state and city altogether—was another matter. He needed to figure out which security breach he had to close.

“I’m lucky,” Charlie answered with a cheeky grin. Meyer raised an eyebrow; he caved. “Alright, fine. After you disappeared on me without givin’ your number, I asked around,” Charlie explained, shooting Meyer a fond-but-grudging look that almost made it seem like they actually were a couple. Meyer had to commend his commitment to a rouse.

“I figure, Meyer ain’t exactly a common name, but nobody’s got any idea who I’m talkin’ about. For bein’ the best in the biz, you’re either way under the radar or you got everybody too scared to talk. But finally, I find a guy who tells me you work big sporting events. I’m thinkin’, 2013 World Series got your name all over it.” Charlie paused and took a sip from his glass of water. “Besides, I ain’t ever been to Boston before. Never been outta the five boroughs, actually.”

He looked at Meyer expectantly, who nodded as he digested the information. Charlie was right about one thing—he did operate under the radar. It was safer that way. He had other people who could be the front, who could strike the deals, shake the hands, meet the contacts. Meyer organized it all. “So you’ve just been wandering the streets of a major metropolitan area in the hopes of running into me by chance? You do know how many people are coming in for the game, right?”

“That’s the thing, though!” Charlie said, emphatic and excited, sitting forward in his seat. “That’s how it happened.”

Meyer raised an eyebrow, opening his mouth to offer a retort, when the waiter appeared to refill their water and take their orders for drinks. Charlie—practiced and confident—ordered a cocktail involving peaches and vodka that made Meyer’s teeth ache just thinking about it. Meyer opted for pernod, while Charlie tacked on an order for pretzel bites and beer cheese with an award-winning smile.

Meyer took a sip of water and looked out the window at the people passing by in Copley Square. “Really? Pretzel bites?”

“If you don’t want any, more for me,” Charlie teased.

“I’m just surprised that a place like this even has pretzel bites.”

Charlie flipped open the black leather menu book. “What, so I should order some ‘olive oil poached octopus’ when he comes back?”

Meyer grimaced. “Pretzels will be just fine. But don’t think you’re getting out of this easily. I believe I’m still owed an explanation.”

Charlie leaned against the high-backed leather chair; he seemed to be enjoying this, retelling his detective work. At least it wasn’t hard to get him talking. Useful flaw. “Alright, so I get here, figure next step’s gotta be Fenway, maybe start askin’ around, see if anybody who’s in the business here knows anything about you.”

“Seems doubtful, considering you didn’t have much luck with that on our home turf.”

“Hey, I gotta plenty of luck, thanks. ‘Cause there I am, gettin’ a slice of pizza, courtesy of some guy’s wallet—and it ain’t New York pizza, I’ll tell you that much—”

Meyer smirked. “I don’t hear great things about the clam chowder, either.”

“That’s just it! There I am, eatin’ my shit pizza, and there’s these two guys. When’s Meyer meetin’ us, and suddenly I’m all ears.”

“I’m not the only person in the entire world named Meyer, you know.”

Charlie ignored this point and kept talking. “So the one guy—beanpole, can’t stand still—he’s all, how come Meyer gets that swanky Copley hotel and we’re in a Best Western. And the other guy—looks like an Eddie Bauer catalog—he’s sayin’, well you know Meyer, all cautious, wants to stay separate. So now I’m here and I was right.”

Charlie grinned in satisfaction, evidently quite pleased with himself and his work, even though it was nothing but stupid dumb luck and stupid dumb Benny and Frank. Meyer clenched his teeth; he’d be having a word with them about being so cavalier with their details in public, where anyone could overhear.

“Well,” Meyer said, brushing a few lingering crumbs from earlier patrons off the table and into the palm of his hand, “I’ve never had a stalker before. Is that standard in your repertoire, or are you branching out?”

Charlie scoffed, indignant. “I’m not a stalker!”

“What do you call following me all the way to Boston?”

“Skill.”

Meyer snorted, which seemed to get under Charlie’s skin.

“Come on, admit it. You’re impressed!”

He wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction so easily. “Maybe I’m just creeped out.” It was unbelievable, after all, that he could come all the way to Boston and Charlie could still track him down in one afternoon all because of some goddamn clam chowder. And more than a little worrying. If Charlie could do it, who else?

“Listen,” Charlie said, sitting forward and drumming his fingers against the menu. He spoke quickly in a lowered voice, a look in his eyes as he met Meyer’s. “If I’m honest, I didn’t think it’d work, but then I found you and—and it’s like what you said. Things connect. Like us.”

Meyer sat back. “You’re twisting my words. That’s about strategy, you’re talking… fate.”

Charlie cocked his head. “You sayin’ you don’t believe in it?”

Meyer scoffed. “No, of course not. Do you? Fate is nothing more than what you make of it.”

“And I made it here.”

They fell into silence as the waiter set their drinks down on the table. The moment he was out of earshot, Charlie raised his glass with a winning smile. “So what do you say?”

“About fate?”

“About me. Whatever you got goin’ on, I want in.”

Meyer paused, tracing a finger along the outside of his glass. “I’m not sure it will work.” Rather than look at Charlie’s face—like someone had killed his puppy—Meyer riffled through his bag instead. “If you come onboard… Something tells me you’re a Yankees guy, but we need someone to be the idiot fan,” he said as he pulled out a Red Sox cap.

Charlie’s face split into a grin as he reached for the hat. “Anything for you, honey.”

Despite himself, Meyer laughed and clinked their glasses together.

*****

They didn’t order the Prime New York Strip, despite Charlie’s insistence that they have a full dinner instead of drinks and appetizers. Really, he just wanted to order the most expensive thing on the menu.

But, Meyer had said, there were better cuts.

Charlie couldn’t tell if he was being a snob or offering to buy him a nicer steak dinner later. Either way, he planned on sticking around to find out.

A short while—and several people’s wallets—later, Meyer was leading him into a building across from Fenway Park. The wallets weren’t part of the plan, per se, but Charlie wasn’t about to cram his ass onto an overcrowded, stopping-and-starting, screechy excuse for a subway without making it worth his while. Meyer noticed, of course, and said nothing; he only smirked. And maybe Charlie liked showing off a little, liked the way Meyer kept his lips in a stern little line, but his eyes crinkled in the corner as Charlie lifted a pair of designer sunglasses from a stuffy business type with a bit of bravado.

He liked the way Meyer moved through the crowds like no one could touch him, as though the sweaty ambling bodies around them were water he could part effortlessly with the angle of his shoulder. He didn’t walk into the building like he owned it—none of that swagger or arrogance. But no one was going to stop him. He looked like a Boy Scout who got a law degree in-between volunteering at the orphaned puppy shelter and helping little old ladies cross the street. But Charlie also saw that look in his eyes, the calculations, the assessment, the darting glances taking in all the details, underneath the unassuming veneer. The ultimate con man.

And here Charlie always thought he was a pro because if he smiled nice enough, no one noticed what his hands were doing. It worked, sure. But Meyer was next level.

If there was one thing Charlie learned in this business, it was to move when you saw an opening. And this was a chance he wasn’t about to let slip away.

“I still think you oughta put that table on the far wall—” Eddie Bauer Catalog was saying to ADHD Beanpole.

“Why, in case Batman repels in and steals our shit?”

“No, it just doesn’t feel right. Y’know, the feng shui.”

“Jesus, Frank, we’re only gonna be here until the end of the World Series—whoa, who’s the homeless guy?” Beanpole said as he noticed them approaching.

“I been on a bus all day!” Charlie snapped back. He wasn’t about to surreptitiously smell his armpit in front of people he didn’t know, but was he that much of a mess? Beanpole and Eddie Bauer were looking at him with uncertainty, wary in a way that had nothing to do with what he looked like.

“This is Charlie,” Meyer said, matter-of-fact. “He’ll be working with us.”

They exchanged another glance.

“Who the fuck is he?” Beanpole looked Charlie up and down; he didn’t seem impressed.

The other cut in for him. “What Benny means to say is, we didn’t think that bringing anyone else in—especially day of—was part of the plan.”

“It wasn’t,” Meyer said, a small smile on his face that didn’t reach his eyes as he clasped his hands behind his back. “But he stalked me to my hotel all the way from New York because a certain set of people—and I’m not naming names—decided to announce my whereabouts in a public place.”

“I didn’t stalk—we worked together before. Once,” Charlie explained in a hurried grumble. Okay, so maybe he did stalk Meyer. A little bit. But that’s how it was in their world.

The Beanpole—Benny—scoffed. Like Charlie wasn’t even there, he turned to Meyer and said, with disdain, “Since when do you work with anyone else?” The besides us didn’t need to be said.

This was a dumb idea. This was stupid. He shouldn’t have come all the way to Boston on a fucking hunch. He’d been beyond lucky even crossing paths with Meyer again, but he didn’t picture Meyer having a little gang like this. Which was stupid, he should have figured. After all, Meyer wasn’t gonna be a big player all on his own. But somehow, he figured he was like Charlie. Maybe a shitty subpar partner here and there, the Toninos of the world, but at the end of the day, all on his own.

“Fine,” he snapped. “Looks like you got it all covered.” He turned to go, but Meyer grabbed his arm.

“He’s good,” Meyer said with such finality that even Charlie believed he meant it. He fixed the other two with a firm stare. “Any other questions?”

He was a head taller than both of them, but it was clear that when Meyer said something, they listened. The one who couldn’t stand still didn’t look happy about it, but he also wasn’t going to argue. The other one was still looking at Charlie kind of funny, and Charlie prepared to square up, when he said—“Oh! You’re that Lucania kid!”

Charlie did a double take. “How the fuck d’you know that?”

He swore he’d never seen this guy in his life, but he just laughed warmly and shook his head. It reminded him of a grandparent with little kids, like he was about to start saying shit like yea high. “Yeah, knew you looked familiar. Got my start runnin’ errands for those old country types in the neighborhood, worked the corner store on East 11th. You were always givin’ your mother agida.”

All Charlie could do was stare at him and then laugh. “Just what everybody in this business wants, huh? Doin’ a job with somebody who knows your mother.”

The other guy waved a hand at him. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell her.” He paused. “For her sake, of course. Not yours. Don’t want to put her through the stress.” He extended his hand to Charlie, with a shake that seemed to belong more in the halls of Congress. “Frank Costello.”

“Oh yeah. Rings a bell.” He couldn’t have told you anything more about him, but it was a name Charlie remembered hearing around the neighborhood. Everybody liked Frank, he knew that. He solved problems. You just weren’t supposed to ask how.

In an undertone, he nudged Meyer in the side with his elbow. “Guess you was right about one thing, huh?” He flashed a grin and pointed his two index fingers together. “About it all connectin’.”

Meyer returned the look with a wry grin. “I think I was right about more than just that.”

Benny misinterpreted the gesture. “Oh eugh. Look, I’m happy you finally got laid, Meyer, but this guy?”

“What’s your problem?” Charlie snapped back with an entirely different finger gesture. Even in his annoyance, however, the word “finally” lodged itself into his brain. From what he remembered—and Charlie did remember—Meyer wasn’t such a bad kisser for a guy who apparently wasn’t getting laid.

“Don’t take it personally, Benny’s goal in life is to get under people’s skin,” Meyer explained in a tone of voice that suggested he was used to explaining away the other’s behavior. Then, with a sharp point at Benny, said emphatically, “And no, we are not—It’s just business.”

Benny snorted. “Always is, with you.”

That was all it took. Before Charlie knew, Meyer was running through their jobs with the precision of a wartime general. Frank moved the merchandise—and no, Charlie, it wasn’t petty theft; it was more what you might term a grey market. They handled sports betting of all types, card games, credit card skimming, and some more complicated jobs that Charlie didn’t fully follow as Meyer spoke with meticulous quickness.

“And if he doesn’t keep me busy enough,” Benny interrupted as Meyer wrapped up the basic overview, “I get bored and jack a car.”

Charlie hadn’t known him long, but he already knew that wasn’t a joke.

“For the record, I hate it when he does that,” Frank said with a sigh.

Benny smirked. “Yeah but Meyer loves a good chop shop more than anyone I know.”

That Charlie didn’t believe, but the small fond smile on Meyer’s face said otherwise. He didn’t argue, instead saying, “Just as long as you’re careful about it.”

“Is there anything you guys don’t do?”

Silence filled the office space. Finally, Frank said with a considering expression, “Not murder. Usually.”

Charlie squinted. He didn’t have a good read on Mr. Eddie-Bauer-for-Senate yet. “Is he kidding?” he asked Meyer.

Meyer didn’t answer, too busy staring out the tinted windows at the glowing lights and milling crowds in baseball caps below. “C’mon. Let’s get out of Frank’s hair before the local hires show up.”

*****

By the time they left the game after the sixth inning—Meyer had work to do before the game actually ended—the sun had long since set and a chill hung in the breeze outside of the bright stadium lights. Benny and Frank split off for their hotel in the neighborhood—Benny protesting all the while that Meyer got the nice hotel for this gig. But neither of the other two paid him much mind, so Charlie figured the kid was just like that. Besides, Meyer had to fit the important businessman role for this. And he did.

“You clean up pretty nice, by the way,” Charlie said, motioning to Meyer’s clothes—slacks and a button down.

“Thank you. You look like shit.” Meyer flipped through his phone while Charlie’s face fell into a scowl.

“Alright, look, I spent six and a half hours on a Megabus, alright? Cut me some slack. You wouldn’t believe the traffic.” He crossed his arms and leaned back against some restaurant, huffing. He could clean up nice, too. Maybe not nice-nice, like a real somebody, the way Meyer looked, but he had his own kind of nice. He wouldn’t be able to do the kinds of cons he did otherwise.

The smirk at the corner of Meyer’s lips was the only sign he noticed Charlie’s pouting. “Well, you should get some rest then. Where are you staying?”

Charlie hesitated. “See, that’s the thing…”

Now Meyer looked up from his phone. They looked at each other—Charlie pulling on that puppy-dog charm, while Meyer raised an eyebrow and sighed. “Come on,” he said. He didn’t sound enthusiastic about it, but at least it was an agreement.

Charlie didn’t steal anything on the short ride back to the hotel, but he did slip his hand through the crook of Meyer’s arm as they walked into the lobby. He flashed a winning smile to the woman at the front desk, who returned a polite wave and reiterated the company line to enjoy his stay. Meyer tapped his keycard inside the elevator as the doors slid closed and hit the button for 12.

“Only 12?” Charlie chided. “You didn’t spring for the penthouse for our anniversary?”

“I’m saving it for the Golden Anniversary,” Meyer replied evenly.

“Well we ain’t gonna make it that long if you don’t spoil me every now and then.” He flashed a winning smile, but Meyer looked away. The tips of his ears were pink. Huh. So he could get flustered.

Charlie grinned to himself about that as Meyer swiped open the door. He dropped his backpack—crammed with his own belongings and those of a half-dozen people who had the misfortune of taking the same train as him—onto the carpet.

“Not a bad room after all,” he said, taking it all in. More of a business suite. The walls were crisp hotel white, the leather desk chair stiff and uninviting, the modern furniture chic but obviously un-lived in. “But I gotta warn you,” Charlie grinned as his eyes fell on the king-size bed against the wall, “I’m a bit of a blanket hog.”

Meyer looked startled, but regained composure quickly. He grabbed a notebook from his luggage and settled into the uncomfortable leather chair. “I don’t plan on sleeping much, so feel free,” he said, non-committal and not looking at him.

Okay. That worked, too.

“I’m gonna shower,” he announced, a little awkward, because standing in the middle of the room and not knowing what to do with himself was getting to him. And because Benny wouldn’t stop calling him a hobo all afternoon, so maybe he did need a wash.

When did he get bad at this? Had he always been bad at this? He made a living off a combination of petty theft and seduction cons—he knew he wasn’t bad at this. Meyer was just different from everyone else. Not that he was trying get anything from Meyer the way he did marks. Sure, he wanted someone to show him the ropes, pull him into something bigger, so he wouldn’t have to operate on his own anymore. But that wasn’t a con. That was just how people worked—everybody always wanted something, otherwise why bother? But what Meyer wanted remained a mystery.

By the time he scrubbed his curls with the little bottle of free hotel shampoo and washed (and rewashed) every part of him with the unscented soap, Meyer still had not moved. Steam billowed out of the bathroom door after him as Charlie emerged from the bathroom, damp, in only a pair of fresh boxer-briefs. He padded barefoot across the carpet, rubbing the towel over his hair and tossing it aside.

As he knelt by his backpack to find a shirt, he noticed Meyer looking at him, then quickly glanced back down at his notebook. Charlie smirked. “Y’know,” he said, a little too loud, just to make Meyer look at him again. “We seem to go back to each other’s hotel rooms a lot,” he said, with slow and easy grin.

“Mm. Twice,” Meyer agreed, maybe sarcastically.

He meant the comment to be flirty, but Charlie couldn’t help glance over his shoulder at the door. “Benny’s not gonna bust in and hold a gun to my head, is he?”

Meyer laughed. “Oh, he might. That’s not the plan or anything, you just never know.”

“Great. That makes me feel better.”

He pulled a shirt from his bag, but slung it over his shoulder instead of putting it on. He sauntered over to Meyer, perching on the arm of the chair. “Y’know, if you’re gonna game the whole World Series, you might wanna get some sleep.”

“Do you mind not dripping on me while I’m working?” Meyer asked with a smirk, not looking up.

Charlie swung his shirt into Meyer’s face, and they both laughed.

Meyer worked all through the evening while Charlie sat up in bed, scrolling his phone and watching the TV with the sound turned low—even though Meyer insisted it wouldn’t distract him, after his years of practice tuning Benny out. He ordered room service for dinner and insisted Meyer eat something, even though he said he wasn’t hungry. As the hubbub of honking cars from the street below finally faded into a sleepy 2 AM haze, Charlie switched off the TV.

“Will the light bother you?” Meyer asked, speaking for the first time in hours as Charlie slipped into bed and pulled the comforter up around himself.

“Nah. Got used to sharin’ a room, growin’ up,” he said back, barely stifling a yawn. The whole bus trip up to Boston had really taken it out of him.

It didn’t take long until the room slipped away, sleep starting to pull him under. But even through the haze settling around his mind, he heard the click of the light and the tread of careful feet. He dipped back into a doze to the ambient sounds of the water running in the bathroom.

The bed creaked beside him as Meyer carefully arranged himself on the other side, a wide gap between them. Charlie flipped over to face him. He blinked his heavy eyes in the darkness. “Does this mean you trust me?” he asked, voice groggy already, as they lay on opposite sides of the king-size bed.

There was a long pause. He could feel Meyer’s slow and steady breathing through the mattress in the darkness. “No,” he answered quietly. “I don’t even trust Frank and Benny.”

#Boardwalk Empire #boardwalk fic #meyer lansky #charlie luciano #benny siegel #frank costello #boardwalk au #focus au #my writing #otp: soulmates in crime #ANYWAY LONG OVERDUE FOR AN UPDATE ON THIS ONE #I enjoyed the opportunity to have beef about boston's public transit in fic

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