3 sentence fics (@meyerlanskied)
Charlie knows the kid the minute he steps in - probably not knowing that it's their club, with the loud, showy company he's with dragging him along through the alley's hidden door.
"He's a customer, Charlie," Meyer's words are as much a vice around his wrist as anything else - let him be.
He ducks into the back instead, to keep from staring after the tailored blue suit the little poof could never have bought on his own.
Unlike with Igea much later, it's not raining on the day he stops by - just cold as all hell, and Charlie hugs his coat in tighter against the wind as he steps into the dying grass.
"Sorry m' late, Doc," he mumbles, feeling stupid for talking to a dead man, a pile of dirt and rocks. "It's been real busy, lately."
But you know that, he doesn't add, thumbs the coins in his pockets and leaves no stone. You built it up that way.
"You still bellyaching about that damn Coppola thing?"
Frank laughs at him as he hangs up the phone on the terrified actor, amusement the Prime Minister's quiet sort that somehow still manages to be insulting.
"If they're gonna make it about us, it might as well have somethin' true in it," Meyer huffs, and quieter, after a beat -
"Maybe we shoulda let Charlie do his stupid movie."