Fic: Monday Night At Smokey Joe's
Author: rivlee
Title: Monday Night At Smokey Joe’s
Rating: PG-13 for language
Characters/Pairing: Team Leckie, Harry Welsh, Smokey Gordon, Joe Dominguez, George Luz, Poke Espera. Mostly Gen. Chuckler/Runner and Harry/Kitty implied.
Summary: This ain’t no Friends episode. Part of the Modern AU
Disclaimer: This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect or harm is meant or intended.
A/N: Unbeated. Every last mistake is mine. Fluff ficlet needed after Episode 9 of The Pacific re-watch.
They met at Smokey Joe’s Café at least twice a week. One night was for the Bro Book Club, started by Harry Welsh and frequented by everyone who looked for good booze, good cigars, and drinking in the back room. The second night was the normal meet-up. Smokey Joe’s was always for Monday nights, the calm atmosphere and the warm pastries just what they all needed after Mondays.
Even though Hoosier, Runner, Chuckler, and Leckie didn’t work 9 to 5, Monday to Friday jobs, there was something about Mondays that managed to suck. Without fail.
“Hey, Smokey,” Runner called across the Café, “get us a whole round of your blackest coffee.”
“Four Marine Specials, coming up,” Smokey yelled back.
Hoosier sprawled over his chair, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands.
“God, Haney would not let up on us today,” he said.
Runner nodded. “It’s his time of month. He gets all R. Lee Emery.”
“Vera told me it was only you two he goes after,” Leckie said.
“Only the former Marines. Well, except Espera. He and Poke are like kindred spirits,” Runner said.
“Who the hell uses the word ‘kindred’ anymore?” Hoosier asked.
“Leckie,” Runner answered.
“Kiss my ass,” Leckie said.
Smokey came by with their drinks.
“Where’s Chuckler?” he asked, setting the ceramic coffee cups down with a plate of brownies.
“Hey, Smokey, you know how those guys at the Pentagon are, all, ‘Yes, Ma’am, I do work for the Pentagon.’ All his flirting means he’s at least another thirty-forty-five minutes late,” Runner said.
“Marines,” Smokey said with a laugh. “When you guys are finished, Harry’s in the back.”
“Emergency meeting of the Book Club?” Hoosier asked.
“Something like that,” Smokey answered.
“I hope it’s not some April Fools’ Day bullshit,” Hoosier said.
“Nah, Harry usually can’t stop giggling if he’s pulling a prank,” Smokey said. He scratched at his beard. “I think he’s just got some news for you.”
“Like what?” Runner asked.
“Jesus, Conley,” George Luz said as he made his grand entrance, “if the man knew he would’ve told you by now. Now let the nice café owner go so I can get my shot of espresso and try not to kill someone tonight.”
“How that’s not smoking thing going for you?” Hoosier asked.
“I think it’s going pretty good,” Luz said while popping out three pieces of Nicorette gum.
“Can you imagine if we tried to get Hoosier to quit?” Runner asked.
“I will kill you in your sleep,” Hoosier said.
“You’ll have to go through Lew first,” Runner said.
“Chuckler is easily distracted by ice cream and shiny things,” Hoosier said. “He’d never see the arsenic coming.”
“Now Bill, we’ve talked about not discussing your murder fantasies over coffee. It ruins the taste of the brownies,” Chuckler said as he slid into his seat. He stuffed a brownie into his mouth and reached for his mug at the same time.
“I can see the attraction,” Leckie said to Runner.
“Fuck you,” Chuckler said. “I am prime real estate. I work for an organization people have actually heard of.”
No one could dispute that fact. Runner and Hoosier constantly bitched about how no one believed the Naval Criminal Investigative Services was an actual federal agency and Leckie wouldn’t even tell his parents where he worked. The Grassy Knoll wasn’t going to win any awards for excellence in journalism.
“Hey, Leckie, do any of your informants know of something going on in the Pentagon, because Basilone had, like, thirty people come in and out of his office today,” Chuckler said.
“Maybe it has something to do with the Pope visiting,” Hoosier said.
“The Pope’s coming here?” Leckie asked. “Fuck. That’s why my mom keeps calling.”
“And you’re the reporter,” Harry Welsh said. “Now that the gang’s all here, come into the back.”
“Why?” Chuckler asked.
“Because I’m not allowed to smoke or drink in this part of the fine establishment known as Smokey Joe’s Café, and you boys always make me want to drink.”
“We ain’t that young,” Hoosier bitched.
“You’re still babies,” Harry said. He clapped his hands. “Come on, little devil doggies, let’s go.”
********
Most people thought of Harry Welsh as an innocent man, small of stature, with a gap-toothed smile and a deep and abiding love for his wife. What they didn’t know was that Harry spent his youth training government operatives in ways that would make a Drill Sergeant weep and used his free time to circumvent any breeches of national security through information technology.
When you sat with him in Smokey Joe’s backroom, drinking scotch, smoking cigars, and playing cards, you almost felt like you were seeing a tiny, Irish badass version of The Godfather.
“How is it that you have an unending supply of Cuban cigars?” Leckie asked.
“I know a guy,” Harry said.
The boys laughed.
“No, really,” Harry said, “I know a guy. He’s got a contact in Miami who ships them up to him, and then he gets them to me. It’s all legal tender, reported on taxes, and circumventing a bullshit embargo because Kennedy got his ass handed to him. Of course, that was only after everyone made Fidel the toast of the town. I don’t understand what the big deal is these days. You can easily go to Canada or Mexico to buy your own set.”
“So why are we here?” Hoosier asked.
“Well it certainly wasn’t to pay attention to our poker game or to hear Chuckler make his cigar joke,” Harry said. He shuffled the cards. “Though what I have to say is for our dear friend, the Chuckler.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Your department’s being shut down,” Harry said as he dealt the cards.
“Bullshit,” Chuckler answered.
“Look, Lew, I’m not lying to you. Announcement will be tomorrow.”
“On April 1st,” Runner clarified.
Harry shrugged. “The Joint Chiefs have a sense of humor, what can I tell you.”
“How do you know this?” Leckie asked.
“I occasionally work for the Defense Intelligence Agency, which, by the way, is where Chuckler’s department is going. A friend just wanted me to give Lucky Leckie the news.”
“Who?” Leckie asked.
Harry laughed. “I may be on my way to a good buzz and about to win this hand, but Bob, you’ll never know. Suffice to say, the dismantling of the department is meant to happen as quietly as possible. The public will never know since it’s just going to get buried in all the Healthcare-Gay Marriage-Don’t-Ask-Don’t-Tell bullshit the lobbyists are throwing about. My source wants people to know about it and he wants it handled in an eloquent way.”
“Which is why you’re telling Bob and not Webster,” Chuckler said.
“Webster’s got a technique but he needs to learn the art,” Harry said. “And at least Juergens here gets the news from a friendly face and not some form letter memo.”
“Have to admit it, Welshie, you’ve got more flair than the CIA. They just send Lipton down to us. No one bothers to take me out and get me all liquored up.”
“I know to buy a girl dinner first.”
“I wonder what Kitty would say to that,” Hoosier said.
“She’d just ask you to hand over your balls so she can hang them above her desk, right next to mine,” Harry said with a wide smile. “God, I love that woman.”
“You scare me sometimes, Harry,” Leckie said.
“It’s the gap-teeth, freaks the little children out.” Harry stood up. “Look, boys, I’ve got a flight to catch in about three hours, so enjoy the last round of drinks, finish your game, and I’ll see you next week.”
“Where’re you scampering off to?” Hoosier asked.
“None of your business, Bill,” Harry answered.
He gave them a little wave as he left.
“He’s going to see Kitty,” Lew said.
“So going to see her,” Runner agreed. “Did we ever figure out where she is?”
“Hard to say,” Leckie answered. “He always flies US Airways into Charlotte, which, since it’s a hub, god knows where he goes from there. Could be anywhere from Charleston to the Bahamas.”
“Leckie,” Hoosier said while placing a hand on his shoulder, “you are never go to find her. Just give up.”
“She is my white whale,” Leckie said with absolute solemnity
“Hey guys,” Joe Dominguez said as he poked his head into the backroom. He was wearing a pair of jeans and one of the official Smokey Joe’s shirts, with his black sneakers stained with white flour.
Nothing was out of the ordinary, except for the fact that he was holding a puppy.
Hoosier put out his cigar and stood up. “Gimme,” he ordered.
“Here we go again,” Runner muttered.
“Kiss my hairy white ass,” Hoosier responded. He examined the puppy under the light of the old Tiffany lamps. “Healthy, good weight, responsive.”
“Thank you Ace Ventura,” Chuckler said, “now, maybe you can tell us why someone would abandon an apparently healthy, good natured, puppy.”
“I don’t know, numb nuts, maybe it’s because unlicensed pit bulls are illegal in the District of Columbia, banned on all Army and Marine Corp bases and banned in Prince George County, which would be to the North, South, and East of us and maybe, just maybe, because it’s a pit bull.”
“So, what are you going to do?” Joe asked. “I can’t turn him to the pound if no one will adopt him.”
“I’m not fostering any dogs at the moment,” Hoosier said. “I’ll keep him until we can find a decent home with people who pass the kind of background checks that would make Dick Winters happy.”
“Fuck,” Leckie muttered, “we’re going to have that dog forever.”
“And just for that, we’re naming him Lucky,” Hoosier said.
********
Robert Leckie was once a Marine, married to a woman who could’ve gone into modeling, and writing for the Associated Press and New York Times whenever he wasn’t on active duty.
Now he was a divorced man in his early 30s, writing for a conspiracy rag just a step up from the Weekly World News, living in some platonic lifemate situation with his fellow retired Marine brother, and taking their dog to Training School.
“How is this my life?” Leckie asked.
“Leckie, I may be here because I lost a bet with Hoosier and agreed to film his precious puppy’s every last moment of Training School, but do not sit there and try to get all White Man’s Problems on me,” Poke Espera said. “Because I am just not having that shit.”
“I’m dreaming of the man I used to be,” Leckie said.
“Let me guess, you could’ve been a contender.”
“Ray Person does much better impersonations.”
“That’s because he’s a jackass with no kids to watch out for and a job that requires him to search the internet all day,” Poke said.
“Not all day. Occasionally we send him out to hit on the lobbyists.”
“The always go after the wiry motherfuckers.”
“Without fail,” Leckie agreed.
Lucky perked up as the instructor came into the room. He was honestly a smart damn dog, but Hoosier was expecting him to pilot his own space shuttle.
“How’d you get the name Lucky anyway?” Poke asked.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Leckie replied.
“Fucking Marines, always with the homoerotic innuendos,” Poke muttered. He got the camcorder started. “Now let’s tape your furry child graduating at the Top of his Class for your domestic life partner.”
“True ‘dat,” Leckie said as he stood up to cheer Lucky Leckie-Smith on.
Title: Monday Night At Smokey Joe’s
Rating: PG-13 for language
Characters/Pairing: Team Leckie, Harry Welsh, Smokey Gordon, Joe Dominguez, George Luz, Poke Espera. Mostly Gen. Chuckler/Runner and Harry/Kitty implied.
Summary: This ain’t no Friends episode. Part of the Modern AU
Disclaimer: This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect or harm is meant or intended.
A/N: Unbeated. Every last mistake is mine. Fluff ficlet needed after Episode 9 of The Pacific re-watch.
They met at Smokey Joe’s Café at least twice a week. One night was for the Bro Book Club, started by Harry Welsh and frequented by everyone who looked for good booze, good cigars, and drinking in the back room. The second night was the normal meet-up. Smokey Joe’s was always for Monday nights, the calm atmosphere and the warm pastries just what they all needed after Mondays.
Even though Hoosier, Runner, Chuckler, and Leckie didn’t work 9 to 5, Monday to Friday jobs, there was something about Mondays that managed to suck. Without fail.
“Hey, Smokey,” Runner called across the Café, “get us a whole round of your blackest coffee.”
“Four Marine Specials, coming up,” Smokey yelled back.
Hoosier sprawled over his chair, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands.
“God, Haney would not let up on us today,” he said.
Runner nodded. “It’s his time of month. He gets all R. Lee Emery.”
“Vera told me it was only you two he goes after,” Leckie said.
“Only the former Marines. Well, except Espera. He and Poke are like kindred spirits,” Runner said.
“Who the hell uses the word ‘kindred’ anymore?” Hoosier asked.
“Leckie,” Runner answered.
“Kiss my ass,” Leckie said.
Smokey came by with their drinks.
“Where’s Chuckler?” he asked, setting the ceramic coffee cups down with a plate of brownies.
“Hey, Smokey, you know how those guys at the Pentagon are, all, ‘Yes, Ma’am, I do work for the Pentagon.’ All his flirting means he’s at least another thirty-forty-five minutes late,” Runner said.
“Marines,” Smokey said with a laugh. “When you guys are finished, Harry’s in the back.”
“Emergency meeting of the Book Club?” Hoosier asked.
“Something like that,” Smokey answered.
“I hope it’s not some April Fools’ Day bullshit,” Hoosier said.
“Nah, Harry usually can’t stop giggling if he’s pulling a prank,” Smokey said. He scratched at his beard. “I think he’s just got some news for you.”
“Like what?” Runner asked.
“Jesus, Conley,” George Luz said as he made his grand entrance, “if the man knew he would’ve told you by now. Now let the nice café owner go so I can get my shot of espresso and try not to kill someone tonight.”
“How that’s not smoking thing going for you?” Hoosier asked.
“I think it’s going pretty good,” Luz said while popping out three pieces of Nicorette gum.
“Can you imagine if we tried to get Hoosier to quit?” Runner asked.
“I will kill you in your sleep,” Hoosier said.
“You’ll have to go through Lew first,” Runner said.
“Chuckler is easily distracted by ice cream and shiny things,” Hoosier said. “He’d never see the arsenic coming.”
“Now Bill, we’ve talked about not discussing your murder fantasies over coffee. It ruins the taste of the brownies,” Chuckler said as he slid into his seat. He stuffed a brownie into his mouth and reached for his mug at the same time.
“I can see the attraction,” Leckie said to Runner.
“Fuck you,” Chuckler said. “I am prime real estate. I work for an organization people have actually heard of.”
No one could dispute that fact. Runner and Hoosier constantly bitched about how no one believed the Naval Criminal Investigative Services was an actual federal agency and Leckie wouldn’t even tell his parents where he worked. The Grassy Knoll wasn’t going to win any awards for excellence in journalism.
“Hey, Leckie, do any of your informants know of something going on in the Pentagon, because Basilone had, like, thirty people come in and out of his office today,” Chuckler said.
“Maybe it has something to do with the Pope visiting,” Hoosier said.
“The Pope’s coming here?” Leckie asked. “Fuck. That’s why my mom keeps calling.”
“And you’re the reporter,” Harry Welsh said. “Now that the gang’s all here, come into the back.”
“Why?” Chuckler asked.
“Because I’m not allowed to smoke or drink in this part of the fine establishment known as Smokey Joe’s Café, and you boys always make me want to drink.”
“We ain’t that young,” Hoosier bitched.
“You’re still babies,” Harry said. He clapped his hands. “Come on, little devil doggies, let’s go.”
********
Most people thought of Harry Welsh as an innocent man, small of stature, with a gap-toothed smile and a deep and abiding love for his wife. What they didn’t know was that Harry spent his youth training government operatives in ways that would make a Drill Sergeant weep and used his free time to circumvent any breeches of national security through information technology.
When you sat with him in Smokey Joe’s backroom, drinking scotch, smoking cigars, and playing cards, you almost felt like you were seeing a tiny, Irish badass version of The Godfather.
“How is it that you have an unending supply of Cuban cigars?” Leckie asked.
“I know a guy,” Harry said.
The boys laughed.
“No, really,” Harry said, “I know a guy. He’s got a contact in Miami who ships them up to him, and then he gets them to me. It’s all legal tender, reported on taxes, and circumventing a bullshit embargo because Kennedy got his ass handed to him. Of course, that was only after everyone made Fidel the toast of the town. I don’t understand what the big deal is these days. You can easily go to Canada or Mexico to buy your own set.”
“So why are we here?” Hoosier asked.
“Well it certainly wasn’t to pay attention to our poker game or to hear Chuckler make his cigar joke,” Harry said. He shuffled the cards. “Though what I have to say is for our dear friend, the Chuckler.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Your department’s being shut down,” Harry said as he dealt the cards.
“Bullshit,” Chuckler answered.
“Look, Lew, I’m not lying to you. Announcement will be tomorrow.”
“On April 1st,” Runner clarified.
Harry shrugged. “The Joint Chiefs have a sense of humor, what can I tell you.”
“How do you know this?” Leckie asked.
“I occasionally work for the Defense Intelligence Agency, which, by the way, is where Chuckler’s department is going. A friend just wanted me to give Lucky Leckie the news.”
“Who?” Leckie asked.
Harry laughed. “I may be on my way to a good buzz and about to win this hand, but Bob, you’ll never know. Suffice to say, the dismantling of the department is meant to happen as quietly as possible. The public will never know since it’s just going to get buried in all the Healthcare-Gay Marriage-Don’t-Ask-Don’t-Tell bullshit the lobbyists are throwing about. My source wants people to know about it and he wants it handled in an eloquent way.”
“Which is why you’re telling Bob and not Webster,” Chuckler said.
“Webster’s got a technique but he needs to learn the art,” Harry said. “And at least Juergens here gets the news from a friendly face and not some form letter memo.”
“Have to admit it, Welshie, you’ve got more flair than the CIA. They just send Lipton down to us. No one bothers to take me out and get me all liquored up.”
“I know to buy a girl dinner first.”
“I wonder what Kitty would say to that,” Hoosier said.
“She’d just ask you to hand over your balls so she can hang them above her desk, right next to mine,” Harry said with a wide smile. “God, I love that woman.”
“You scare me sometimes, Harry,” Leckie said.
“It’s the gap-teeth, freaks the little children out.” Harry stood up. “Look, boys, I’ve got a flight to catch in about three hours, so enjoy the last round of drinks, finish your game, and I’ll see you next week.”
“Where’re you scampering off to?” Hoosier asked.
“None of your business, Bill,” Harry answered.
He gave them a little wave as he left.
“He’s going to see Kitty,” Lew said.
“So going to see her,” Runner agreed. “Did we ever figure out where she is?”
“Hard to say,” Leckie answered. “He always flies US Airways into Charlotte, which, since it’s a hub, god knows where he goes from there. Could be anywhere from Charleston to the Bahamas.”
“Leckie,” Hoosier said while placing a hand on his shoulder, “you are never go to find her. Just give up.”
“She is my white whale,” Leckie said with absolute solemnity
“Hey guys,” Joe Dominguez said as he poked his head into the backroom. He was wearing a pair of jeans and one of the official Smokey Joe’s shirts, with his black sneakers stained with white flour.
Nothing was out of the ordinary, except for the fact that he was holding a puppy.
Hoosier put out his cigar and stood up. “Gimme,” he ordered.
“Here we go again,” Runner muttered.
“Kiss my hairy white ass,” Hoosier responded. He examined the puppy under the light of the old Tiffany lamps. “Healthy, good weight, responsive.”
“Thank you Ace Ventura,” Chuckler said, “now, maybe you can tell us why someone would abandon an apparently healthy, good natured, puppy.”
“I don’t know, numb nuts, maybe it’s because unlicensed pit bulls are illegal in the District of Columbia, banned on all Army and Marine Corp bases and banned in Prince George County, which would be to the North, South, and East of us and maybe, just maybe, because it’s a pit bull.”
“So, what are you going to do?” Joe asked. “I can’t turn him to the pound if no one will adopt him.”
“I’m not fostering any dogs at the moment,” Hoosier said. “I’ll keep him until we can find a decent home with people who pass the kind of background checks that would make Dick Winters happy.”
“Fuck,” Leckie muttered, “we’re going to have that dog forever.”
“And just for that, we’re naming him Lucky,” Hoosier said.
********
Robert Leckie was once a Marine, married to a woman who could’ve gone into modeling, and writing for the Associated Press and New York Times whenever he wasn’t on active duty.
Now he was a divorced man in his early 30s, writing for a conspiracy rag just a step up from the Weekly World News, living in some platonic lifemate situation with his fellow retired Marine brother, and taking their dog to Training School.
“How is this my life?” Leckie asked.
“Leckie, I may be here because I lost a bet with Hoosier and agreed to film his precious puppy’s every last moment of Training School, but do not sit there and try to get all White Man’s Problems on me,” Poke Espera said. “Because I am just not having that shit.”
“I’m dreaming of the man I used to be,” Leckie said.
“Let me guess, you could’ve been a contender.”
“Ray Person does much better impersonations.”
“That’s because he’s a jackass with no kids to watch out for and a job that requires him to search the internet all day,” Poke said.
“Not all day. Occasionally we send him out to hit on the lobbyists.”
“The always go after the wiry motherfuckers.”
“Without fail,” Leckie agreed.
Lucky perked up as the instructor came into the room. He was honestly a smart damn dog, but Hoosier was expecting him to pilot his own space shuttle.
“How’d you get the name Lucky anyway?” Poke asked.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Leckie replied.
“Fucking Marines, always with the homoerotic innuendos,” Poke muttered. He got the camcorder started. “Now let’s tape your furry child graduating at the Top of his Class for your domestic life partner.”
“True ‘dat,” Leckie said as he stood up to cheer Lucky Leckie-Smith on.