oh oh SO MUCH FOR LEAVING THE MAFIA AU FOR ANOTHER THREAD
no hands more nimble than a thief's and no tongue cleverer than a liar's, but these are not the only reasons edmund keeps coming back to rusty. together they leave crumbs all over the floor of rusty's hotel room, on the sheets of rusty's hotel bed, and rusty is like this machine that takes an input of x units of edmund's cashew nuts and expels output of y units of information.
marco was also in prison with his brother. they were nabbed for the same offense, fucked up on the same meth deal. as far as connections with the patriso family goes, don patriso isn't happy, but he's not going to toss marco on the street; marco abruzzi has connections all over the tri-state area and has gotten the patriso family out of various scrapes without making the shit too high-profile.
"and besides," says rusty around a mouthful of cashews, "if anyone was going to be taking the fall for the meth deal, it was going to be his brother. that was more his thing. so the patrisos, they lost a major enterprise, a number of key people, and they weren't too happy, you know? marco abruzzi had to pull a lot of strings and pay off a lot of people to keep his brother alive. even prison -- especially prison -- it wasn't safe."
and then, through a complex exchange of promises, financial exchanges, and almost-betrayals, marco got his brother off the hit-list.
edmund says, "and then what happened?"
"and then his brother died."
edmund's jaws tense. he has a feeling he knows what's coming. "who did it?"
"your brother."
silence for a few moments. certain threads of peter's half-truths and silences weave themselves together in edmund's mind. then, "not that the guards ever found out."
"the guards never found out," rusty affirms, then leans back. "so. there you have it. the sad and tragic tale of bongo abruzzi."
edmund guffaws. "bongo? what the fuck kind of name is bongo?"
"peter never told you about bongo?" asks rusty, raising an eyebrow.
he takes another swig of beer. "he never really told us much."
so rusty tells him. he even uses the 'took him to the cleaners' punch-line that probably danny been too classy to use, and edmund would have been amused, would have at least rolled his eyes, if a certain penny hadn't dropped somewhere in his head.
"wait wait wait," says edmund. "are you telling me."
rusty munches cashews unconcernedly.
"that my brother."
rusty scratches his head.
"is in a blood vendetta with THE FUCKING MAFIA."
"hmm," says rusty. "maybe."
'two-bit drug dealer from jersey city' indeeeeeeeeeeeeeed.
no subject
no hands more nimble than a thief's and no tongue cleverer than a liar's, but these are not the only reasons edmund keeps coming back to rusty. together they leave crumbs all over the floor of rusty's hotel room, on the sheets of rusty's hotel bed, and rusty is like this machine that takes an input of x units of edmund's cashew nuts and expels output of y units of information.
marco was also in prison with his brother. they were nabbed for the same offense, fucked up on the same meth deal. as far as connections with the patriso family goes, don patriso isn't happy, but he's not going to toss marco on the street; marco abruzzi has connections all over the tri-state area and has gotten the patriso family out of various scrapes without making the shit too high-profile.
"and besides," says rusty around a mouthful of cashews, "if anyone was going to be taking the fall for the meth deal, it was going to be his brother. that was more his thing. so the patrisos, they lost a major enterprise, a number of key people, and they weren't too happy, you know? marco abruzzi had to pull a lot of strings and pay off a lot of people to keep his brother alive. even prison -- especially prison -- it wasn't safe."
and then, through a complex exchange of promises, financial exchanges, and almost-betrayals, marco got his brother off the hit-list.
edmund says, "and then what happened?"
"and then his brother died."
edmund's jaws tense. he has a feeling he knows what's coming. "who did it?"
"your brother."
silence for a few moments. certain threads of peter's half-truths and silences weave themselves together in edmund's mind. then, "not that the guards ever found out."
"the guards never found out," rusty affirms, then leans back. "so. there you have it. the sad and tragic tale of bongo abruzzi."
edmund guffaws. "bongo? what the fuck kind of name is bongo?"
"peter never told you about bongo?" asks rusty, raising an eyebrow.
he takes another swig of beer. "he never really told us much."
so rusty tells him. he even uses the 'took him to the cleaners' punch-line that probably danny been too classy to use, and edmund would have been amused, would have at least rolled his eyes, if a certain penny hadn't dropped somewhere in his head.
"wait wait wait," says edmund. "are you telling me."
rusty munches cashews unconcernedly.
"that my brother."
rusty scratches his head.
"is in a blood vendetta with THE FUCKING MAFIA."
"hmm," says rusty. "maybe."
'two-bit drug dealer from jersey city' indeeeeeeeeeeeeeed.