'Take pleasure in the blessing,' sure. Because it's been real pleasant living lately. Because it's great never feeling a moment's ease, tossing and turning through the night, going through each day knowing the final bullet could be just around the corner. Because Waxey really enjoys feeling like there's an invisible hand constantly clutching at his chest.
Oh, he's glad he's not six feet under. Glad no one's gotten close enough to take a knife to his throat. And he knows that in a relative sense, he's fortunate: a lot of gangsters don't make it to his age. But this isn't an easy mess to live with, and it's starting to get old.
He tells himself it'll get better. If he has to, he'll find a way to make it better.
"Ain't that always the way."
Waxey can think of one or two, ah, things, people he could do without. He tries to keep personal grievances from interfering with business. Most times, he's fine maintaining relations with people he doesn't like--he'd managed for how many years with Horvitz, kept up a running trade with Thompson, and there've been plenty others. It's only occasionally that someone comes around who overthrows all thought of civility. Someone who boils Waxey's blood so sharp he can scarcely think. Someone who thinks he can hijack your booze and walk all over your territory, threaten you like you're the kid here, play like he's the reasonable one, like he's Mr. Fucking Hotshot.
Fuck Lansky. Fuck New York and their arrangements that conveniently shove Waxey to the side. They hadn't planned on the grip he's got on his city. They hadn't planned on his men sticking with the hand that feeds 'em. Shows what New York fuckin' knows.
Anyway, that's not anything to worry about now. Not unless the 'several things' Warden's talking about include those assholes, and Waxey doubts it. He's too wrapped up with those too, and so far as Waxey's seen, Albany's got no beef with New York. (Because there's nothing to be done about that freak city. No one knows what the fuck it is, so no one can touch it. Not yet, anyway.)
"You want to take a seat, get it off of your chest?" He gestures toward a cluster of furniture - a sofa and few chairs, all pricey and all reasonably comfortable - clustered away from his desk. "I can offer you a drink, a smoke."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2015-03-27 07:20 am (UTC)Oh, he's glad he's not six feet under. Glad no one's gotten close enough to take a knife to his throat. And he knows that in a relative sense, he's fortunate: a lot of gangsters don't make it to his age. But this isn't an easy mess to live with, and it's starting to get old.
He tells himself it'll get better. If he has to, he'll find a way to make it better.
"Ain't that always the way."
Waxey can think of one or two, ah, things, people he could do without. He tries to keep personal grievances from interfering with business. Most times, he's fine maintaining relations with people he doesn't like--he'd managed for how many years with Horvitz, kept up a running trade with Thompson, and there've been plenty others. It's only occasionally that someone comes around who overthrows all thought of civility. Someone who boils Waxey's blood so sharp he can scarcely think. Someone who thinks he can hijack your booze and walk all over your territory, threaten you like you're the kid here, play like he's the reasonable one, like he's Mr. Fucking Hotshot.
Fuck Lansky. Fuck New York and their arrangements that conveniently shove Waxey to the side. They hadn't planned on the grip he's got on his city. They hadn't planned on his men sticking with the hand that feeds 'em. Shows what New York fuckin' knows.
Anyway, that's not anything to worry about now. Not unless the 'several things' Warden's talking about include those assholes, and Waxey doubts it. He's too wrapped up with those too, and so far as Waxey's seen, Albany's got no beef with New York. (Because there's nothing to be done about that freak city. No one knows what the fuck it is, so no one can touch it. Not yet, anyway.)
"You want to take a seat, get it off of your chest?" He gestures toward a cluster of furniture - a sofa and few chairs, all pricey and all reasonably comfortable - clustered away from his desk. "I can offer you a drink, a smoke."