September 14 1923
“Mr. Luciano?”
Thomas Farley is standing in the doorway like a shadow. He has in his hand a small cardboard box, no bigger than his palm and that same expecting look on his face he has when he’s dressing the king of New York himself. Charlie would be lying if he said it didn’t make him ease up, if only by a fraction.
“Hey Farley- c’mere.” He beckons, and turns back to the mirror. He cuts a sharp image in his gray suit- he has to admit it. The French silk is heavy on his frame too, making him feel younger than he is, but the heft makes him stand up straighter too. He could be a banker, imagine that. “Doc outside?”
Farley smiles in a way that reminds him of Goodman. “He’s not coming.” There’s a stab of something in Charlie’s gut but he doesn’t even have a chance to turn before the Colored continues. “He decided it’d be best if you and Meyer did this alone.”
He understands. He does. Still doesn’t make it feel less like a betrayal. “Wants to distance himself if this doesn’t work huh?”
Farley gives him a look as he closes the distance. He could be English taught, Charlie thinks, because the man possesses the grace of any king. He is certainly more educated then the man he serves. “He wanted to give you this.” A sly grin again. He wonders if Thomas practices it in the mirror to mimic the Bankroll. “For luck.”
The tie is the same heavy silk of his suit but embroidered with beautiful gray horseshoes. Fucking doc. Fucking jokes. “The jackass.”
“May I?” Farley doesn’t wait for an affirmation. His fingers are already at his throat, purposefully tilting Charlie’s chin up like he’s a schoolboy attending shul. He wonders- blindly- how many times Thomas has done this for Rothstein, when gambles weren’t certain and there were rats in the walls. He wonders if AR ever felt like this. He doubts it.
Not AR, not king of the gamblers. The man is steel after all, arsenic in ice water for blood and-
Charlie wonders what they’ll say of him, one day. He ducks his head again. “…how d’I look? Hm?”
Thomas hesitates, and something unreadable crosses his face. “Like a sure bet, Mr. Luciano. Will that be all?”
He could be AR, he thinks and feels guilty for the thought. “Yes…that’s it. Thank you, Thomas.















