you got me this time, but i'll get you back (lucky/meyer, r)
you got me this time, but i'll get you back
lucky/meyer, r
“So you’re the new guy,” the smaller man puts out his hand, but Lucky doesn’t even look at him. “Prison, huh? Or, at least, that’s what the word on the street is.”
“Hands off, kid.”
“Heard you’re workin’ for Rothstein now.”
“What’s it to you?”
“Nothin’, just that we’ll probably be seeing more of each other.”
He’s still holding his hand out, unwavering. The taller man finally takes hold of it.
“Lucky.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Meyer.”
Lucky’s been around long enough to know the ins and outs of the business, but he’s still an amateur when it comes to saying pretty things for the sake of everyone's interests. His mouth gets him in trouble more times than not, and A.R. has him on a tight leash after his most recent pitfall.
“Should have just let it go, you know,” Meyer comments as they wait by the car, collars up to guard against the cold sleet.
“Yeah, but the prick had it comin’, talkin’ to A.R. like that.”
“Speakin’.”
“What?”
“It’s speakin’. Not talkin’. If you want anyone to take you seriously in this business, learn how to say things right.”
Opening his mouth out of rebuttal, Lucky looks over to find Meyer offering him a cigarette.
(Later, he’ll credit Arnold Rothstein for teaching him how to behave like a gentleman -- but it was Meyer Lansky who taught him the real language of respect.)
(It is November 5, 1928, and they meet in an empty billiard room)
“You heard?”
“About A.R.? Who the fuck hasn’t?”
“They know who did it?”
“He wouldn’t give up any names, they said.”
“Jesus Christ.”
A pause.
“How’ve you been keepin’, Lucky?”
They don’t talk about it, what happened when the booze ran out and the cigars were all smoked to stubs.
They blame it on shock, this thing that happened between them. They blame it on A.R. and his thirst for money, an appetite that led to gunshots in a smoky hotel room. They blame everyone but themselves, this blind waltz around the truth, but they are still sore in the morning, no matter what they tell themselves.
Lucky gets a phone call nearly a year later.
“You busy? Got some Series tickets.”
He doesn’t answer at first, but then --
“Let’s just not take a page out of A.R.’s book, alright?”
In ‘62, it’s Lansky who gets a phone call.
“Bring him back,” his voice cracks. “Kid hasn’t been home in years.”
(they bury him in Queens with honors to rival kings)
lucky/meyer, r
“So you’re the new guy,” the smaller man puts out his hand, but Lucky doesn’t even look at him. “Prison, huh? Or, at least, that’s what the word on the street is.”
“Hands off, kid.”
“Heard you’re workin’ for Rothstein now.”
“What’s it to you?”
“Nothin’, just that we’ll probably be seeing more of each other.”
He’s still holding his hand out, unwavering. The taller man finally takes hold of it.
“Lucky.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Meyer.”
Lucky’s been around long enough to know the ins and outs of the business, but he’s still an amateur when it comes to saying pretty things for the sake of everyone's interests. His mouth gets him in trouble more times than not, and A.R. has him on a tight leash after his most recent pitfall.
“Should have just let it go, you know,” Meyer comments as they wait by the car, collars up to guard against the cold sleet.
“Yeah, but the prick had it comin’, talkin’ to A.R. like that.”
“Speakin’.”
“What?”
“It’s speakin’. Not talkin’. If you want anyone to take you seriously in this business, learn how to say things right.”
Opening his mouth out of rebuttal, Lucky looks over to find Meyer offering him a cigarette.
(Later, he’ll credit Arnold Rothstein for teaching him how to behave like a gentleman -- but it was Meyer Lansky who taught him the real language of respect.)
(It is November 5, 1928, and they meet in an empty billiard room)
“You heard?”
“About A.R.? Who the fuck hasn’t?”
“They know who did it?”
“He wouldn’t give up any names, they said.”
“Jesus Christ.”
A pause.
“How’ve you been keepin’, Lucky?”
They don’t talk about it, what happened when the booze ran out and the cigars were all smoked to stubs.
They blame it on shock, this thing that happened between them. They blame it on A.R. and his thirst for money, an appetite that led to gunshots in a smoky hotel room. They blame everyone but themselves, this blind waltz around the truth, but they are still sore in the morning, no matter what they tell themselves.
Lucky gets a phone call nearly a year later.
“You busy? Got some Series tickets.”
He doesn’t answer at first, but then --
“Let’s just not take a page out of A.R.’s book, alright?”
In ‘62, it’s Lansky who gets a phone call.
“Bring him back,” his voice cracks. “Kid hasn’t been home in years.”
(they bury him in Queens with honors to rival kings)