Work Text:
“Here’s the problem, sweetheart.” Richie said. He pulled the chair around and sat on it easily, long legs crossed and brown brogues shining under the singular hanging light. “A deal is kind of like a pinky promise, right? You know about pinky-promises. First grade; two BFFs, ‘no take-backsies’!”
Hockstetter stared at him through ropey locks of hair. The blood on his jaw was drying in crusty lumps and a heavy bruise raised under his left eye.
“Here’s our issue.” Richie leant forward, elbows resting on his knees and both hands wrapped around the barrel of a Luger. He pressed its handle against his forehead. “When you break a pinky promise in kindergarten, little Jimmy gets a little frustrated. Maybe he steals your lunchbox. He might not even want to be your BFF anymore. And that’s sad. But when you break a pinkie promise with my family, that obligates them to shoot you in the face. Do you see?”
Hockstetter said nothing. He’d been gagged for a while when they brought him in, but he hadn’t spoken since Richie let him spit the cloth from his mouth.
“Ah, well. You know me.” Richie was up on his feet again, metal chair scratching on the concrete behind him. “Let’s get this over with. It’s a pity, man! I thought we had a good thing. Bowers must be some hot shit on you for it to come to this.”
He shrugged, and shifted the pistol gently from his left hand into his right. It extended in front of him. Hockstetter’s gaze flicked, only for a moment, from the barrel back to Richie’s face.
“Helen.” He said, voice rough.
“She keeps her mouth shut, she’ll be fine.” Richie said. “Can’t stop Bowers if he thinks you ratted, of course. But as far as we’re concerned, you have my word.”
Hockstetter nodded, a trace of something mild on his face before his eyes iced over. He gave another, smaller, nod before Richie pulled the trigger.
He winced. Gunshots gave him a headache.
“That chair was gift.” A voice came from the top of the stairs, vowels dipping deep and rich. “From Japan.”
“Baby!” Richie ran an arm across his forehead. He emptied the rest of his clip onto the concrete and tossed the gun onto the shelf. He moved towards the stairs, at the top of which his husband came into view- as he often did at this time of the afternoon- legs first.
“Don’t worry about that ol’ thing.” Richie looked over his shoulder at the thick red stain seeping into the duck-egg silk, swallowing a silver embroidered crane on the ornate chair-back. Hockstetter was slumped untidily between its arms. “We’ll get it reupholstered no problem. How about I call Marge first thing?”
Eddie shook his head as Richie joined him at the top of the stairs.
“She has fingers like sausage.”
Richie thought for a moment.
“Eleanor?” He said. “She’s usually pretty good with the carpets.”
Eddie studied him, dark eyes in shadow. He nodded once, then spun on his heel and withdrew down the hall. His slippers clicked lightly on the hardwood.
“First thing.” Eddie'svoice echoed between the panelled walls. “And change before dinner.”
“As you wish, my darling.” Richie called back. He closed the basement door behind him and wiped his hands on his jeans.
***
“No more taking good furniture in basement.” Eddie sliced a sliver from his steak and looked over his wine glass at Richie. They sat on either end of the dining table. Lamps washed the room in a pale light. The table was traditional, like the rest of the house. Eddie far preferred modern decor. He had looked around when they arrived with a weakly masked distaste. Their apartment in Florida had been their home for almost nine years before Went passed. After the funeral, they moved back to Derry to establish themselves at the head of the organisation. Things had slipped in the last few years of his father's life. Eddie insisted they keep the family business going, so here they were.
Richie was no expert on interior design, but the Miami loft had been cool. Polished black surfaces ran seamlessly from the kitchen into the moody charcoal wood of the bedroom. A fireplace was embedded in their lounge coffee table, which opened up onto a terrace in summer at the touch of a button. They would sit on their couch- bodies entwined on the wide, black leather- and watch the sunset over the ocean.
Their place in Derry was almost the opposite. It had been in the family for generations. It was too full of his parents' mid-century furnishings to integrate any of their old things, so Richie bought a summer house in Malibu to keep it all, and placate his husband. Eddie's rural childhood fuelled a vehement hatred for the 'quaint'. But Richie suspected, in secret, that Eddie was settling into the glamour of it all, here in their spot amongst the shallow Maine hills. Richie caught him sometimes, a hand on his hip and chin tilted upward, inspecting the art on the walls. A cup of coffee in his hand on the deck, watching cows plod across the distant reaches of the countryside.
Regardless of his personal tastes, however, Eddie Tozier could not abide mess.
"I have told you how many times?" he said. "Mo more business in house. I bought you warehouse on lake for meetings.”
“I know, my love. It was an emergency.” Richie said. “And the chair- it’s funny, actually, before they dropped off Hocks I was trying to change that damn light-bulb and-“
“No changing light-bulb with antique chair!”
“Yeah. I won’t. Next time.” Richie said, grin painted over his features as he watched Eddie eat his calculated mouthfuls.
"You got information?" Eddie said.
"Form Hocks?" Richie took a bite of his own steak and chewed it barely once before swallowing. "Ugh. He wouldn't have given me anything, I didn't see the point in drawing things out."
"You are too soft." Eddie said. "He might have talked.”
“How was your day?” Richie noted the crease between Eddie's brows at the change of subject.
“Fine.” Eddie said. “Busy. Calls with your partners.”
“Babe, we talked about this. You don’t have to worry about work stuff. We’ve got it all covered now. With the Criss group on board we have plenty of hands. No more distribution problems.”
“Criss is idiot.”
“Well, yeah, but this is Maine. If we ever break into the Ohio market then maybe we can talk about some competent fucking contractors.”
"I replace twenty men today.” Eddie said. He put his knife and fork down neatly across his plate.
“Oh?”
“Before breakfast.” Eddie said. He picked up his wine glass and took a small sip.
“You know what? For you, angel, I’ll personally check in on the whole operation tomorrow.” Richie leant back in his chair and raised an eyebrow. “Though I’m sure you whipped everything into good enough shape yourself.”
For the first time since lunch, Eddie offered him a smile. To anyone else, it might have seemed measured. Cool, even. But Richie was one of the few people who, to Eddie, was not ‘anyone else’.
“Leave the dishes tonight.” Richie said. Eddie tilted his head.
“If I leave, who will clean?”
“Tori. Alissa. Marvin. Literally anyone.”
“They’re not here until morning.”
“And yet I am here all night long.” Richie said. Eddie shook his head slowly, then took another long sip of wine.
“Good.” He said after he put down his glass. “You do dishes.”
***
“Thank you all for being here tonight. It’s not easy to get these things together, and we really appreciate the effort.” It was Friday night and Richie was standing at the centre of a long, clothed table holding up a glass. Before him, employees and some choice trusted clients; all sitting around smaller, round tables spanning the modest gallery of Derry’s Manor Hotel.
“It was a long drive for the most of you. And, I know what you’re all thinking when you’re on your way in. What a shithole. And my husband-” Richie paused for the modest wave of laughter that moved between the tables. “My husband would be the first to agree with you. He’s a New Yorker in his heart, I think. But he knows what’s best for the family, and there’s nothing he won’t do to protect it.”
Richie turned to him, sitting neatly on a gold-trimmed seat, the collar of his thick fur coat brushing below his cheekbones. He smiled mutedly out at the crowd, and then, over the wire rim of his smoke-tinted glasses, his eyes met Richie’s. There was that glow.
“A value also shared by all of us here tonight.” Richie said, watching the crease at the corners of Eddie’s eyes deepen. “A value which keeps us afloat. Family.” he turned back out to the crowd. Bar and casino owners, distribution managers, product handlers. Decades of carefully forged networks collapsed into a single room. “That’s what this is about. Now, I have a little story to tell before I let you all get to the Surf’n’turf or whatever we rustled up-”
Eddie tutted softly beside him.
“Most of you know this story, but it was actually in my wedding vows that I have to recount the great tale at any gathering over five people, so-”
There were some gentle groans from the top table. Along one side, facing the rest of the room, sat Richie’s oldest and dearest friends. There were five of them in total. Stan, who’d been doing numbers for the family since he was fifteen years old- all while Richie was still fucking around on his first boyfriend’s motorcycle, totally oblivious to what his dad did for a living. Bev and Ben, a formidable partnership who owned almost every high-rise in Chicago; childhood friends of the Toziers. Mike Hanlon, Michael to those who didn’t know him very well. A good researcher. A careful forger. An indispensable ally. And, finally, Bill Denbrough. He was probably Richie’s most precarious associate in the room. A famous author with an obsession with instagram. Eddie had his phone and all three of his houses bugged to make sure he didn’t divulge anything he shouldn’t. So far so good.
And then there was Eddie himself, sitting beside Richie in pride of place.
“I’ll set the scene.” Richie was unable to keep the smile from his voice. “I'm twenty-one years old on my first trip to Europe with the late Mr. Tozier." A small cheer rippled through the room. Richie bent his head in acknowledgement. "Polish winter, fifty miles outside of Łódź." He continued. "A blizzard is in full swing, and my old man- rest his soul- is putting little Richard through his paces. It's my first ever job. A cute little operation on a sweet farmhouse in the middle of eighteen acres of field land. I'm eager and everything, but I'm ass-deep in snow with no idea what I'm doing. Suffice it to say I'm shitting bricks.”
Soft laughter. Richie glanced down the table at Bev. Red hair tumbled over her shoulder and rested against the teal of her gown. She was whispering to Ben, a broad-shouldered barrel of a man. She caught Richie’s eye, and her red-painted lips drew into a smile.
“So I go in through a window, totally alone and looking for whatever pointless set of papers Dad told me to get. I didn’t know they were pointless at the time, of course. I’m scuffling around, probably making a shit load of noise. Eventually I get to the drawing room, and I start picking at the lock of a closet with a safety pin. There’s a noise behind me. I turn around, slowly, and there he is. My whole fucking future standing in the middle of the ugliest Persian rug you’ve ever seen. Don’t tell his mother I said that.” He added.
“He didn’t speak a word of English. And I didn’t speak Polish, and he’s pointing this hulking pipe of a shotgun at me. Beautiful thing," Richie said. "and a nice gun, too." he winked at Eddie, who turned modestly to the side, adjusting his knife and fork. Stan was shaking his head from down the table.
"We still have it, by the way- that gun. Some of you might have admired it on our mantle back in Malibu. Anyway. You get the picture. I’m still standing before you, so you're looking at some rare evidence of the first and only time this man has shown any mercy. He’s had my life in his hands ever since.”
A short whistle rang out from the end of the table. Ben had his fingers in his mouth, and Bev led the room into polite applause. Thick rings on her fingers glinting in light sprinkling across the room from two huge chandeliers.
“If you’re here tonight, both of us probably owe you a little slice of our lives, as well.” Richie said. “And we hope to enjoy a long future of continued collaboration. Oh- before I go-“ Richie said, just as he was making to put his glass down and sit. “My love wanted me to announce that the acquisition of The Falcon was sealed yesterday morning.”
A round of more enthusiastic applause pattered across the room.
“Yeah! Which marks the first phase of our program to transform North Side. Keep up the good work this year. Thank you. Please eat, drink and enjoy.”
Richie sat down to the final surge of applause and poured himself another glass of wine.
“Work dinners,” Richie muttered to Eddie. “never have strong enough drinks.”
Eddie leant over slowly, the silent shift of his coat brushing Richie’s wrist as he took his hand. He pressed a kiss to his cheek. As he drew back, he snapped his fingers and a waiter appeared from the curtain behind their table.
“Scotch.” Eddie said. "And two cigarettes." The waiter disappeared again with a crisp nod.
“You get me.” Richie whispered to Eddie, who settled himself back into his chair. Across the room, rows of servers in neat black and white were filing in with two plates on each arm.
***
“You ever think about stopping?” Richie said. He lay on his back in the centre of their king-size bed. Its headboard swept half way up the wall in a dusty champagne velvet.
“Why stop when you are so good at what you do?”
“What we do.” Richie leant out and snagged Eddie’s wrist as he passed from the bathroom. Eddie slowed and let himself be pulled onto the mattress. He perched on its corner and ran his free hand through the greying hair at Richie’s temple.
“Mm.” Eddie said.
“We could pack this up. Have a kid.” Richie said. “You wanted one, once upon a time.”
Eddie shook his head. He wasn’t delicate in any identifiable sense. His body was small, but strong. His movements deliberate. His eyes were fierce under his heavy brow, and when he was there, you knew about it. But he was also careful. He had grace about him, and there was something undeniably soft in how he placed his movements. Richie brushed his thumb against the knot of his wrist.
“You are youngest Boss on East Coast.” Eddie said. “It's too soon. You will not retire before fifty. That is a waste.” Eddie said, an eyebrow raised just so. “And child. Well, child makes mess.”
Richie grinned.
“Okay.” He said. “You give the word, though. I’ll give it all up. We can get on a plane and go anywhere. Start over again somewhere new.”
Eddie gave an expression of vague acknowledgment.
“You worry about this all the time." he said. ”You should not. You built something good.”
“I deal heroin.” Richie said bluntly. Eddie smiled and shrugged. His jaw cast a sharp shadow down the side of his neck.
“You are fair. You build school and keep street safe. This life is-” Eddie made a gesture with his hand, dipping one way, then the other.
“Balance.” Richie said. Eddie nodded. “Heroin school.” Richie muttered. He squeezed his eyes shut and ran his hands up over his face.
"I do not want 'start over'.” Eddie ignored him. “I want this life you made for us."
“I’d be nothing without you.” Richie said. He had the roll of laughter in his voice, but Eddie had to know it was true. He let himself down gracefully until he was lying alongside Richie. The powdery smell of his moisturiser hit him. He closed his eyes and let it engulf him.
“I’m drunk.” Richie whispered.
“You have day off tomorrow.” Eddie kissed his forehead, and then the feathered edge of his hairline, and then his cheek. “Go to sleep. Have Alissa bring seltzer in morning.”
Richie hummed. His eyes stayed closed. The mattress shifted and light fell over his eyelids. He opened them and Eddie was at his vanity, pulling a headband up into his hair.
***
If anything reminded Richie of his age, it was the thumping in his head after even the most modest evening. He blanched as he opened his eyes to the morning light falling through their curtains. Their house was on the very edge of town. Untouched hills rolled endlessly to the North, and farmland stretched out to the west. Their bedroom had a window on either side, one catching the sunset, and the other, the sunrise.
Richie sat up, hand blocking out the worst of the offending sun. He looked down, as he always did, to his right. Eddie was sleeping soundly. He usually snored as he fell asleep, but fell silent sometime in the night- maybe as his sleep deepened- and lay breathing steadily beside Richie until morning. Richie let his hand drop, tolerating the beams pouring over his face to run a knuckle over Eddie’s cheek. He traced the curve of his brow up into the flyaway hairs escaping his headband. He smiled to himself.
“Angel.” He muttered, then he pulled himself together and put his feet down over the side of the bed.
Downstairs, he made it to the kitchen with a thick pair of sunglasses over his regular glasses. His head was too sludgy to contemplate contacts. The frames clicked as he walked. He nodded to Alissa, who had started the coffee machine. She smiled and made herself scarce while Richie sat himself at the island, eyes closed and humming softly to no particular tune.
The machine was hissing to a boil when there was an almighty bang from the entryway. His eyes snapped open. The bang came again and he was on his feet and patting down the corridor towards the front door.
When he arrived, his front doors were wide open, the thick lacquered wood reflecting shards of light over the painting on the far wall. The main staircase spiralled up to his left as Richie stood in the centre of the archway.
“What is this?” He said, ignoring the hunched form of Criss on his hall floor, and addressing the stricken-looking guard behind him. “Eddie’s gonna kill me, man. Come on. We just hired you guys. I mean Jesus! I feel like keeping lunatics out of my home is literally the only thing we asked you guys to do yet- you know what?” He held a hand up, the ringing in his ears clanging horribly under the sound of his own voice. “Never mind. Jules, get him out of here. I’ll deal with it this afternoon.”
“Wait!” Criss said. He looked up at Richie, a desperation on his face. Richie didn’t blame him. He was doing a monumentally stupid thing right at that moment.
He crouched down on the polished stone, where Criss was kneeling up now. Richie made an exasperated hand gesture at his guard.
“Sir,” Jules said. “you told us not to shoot unless-“
“I know what I said.” Richie said. “But I did say that under the assumption that you knew how to still do your damn job without getting guts all over the lawn-”
“Richie, please.” Criss said hurriedly. “It’s in your interest that I’m here. I swear. I just wanted to see you as soon as possible.”
Richie studied him.
“My husband is asleep right now.” He said, sighing deeply as he lifted himself back into an upright position. “And I can promise you, you don’t want him to come downstairs and find out his breakfast has been delayed.”
“I- I understand.” Criss said. “I just need five minutes. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t urgent.” He said. Jules, perhaps recovering himself a little, was beginning to step forwards. Richie held a hand up to him and he froze again at once.
“Come into the parlour.”
***
Richie sat heavily into the couch on the far side of the room. It lined the frayed edge of a grey moroccan rug. He waved a hand half-heartedly, and Jules disappeared into the main hall. He appeared again before long with two more men, semi-automatics hanging loosely on straps around their chests. They took their places either side of the door, which stood every inch as tall as the fifteen-foot ceiling. Open, it let in syrupy light from the entrance hall.
Richie took a breath. The scent of grass-cuttings drifted in on the breeze.
Criss stood, shaky, beside a pair of decadent pink armchairs at the other end of the rug. Jules stood close-by, near the armoire. Richie gestured for Criss to sit. He did so, on the very corner of the nearest armchair.
“You have a tight five, sweetheart.” Richie said. “I have eggs to make.”
“Uh. Right. It’s The Falcon.” He said. “Haggarty found me this morning and- Bowers' gang have moved in. They have trucks. They have guns-“
“Weird. Did I fall into a parallel universe where we lost all our trucks and guns?" Richie put a finger to his chin in mock-thought.
"No. I just- They're preventing us from delivering goods to the bar. And when we spoke to him he, uh, claimed it’s still his land.”
“And this is Bowers...?" Richie asked. Criss blinked at him. "Bowers Senior?” Richie clarified impatiently.
Criss nodded.
“Well, last I checked, his boy was running things now, not him. And three days ago, his boy sold us half of Downtown so… It doesn't really concern the old man, does it?”
“I know.” Said Criss. “But-“
“Vic, I’m gonna stop you there.” Richie said. “Because I’m getting the impression that this is a you problem.”
“Boss, the pre-school is down the street and if there was a shoot-out within a hundred yards of it we’d be busted for sure. They’d be investigating for weeks. I just thought if we could get you to show your face down there maybe they’d- Maybe you could-” Criss’ voice crumbled like the side of a cliff in a landslide. Richie leant forwards, forearms resting on his knees. The corners of sleep were still hanging over his head like a cloth.
“I can appreciate your boys haven’t worked on this scale before, but this isn’t dime-bags-in-the-park anymore. We made it pretty clear on Wednesday- we chose you because we strongly prefer to keep our associations local. ” he raised an eyebrow. “But I have no hesitations about taking the Rosetta family up on their offer in Cleveland.”
“No, no.” Criss said. “I just- they have so many men. I didn’t know if you had any backup, or if they would listen to you directly-“
Richie was opening his mouth, ready to remind him that he wasn’t the damn duty-manager and that even bosses of legitimate companies did not take house calls; let alone at the crack of dawn-
“How do you like your ballsack hanging from my ceiling?” Came a voice from the doorway.
“Wh- what?”
Eddie’s shadow stretched over the rug. His hands were on his hips. His frame was small in the yawn of the doorway. He wore a blue robe which hung off him like he was made from marble. Beams of light from the front door shifted through the fabric.
Richie didn’t bother to hold back his smile. He sat back into the couch as Eddie swept into the room. His footsteps were silent on the rug, but his strides still seemed to shift the very energy around him. He came to a stop by the couch and sat beside Richie, back straight, the chiffon of his robe pristine.
He stared pointedly at the muddy work boots on Criss’ feet.
“You’ve met my husband.” Richie said. “And I believe you spoke on the phone?”
Criss, eyes blown wide and darting between the two of them, nodded.
“Meat hooks.” Eddie said. “Nineteen-ninety-nine, we acquire old abattoir. Use it now to store product, so no need for equipments. But meat hook has many uses besides for cow.”
Criss had a look on his face between confusion and terror.
“What’s he saying?” Criss said, voice small.
Richie cleared his throat.
“You can address my husband if you have a question for him.” He said.
“I will make clear." Eddie snapped. "You get dirt on my carpet, I cut off your balls, and hang them from hook.”
Richie thought Eddie was making himself pretty transparent. There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Criss shifted. Slowly at first, and then hurriedly, he unlaced his boots and toed them off. He looked around as if someone was going to help him. No one did. Richie was looking at his fingernails and Eddie had him pinned with a steady icy stare. Criss placed his shoes onto his lap. Eddie drew in a breath and his shoulders relaxed a fraction.
“Look,’ Richie said. “We’d love to keep your business, but if you can’t take care of Bowers then we're gonna have to reconsider. He’s, like, asshole one-oh-one around here. And he's hardly gonna go away by magic. Believe me, if that was possible we would’a done it years ago.”
“They have hostages.” Criss said.
“Then you take hostages.” Eddie said briskly, he looked over at Richie as if Criss had just asked for assistance going to the bathroom. “Your mother didn’t teach you to negotiate?” Eddie asked incredulously. Richie put a hand on his back and sat forwards.
“Okay.” He said. “Here’s what we’re going to do, Vicky. You’re gonna get the fuck out of our house because it’s six-am on a Saturday. I’m a nice guy, so I’m gonna forget this ever happened, and when I get Marvin to drive across town this afternoon, our Bowers problem is going to be resolved. If you come onto our property again, you should know that not a force on this Earth can stop my husband from bringing down those meat hooks if he wants to. Least of all me. Does that make sense?”
Criss’ mouth opened, but he didn’t seem to have anything remotely verbal prepared.
“Nod for yes.” Eddie said. Criss’ gaze found him again, and as soon as it did, he nodded. The worry was wormed deep in his eyes. Richie watched him. The worry was good. The worry makes you act. Eddie taught him that.
“Jules, show him out.” Richie said to the guard, who still had a stressed pallor of his own over his cheeks. He approached Criss, shoes still in his hands, and followed closely behind him as he walked dazedly back into the hall, and then out into the morning sunlight and down the stone steps.
“It’s like fucking training week around here.” Richie collapsed into the soft hold of the couch.
“Respect.” Muttered Eddie, still sat pin-straight and adjusting his thin gold watch beneath the blue folds of his robe. “Not taught in this country.”
“What would we do without you to educate us, hm?” Richie said. He looped his arm underneath Eddie’s, and pulled him by the waist until his thigh was pressed alongside Richie's. Eddie fixed him with his hard glare, and Richie’s face split into a smile.
One of the guards glanced over at them as Richie tightened his grip and dragged Eddie down across the couch cushions. He waved a hand over Eddie’s shoulder, dismissing the two left in the room. They filed out of the main door. The last one out reached in and clasped the giant handle. It closed with a scrape and a deep thump that resonated around the room just as Eddie, captured squarely in Richie’s arms, began to laugh.