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The alley meeting point is a cliche.
Mickey quipped as much when the Boss Man explained where the Gallaghers arranged the swap. (It earned him a slap upside the head).
“Fuckin’ cliches,” Mickey mutters to himself as he cups his hands around the lighter.
A soft rain romanticizes the alley in the way all the movies do. Trying to make the mob seem cool instead of a toxic hellhole where the only way out is prison or six feet under (dirt, water, freeway - it doesn't matter). This was Mickey’s life though, as he tries to find a way to repair the Milkovich's reputation with the Russians. Attempting to take Chicago from the Gallaghers is a fool’s mission, but he’s gotta be more than just “the Ukrainian.”
Stumbling on a Gallagher lackey at a shithole bar in the Southside was a sign from the divine. The loud mouth drunk was flashing cash from a well known laundering point (Patsy’s - it didn’t take long for one of the tech savvy chumps to confirm it). Mickey followed him out, slapped him in the back of the head with his glock and threw the drunk into his trunk. Tires screeching into the night. Movie-esque and all that shit. Mickey felt like a mobster that night; not a Ukrainian meathead only meant to die in a blaze of glory protecting the real important kingpins.
There are no tires screeching, only the quiet crunch of gravel as the black car rolls into the alley. The windows are tinted and the chrome twinkles in the flickering yellow streetlights.
“We ain’t living in the Godfather,” Mickey mutters angrily.
He tosses the unlit cigarette away, the filter soaked through and his lighter apparently empty. The nicotine could possibly calm his nerves - he’s no smooth talker. Not meant for exchanges. But the Boss Man insisted Mickey take the lead as the lackey was his catch. Get the Gallaghers to cede the territory by Easton so the Russians can begin to smuggle their people in. Failure is not an option.
The car creaks as it comes to a halt and Mickey’s eyebrow jerks up. The doors bang open and out come two young men arguing inanely with each other. As if on cue, from his own car, the lackey starts banging on the side of the trunk. Guess the alcohol Mandy fed the drunk to get him to shut up finally wore off. Thankfully the trunk muffles the godawful screech of the drunk’s voice.
“Fine, Carl!” the driver snaps. “You’re right. Maybe we should consider booby trapping the house.”
“I’m just saying -” ‘Carl’ begins but the driver cuts him off.
“I don’t want to hear anymore of it. Lip and I will talk about it.”
Mickey scoffs quietly. What kind of operations are the Gallaghers running here? Poorly kept cars and loudmouth lackeys? And Mickey thought he was new at this. The tiny noise seems to catch the driver's notice as his eyes dart to Mickey before looking back to Carl.
“Alright which one of you is Red?” Mickey asks.
He drifts his hand over his hip, getting a brief comfort from feeling his gun resting there. Milkovichs are tough sons of bitches, but his glock has got him out of some real sticky situations. It’s nice knowing he has it to cover him in case the meet goes belly up.
“What do you think dumb ass?” the driver asks.
The street lights flicker once more to reveal Carl’s boyish face and the driver’s red hair. His skin is ghostly white, but eyes calm and calculated. Mickey shoves down the part of him that finds Red attractive. He’s here for business, dammit.
“I thought the Russians had accents,” Carl asks.
“Shut up,” Mickey and Red say simultaneously.
Their eyes lock across the alley.
“So we going to do this?” Red asks.
He sounds bored and it pisses Mickey the fuck off. If he weren’t so concerned with fucking the entire meet up, he’d give Red a piece of his mind.
“Even if he’s a lackey, you could show some respect,” Mickey snaps.
“Just show me he’s alive,” Red sighs.
“Who the fuck does this guy think he is,” Mickey grumbles to himself as he turns to pull the trunk open.
He keeps an eye on Carl and Red, both far too relaxed. Neither of them seem to be armed but Mickey knows the Gallaghers can’t be that stupid. The trunk pops open and the entire alley fills with the shrill complaints of the drunk. The drunk looks feral, dirty hair flying and eyes staring up at Mickey.
“Do you know who I am?” he demands.
“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey scowls.
He grabs the scruff of the drunk’s shirt and pulls him out of the trunk. The drunk hits the pavement with a wet thwap, stream of swears and complaints never ending.
“My god, does he ever shut up?” Mickey says, half to himself and half to the others.
“Unfortunately not,” Red says, sounding simultaneously exhausted, frustrated, and long-suffering.
The drunk’s wild eyes turn from Mickey to the two other men. A full, toothy grin spreads across his face as he begins to squirm, attempting to free himself from his bonds.
“Carl! Ian! You came!” the drunk shouts gleefully. “Come and give your ol’ pops a hand over here!”
“Frank, shut the fuck up,” Red snaps. “You’ll blow our cover.”
“It’s too late for that,” Mickey chimes in. “Ian.”
He clicks his tongue as he says Red’s name. Ian scowls deeply.
“Alright what do you want for him?” Ian asks.
“I dunno, I was kind of toying with the idea of just throwing his sorry ass into the Chicago River,” Mickey replies.
“It would save us a lot of trouble,” Carl says, nodding slightly.
“Fiona says we want him alive,” Ian reminds Carl sharply.
The name Fiona causes a bit of shiver down Mickey’s spin. The Gallagher Family’s Kingpin. She’s ruthless and won’t stop when her family is involved. Ever since Mickey arrived in Chicago, especially in the Southside, whispers of her influence and mercilessness have been drilled into his brain. Don’t fuck with the Gallaghers. And yet here Mickey is, fucking with the Gallaghers. Maybe the Russians had a point with the Milkovichs really only being suited as weapons.
Fiona’s renown is only topped by that of her father, Francis. Son of poor Irish immigrants, Francis came to rule Chicago’s Southside with an iron fist and eventually the city. If you crossed Francis, that was it.
“Such good boys,” the drunk sighs as he looks back at Mickey, smiling. “I raised ‘em right.”
Mickey hoofs him in the stomach. He doubts this piece of shit had much to do with raising his kids. The drunk howls in pain.
“Evanston,” Mickey directs at Ian.
“Far from the Southside,” Ian muses. “Guess the Russians are really into the fine things.”
“Fucking Northsiders,” Carl spits.
“What do the Ruskis want with Evanston?” Ian asks.
“None of your fucking business, mick,” Mickey fires back.
Ian pauses and stares at the drunk on the ground, finally silent.
“If the Russians are planning an invasion, I can’t allow it,” Ian says.
“C’mon man,” Mickey says. “Let the big boys do their thing, let’s just finish the swap and head on our merry ways. We’re all just pawns in this bullshit.”
“I heard the Russians were thickheaded, but this takes the cake,” Ian says. “Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?”
“First of all, Red, I’m Ukrainian, so let’s get it right okay? Second of all, what the fuck do you think? You’re the Gallaghers. Don’t fuck with the Gallaghers,” Mickey parrots.
“I’ve been telling you all this time,” the drunk howls. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
“Shut up Frank!” Ian snaps, gaze never leaving Mickey. “Yeah we’re the Gallaghers, but I’m not some lackey.”
Mickey glares at him. The pieces fall in place slowly.
“You’re telling me that Frank is short for Francis? What kind of bullshit is that?”
“Coming from Mikhailo,” Ian snorts.
Mickey freezes. He should’ve known better. Chicago is the Gallagher’s city. The Southside is their kingdom and Mickey’s been running around like a noble who doesn’t know his place. They’re going to go all Game of Thrones on him or some shit. There’s a real fear knowing the Gallaghers probably know all about him.
“You’re telling me this pathetic piece of shit is the feared Francis Gallagher?” Mickey deflects.
He stares down at Frank’s wild eyes, unable to expose himself any further to Ian.
“I can still get the job done,” Frank says disarmingly pleasant.
Mickey has made a fatal error. It doesn’t matter if he comes out of this with Evanston - he’s a dead man walking. Then, something else clicks into place. Francis Gallagher has sons.
“Fuck,” Mickey mutters. He looks up at Ian, smiling slightly at him.
“Don’t fuck with the Gallaghers,” someone hisses behind him.
Mickey’s vision goes white and pain bursts from the back of his head. Next thing he knows, Frank is laughing wildly in the distance and there’s two redheads staring down at him.
“Did you turn into a chick?” Mickey slurs.
“Debs how hard did you hit him?” Ian asks.
“It took him forever to figure out who you were, so permanent injury wasn't really a concern.”
Ian sighs before kneeling down beside Mickey. He pulls out his phone and flicks on the flashlight. The brightness causes a new wave of pain, Mickey's brain still sensitive after the trauma. Reflexively, Mickey tries to swat it away, but Ian forcefully shoves him back down.
“Look at my ear,” Ian murmurs, tapping the side of the head.
Mickey glares at him and stares defiantly at Ian. If he’s going to die, he’s not going to do it following orders.
“Look dipshit, I’m making sure you don’t have brain damage,” Ian snaps.
Someone coos patronizingly in the background. Ian snaps his head around and it stops abruptly. He turns back to Mickey, who decides that doctors are expensive. It's easier to stare at Ian’s ear. The light of the phone drifts across Mickey’s vision and he can’t help but drift with it. This close up, he can see the smattering of freckles across Ian’s pale skin and how beautiful Ian’s eyes are. A familiar voice in the back of Mickey’s head tells him to knock the gay shit out and Mickey refocuses on Ian’s ear.
Before Mickey knows it, Ian is done and patting his chest.
“No damage that we caused,” Ian says. “You’re good to go.”
Ian stands up, leaving Mickey on the ground. Mickey cranes his head to see Frank gone along with Carl and the other redhead. Surely they’ve trundled Frank into the car. Ian turns to leave to and there’s a flair of vulnerability that scares Mickey more than anything.
“You’re just going to leave me here?” Mickey says, attempting to scramble to his feet.
The world is still a bit on its axis and Mickey is unsteady from the blow. He’s going to have a hell of a headache tomorrow. Likely will beat any hangover he's ever had. Ian looks back at him over his shoulder.
“We’ll concede Evanston - for now,” Ian says. “But a word to the wise, you should get out soon. The Russians aren’t going to get a chance to gain any foothold here.”
“Why the fuck are you telling me this?”
“The Gallaghers could have use for your particular skills,” Ian says smoothly. He turns back and continues to the car, pulling the door open.
“Fuck you mick!” Mickey shouts.
“I’m more of a top, but if you want me too,” Ian calls back.
He gives Mickey a wink and smirk before disappearing into the car. The engine roars to life; something rattling inside. Soon it rips off into the night leaving Mickey alone in the alley. Soaked, pissed, with a head wound and a little bit turned on - Mickey needs a smoke. He pats his shirt pocket to find the carton gone but something stiff in its place. Pulling it out, Mickey stares at the little card.
Ian Gallagher. 713-555-7821.
“What kind of fuckin' mobster has a business card!” Mickey shouts into the night.
He’s fucked in more ways than one.