Fic: Of Family, Favours and Dreams part 1
Part 1
An idea is like a virus. Resilient and highly contagious. Even the smallest seed of an idea can grow until there is nothing else left. Once set loose, an idea takes on a life of its own, becomes uncontrollable, epidemic. In essence, an idea is a virus of the mind.
It is so easy for people to forget that fact. I did.
Take the idea of a favour. To most people it's an exchange between friends, something done for a loved one with some nebulous idea of return at a later date. Or maybe between colleagues, an informal tit for tat, mutually beneficial actions with minimal effort expended on either part. However in my line of work, amongst the families of organised crime, favours are something else. It doesn't matter if you're Yakuza or the Mafia, or anything in between, a favour is an unbreakable agreement of honour, the foundation on which business is made and the price for non-payment is fatal. Yet, at its root, a favour is just a collection of words, an idea in the most ephemeral sense of the term.
As with so many things, it all started with a favour.
“I don't like this, Cobb,” Arthur never was one to hide his displeasure, and currently, he was coiled as tightly as spring. If it was anyone else, Cobb might expect them to jump up and start pacing around the opulently decorated hallway. But as it was Arthur here, he just sat stiffly on the edge of his chair, even as he continued his argument in low, hushed tones, “You have no idea what he's likely to ask us for in return.”
“We both know Saito is the only one with enough pull to get Cobol off my back, off our backs.” And he was the only way Cobb could make it back home to his family, to Mal.
The unspoken argument hung between them in the air briefly, until Arthur shook his head, brow furrowing, “But at what price,” he responded quietly. Anything more he was going to say was cut short by the return of one of their hosts.
They were led into a large dining room, decorated in a manner that was probably meant to be reminiscent of the far east, rather than the east side of San Francisco. Lacquered rice paper walls and tastefully painted screens, all put together in a manner that could almost be a parody of what someone expected a Japanese chamber to look like. It wasn't practical at all, Cobb thought viciously as he sat down awkwardly at the large, low hardwood table. A quick glance over at Arthur confirmed that his companion was of similar mind. Cobb just hoped he was hiding it better than his friend.
After what felt like an interminable silence, each second stretching into hours, though in truth it could only have been but a few minutes, their host looked up from his tea, turning beady, wizened eyes onto Cobb, “You remind me of a man I once met in the Half-Forgotten Dream, a man possessed of some radical notions.”
Cobb took a few moments to study him, wondering briefly if the old man was going as senile as people said. But he dismissed the idea, the eyes were sharp, searching, testing him. “All new ideas are considered radical by those who fear change.”
Whether the low sound Saito made from his throat was in satisfaction or disapproval at his reply, Cobb couldn't be sure. “Have you come here to kill me?”
“I ... No.” the denial was automatic on his lips, surprised by the question. Cobb had made his career by avoiding killing, avoiding unnecessary violence or inconvenient bodies, a fact that he had assumed was well known.
“Ah yes, that is what you have people for is it not?” Saito glanced over at Arthur, the implication clear.
Arthur cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with how the conversation was going, “Mr Saito,” he started, an attempt to regain some level of control.
Saito raised his hand, stopping him in mid-sentence, making it clear that this was his house and his rules. “I have a job for you. A task I feel you would be most suited for, if you are capable of it. You told me once that the most persistent virus is an idea, is it not?”
“That it will take root and grow in the mind, yes.” Cobb confirmed, curious and wondering where this was going. The conversation they'd had on the subject had been years ago, in a smoky backroom of the Half-Forgotten Dream club. Mal had introduced them, true social butterfly that she was of the criminal underworld, networking effortlessly for him in a way he could only dream of.
Saito nodded, continuing, “I wish you to plant the seeds of an idea, the idea of betrayal, into the mind of another.”
“Who is the target?” Arthur cut through the game of hidden meanings and layers of conversation Cobb felt himself being sucked into with Saito, cut through with businesslike efficiency to the heart of the issue. Cobb could almost see the wheels turning in his friend's mind as he started calculating angles and risks.
“I am dying. Oh, do not look so surprised, Cobb. It is hardly a well-kept secret.” Saito emitted an amused snort of a laugh at his discomfort which turned briefly into a coughing fit. It was true; this wasn't exactly news to him. Everyone knew it, but then everyone had been saying the old man was about to kick the bucket for years, and yet he was still hanging strong.
Once Saito had composed himself, he continued. “I do not have much time. I do not wish to die as an old man filled with regret. I have many scores to settle but one runs deeper than all - Fischer-Morrow.”
Cobb knew the story, though not many did. Fischer-Morrow, an organization created from the unity of two of the largest Mafia Family's on the West Coast. An organization which had caused Saito's exile to America, who had taken over many of his Yakuza contacts and business deals, gajin though they were. Saito may have been powerful in this country despite that, but not enough for him to move against them directly, that had always been the case and had looked for a long time like it always would be.
“The old man is dying, like me. Before he goes, before I go, I want him to see all he has built destroyed.”
Cobb frowned, it sounded like Saito was asking to take him on the entire Fischer-Morrow family on his own. He shook his head in refusal, disappointment a bitter pill in his stomach that he'd come all this way to be offered a task too impossible even for him. “I don't do that sort of thing, it's not my way.”
“I don't mean for you to attack him face to face. I want to see his empire crumble from within.” Saito gave him a sly smile, “I want you to convince his son to take actions which will destroy his father's legacy.”
“You want us to start a civil war?” The idea was on the face of it no less absurd, but was certainly more within his area of expertise.
Cobb contemplated the issue briefly, as Arthur sat up straighter and took over the conversation, “How long does the old man have?” He had always dealt with the practicalities of a business deal, and this time was no exception, approaching the issue in pragmatic and straightforward manner, as always. Although even Arthur, it seems, had the diplomatic sense to focus on Fischer Snr’s mortality rather than their soon to be employers.
“The doctors give him a month, but he is a stubborn man. I think two.”
Arthur shook his head, a small smile of disbelief on his lips, “It's impossible, it can't be done.”
“Oh?”
“To plant the seeds of suspicion that will tear apart a close knit organisation like the Fischer-Morrow family will take time. Unless the genesis of the idea is already there, planting it is a long-term prospect, you can't just do it overnight or the mark will know he's being played. Two months isn't long enough.”
Even as Arthur protested, Cobb overrode him, seeing his chance of returning to Mal slipping away in front of his eyes. “And in return you'll use your influence to call Cobol off?”
Saito nodded, “That would be the terms of our agreement, you get to go home and any colleagues you need will be healthily remunerated”
“Cobb...” Arthur's tone of voice might almost have been described as pleading, if it wasn't for the bite of warning in it.
Cobb ignored it, “We'll do it.”
“Good. A pleasure doing business with you, Mr Cobb.”
Family is another word that can have so many meanings.
If asked, I would have said I was doing this to see my family again, to see Mal and the kids. But that wasn't the whole truth. I was also doing it for the Family which I would head once old man Miles died.
After all, you couldn't have the head of the Family in exile and the longer I stayed away, the more difficult it would be to exert my place when I took over. It was going to be hard enough as it was, being the heir by marriage and not by blood.
Of course, Arthur was doing it for Family, too. Which is how I knew that despite his disapproval, he would stick with me on this.
Looking back, I often wonder about his loyalty back then to a family that would never truly accept him. I may not have been Miles son by birth, but my father was one of Them. One of the Don's right hand men, back before the job caught up with him.
Arthur, however, had been a malnourished young streetrat when the old man took him under his wing. I never did get the story at the time and no one involved is around any more to ask. But fact was, adopted son or not, Arthur wasn't one of us, never would be.
I think he was loyal because the Family was the only family he knew, or at least the only one he cared to remember, and any family's better than none, right?
Which was probably why when I asked him if he wanted to sit this one out, he just looked at me in that way of his that implied that the very question insulted him. It was the same look he gave me when I told him I didn't need a bodyguard in exile with me. Although that time he followed it up by saying that he was doing it for Mal not me, so I should shut the fuck up.
But, to make this work we'd need more than the two of us. For a start we needed a forger and a thief, and in this state- hell, this country- there was only one man worth going to. Eames.
Yet another reason for Arthur to be pissed with me, even as he told me where to find him. At the time I didn't exactly spend much time thinking about either of those facts.
Maybe I should have.
Looking back.
There were only so many places a consummate gambler like Eames would be, and even less locales that would still accept his custom. Even so, San Diego had a plethora of dives just like this and Cobb could have probably wasted days searching all of them if Arthur hadn't been able to pinpoint the forger's location with startling accuracy.
The Englishman was easy to spot despite the wreaths of smoke clouding the joint. He had colonised one of the blackjack tables, salmon shirt and tweed jacket standing out among the sea of dull colours suits worn by the rest of the establishment's patrons. Men pretending to be somebody, men who used to be somebody. This wasn't a place for people who actually were anyone, and everyone knew it.
“You can rub those cards as long as you like, it ain't going to change one of them into an Ace.” Cobb commented as he slid into the seat besides him.
The forger tensed slightly, keeping his voice light as he replied so as not to draw attention, “Oh, you never know, it might.” Eames kept his eyes on the dealer, seemingly ignoring Cobb's presence, even as the House dealt itself a blackjack. The forger’s eyes narrowed, clearing expecting another result, before gathering the remainders of his chips in disgust.
“I see your ability to count cards hasn't improved,” Cobb needled him, trying to grab his attention when it seemed clear the forger was planning on ignoring him.
Eames shot him a sideways glance, “Piss off.” The words were said casually, an almost friendly tone, but Cobb could hear the danger underneath it.
“Sure, if you let me buy you a drink first.” One last try, because for all the time Cobb had known the man, the twin vices of alcohol and gambling never failed to get his attention.
And Arthur of course, but Arthur had refused to come.
++++
The bar Eames led him too looked like it should have been located across the border, a remnant of the city's long-standing Latino heritage. They took a table out on the balcony, quiet enough that they could talk but still under the hustle and bustle to make their words difficult to distinguish to any overly curious eavesdropper.
“Convincing a man of idea that is against all he believes in under a month. Do you think it's possible?” Cobb cut straight to the point, dangling a challenge who hoped the forger would find hard to resist.
Eames paused for a moment and he could tell the forger was more than aware of what he was doing. Still, he seemed to decide to take the bait after all, saying carefully, “Oh, it's possible. It'll just be bloody difficult. So what is this idea you wish to plant.”
Cobb glanced around, making it clear that he could not give the whole of the details in such a public place, “We need to convince the heir to a 'major corporation' to break up his father's empire.” He paused briefly, knowing full well Eames would pick up on the unspoken implication of his words, before adding with a hint of another challenge, “Arthur thinks it’s impossible.”
“Ahh, Arthur,” the name rolled off the Eames’ tongue, a clear reminder of the history between the two men, as much as the crooked pinky on the Brit's hand which even now he was unconsciously flexing. That had been a lesson from the Family that despite their daily business, there were certain types of 'immorality' that could not be borne. From what Cobb had heard, Arthur had come off worse, but then he had been conveniently away on business when it had happened and by the time he'd come back no one was talking.
Eames continued, oblivious to Cobb's reflections, a subtle fondness in his voice belying his words, “Still working with that stick-in-the-mud then, I take it.”
Cobb shrugged matching Eames' casual tone, “Hey, he's good at what he does right?”
“Oh, the best, but he has no imagination and we're going to need imagination if we're going to pull this off.” He took a sip from his drink, savouring the burn of tequila even as he considered the issue. “Well, that and a few chemical aides to help it along. Have you got access to a chemist?”
“Not yet.” In truth, Cobb hadn't even thought about it, his primary attention focused on enticing the forger on-board before considering the rest of the staffing.
“No need, I know a man, name of Yusuf, makes all his own concoctions. Come on, I'll introduce you, and then we'll go somewhere nice and private so you can tell me who exactly is the poor bastard we're going to be screwing over and just how handsomely I'm going to get paid to do it.”
I did it for love.
Those five words have probably in the past covered a multitude of criminal, amoral or just downright insane actions. I guess in this case what we were going to be doing probably fell under all three, but it’s not like any of us were upstanding citizens to begin with.
I certainly wouldn't have done it if I wasn't desperate, the whole thing was insane, likely to get me, and everyone else, killed, and that's just if we succeeded. I didn't even want to think about what Saito would do to us if we failed.
If I had had any sense, I would have turned Saito down, waited my time, found another way back to Mal. I might have been in exile, living on the east coast, away from New York and the Family business, the arrangement a compromise to stop the disagreements with Cobol turning into an all out gang war, but it wasn't like I didn't have anything to do.
We had interests over here I was taking care of, I had a good life, Arthur to keep me safe, and a pretty sweet thing called Ariadne to look after the house and any other needs.
I coulda stayed there, waited for it all to blow over, then return in due course to take my place as heir to the Family business. But I was young and I was in love, and the idea of staying away from Mal for even just a couple of years felt like a lifetime.
“Our mark is Robert Fischer.” Cobb stated once he had arrived back at the house, Eames and Yusuf in tow. They'd settled in the small study, papers already piled neatly on the desk where Arthur had clearly already been busy with research while Cobb had been away.
A photo of Fischer appeared from one the folders as he spoke, showing father and son, the picture of legitimate businessmen, in dark suits and wood-panelled offices. Cobb remembered the picture - it had appeared a few years ago in the paper alongside an article on the Fischer's as upstanding, philanthropic members of the community. Cobb had no clue how many people they'd had to bribe to get that one produced, but he figured it was no coincidence that the editor acquired a large house and a new car shortly after. After all, money, whatever it's provenance, will always talk.
“He's the heir to the Fischer-Morrow syndicate,” Arthur added as he handed the photo to Eames.
“Yes, thank you Arthur, I am well aware of who Robert Fischer is.” Eames replied slightly waspishly, even as he took the photo from his hands. “So we have to convince dear Fischer junior to split up the empire before he pops his cogs.”
“That's the long and short of it. Starting a civil war in one of the most powerful crime families on the East Coast, you still think you can do it?” Cobb made sure to put the right amount of challenge in it. By rights, Eames could get up and walk out now, and then they'd be down a forger and have wasted time they didn't have.
“Really, how could I resist the opportunity to cause such mayhem?” the forger grinned in a fashion that could only be considered to be shark-like in its sharpness. “If it’s a civil war you want then clearly you need to turn a significant portion of the organisation against him. There are the obvious routes, convincing him to bring the business interests legitimate, engineer a challenge to his leadership from an ambitious subordinate and so on, but really those are at the mercy of the mark's own moralistic tendencies and the availability of suitable alternatives candidates.”
“And they all take time we don't have,” Arthur agreed with a frown.
“Precisely. No, what we need is to offer the perception of betrayal by a respected and trusted advisor,” Eames flipped through the file Arthur had been compiling whilst Cobb was gone, his attention more taken with the reading material than necessarily what he was saying.
He stopped on a particular picture, extracting it from the file to place in front the of the rest of them. “No, for this we're going to have to start at the absolute basic, the relationship with the godfather.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow sceptically, “Peter Browning, Fischer Snr.'s right hand man, trusted member of the Family for over three decades. There is no evidence that Browning has been anything but loyal, how, exactly, are we meant to convince Fischer that he's really plotting against him?”
Eames shrugged, “I'd suggest a combination of manipulating his, no doubt, healthy paranoia that comes from being in surviving as the heir to a criminal empire, with the addition of a small amount of chemical help as a way forward.”
Cobb nodded, the idea needed fleshing out, a lot, but it was a good start, “That might just work”
Arthur however, remained unconvinced, “Might? We're going to need to do a lot better than might.”
Eames opened his mouth to reply, and Cobb could already see this descending into one of their sniping matches. However, before he got the chance to speak, Yusuf, who had until now been watching the proceedings with a level of detachment, piped up. “No, no, I didn't exactly sign up to be drugging a mafia boss, they are hardly known to be forgiving to people playing them.”
Dammit, Cobb hadn't considered their chemist getting cold feet. Normally, this would not be too much of an issue, but on this chemical help would be essential. He reassured the man quickly, “The only way this works is if he never even notices an outside influence. There's no risk of reprisal because he'll never even know anyone else is involved.”
“Well, it is your skin,” Yusuf shrugged, still frowning, “I for one am not going anywhere near them and if anyone asks I'll deny all knowledge.”
“I doubt Cobb expects any less,” Eames interrupted smoothly, layers of meaning behind his words.
Cobb nodded thankfully at him, happy to stave off mutiny for at least the moment, part of the issue of working with freelancers, but not one that could be helped. However, before they could return to the conversation, they interrupted by a soft knock on the door and a youthful face popped around the door.
“Mr Cobb, I'm heading out to the shops, do you guys need any supplies or anything?” Ariadne, their housekeeper, asked once they'd acknowledged her, a subtle emphasis on the 'supplies'. Her eyes were taking in the papers around them, clearly trying to puzzle out what they were doing but she knew enough not to ask outright.
Cobb shook his head, as much as Ariadne's skills extended well beyond the cleaning and cooking which would be expected from her age and gender, there was little point sending her out to acquire anything before they knew more precisely what they needed “Not right now, but Yusuf may have a list for you later on” The answer elicited a questioning look from Eames, clearly asking how much the girl knew of the house's activities but unwilling to say so in her presence.
Cobb considered leaving him hanging but decided in the end to put him out of his misery, “Eames, this is Ariadne, Dan Silverno's daughter.”
“A pleasure, sorry to hear about your father, he was a good man.” Eames smiled broadly at her, understanding lighting his eyes. Don Silverno had been one of the Miles Family muscle and it was far from surprising they would have given his daughter a job after his death, after all they looked after their own.
Eames was also, however, lying through his teeth since Don Silverno had been a ruthless, slimy bastard. Although, so his reputation went, a kind and caring husband and father. The answer was typical Eames charm, directed exactly where needed and with precisely the right words.
It worked on Ariadne like everyone else as she smiled brightly at him.
However, the whole exchange, Cobb couldn't help but notice, elicited a dark glare from Arthur, an expression tinged with something that could be jealousy. Directed at whom, Cobb didn't dare guess.
If I hadn't been so self-absorbed, I might have realised I wasn't the only one acting out of love, though I doubt either of them would have dared name it as such.
I never cared, even then, to look too closely at the relationship between Arthur and Eames. I mean, why should I? It was none of my business. Though really part of it was I really didn't want to think of my best friend, involved in that sort of thing. I mean it wasn't exactly moral. But then again, neither was much of anything else we did.
Even so, I couldn't help but hear the stories; of how they'd met when they were both young and stupid with something to prove. Eames had been freelancing for one of the Family's jobs and according to those who'd worked the job with them, the two of them had argued like cats and dogs. And yet, somehow they'd worked well together, become friends.
More than friends if the rumours were to be believed. Certainly enough people did to take it into their minds to teach them a 'lesson', or so the ugly whispers went, heard whilst I'd been away from home, down in Atlanta for a while. I never knew the truth of those either. I'd seen some of the bruises though, you could hardly miss them. But Arthur was no snitch and I never got the story out of him. No one did. Not even Mal.
But it was surely no coincidence that Eames disappeared after that, stopped taking work for the mob, moved to the west coast, well away from the Miles family, and well away from Arthur.
And that was that for Arthur and Eames.
Or so I'd thought.