Chapter Text
Dipper struggled to write as the train car rattled over the rails, shaking the paper and his hand. He gripped the pen tighter, but just as he put the tip to the paper, the train hit a bump, making scribbles all over his previous efforts.
He growled in frustration at his previous friend, and stuffed the haphazard manuscript back into his briefcase. The attempt to write would’ve been so much easier had he taken his typewriter with him during the move, but his parents insisted he only bring the bare essentials, which meant that his old (Dipper preferred the term ‘well-loved’,) typewriter was left behind, most likely to be sold or thrown out.
At the young age of 20, Dipper’s parents had pulled him out of college, deeming the pursuit of his dreams to get an English degree and be a writer not worth their monetary support anymore. Dipper had argued, bargained, hell, even begged, to let him go back to college, but they refused to give in. Until he had his own money to waste, they had said, Dipper had to get a “real” job. He could work wherever the hell he wanted, but he’d better have a weekly paycheck, or else. Dipper wasn’t sure what they could threaten him with, but after a little thought, he had decided he’d rather not find out.
So, here he was, on the cheapest train he could find to Las Vegas, or “Sin City” as it was more commonly called. The location had been Dipper’s choice, and since his parents did say he could work anywhere he wanted, he took the opportunity to metaphorically spit in their eye and search for work in the most vile city on the West Coast, as opposed to their small and annoyingly safe town on the edge of Oregon. Begrudgingly, his parents had agreed to give him money for the trip down, and help him pack, but Dipper had to use the little money he had earned through small side jobs and such to buy an apartment for himself. It had taken some serious research, but eventually he found a landlord willing to sell him an apartment and look after it until he got there.
The train hit a bump, knocking Dipper’s head against the seat and causing him to cry out in pain. A few people turned their heads to glance at him, but most of the passengers were
asleep, making him realize how much time had actually passed. They had been traveling for almost eight hours. God, Dipper’s butt hurt.
“Attention all passengers, we are nearing our destination of Las Vegas. Please gather all personal belongings and prepare to depart. We hope you enjoy your stay.”
Slowly, the sleeping passengers woke from their slumber, and others began to grab their bags, purses and briefcases. Dipper hugged his briefcase tightly, his heart beginning to beat faster from a cocktail of emotions mixing in his chest. The fizz of excitement, the buzz of anxiety, the sweet tang of rebellion, and the promise of adventure all swirled around like addicts of jazz who’d plague the dancehalls with their riotous swinging. And as the conductor announced their arrival at the station, those feelings urged him to the opening doors with a quick step and excited twitch.
Finally, the doors opened. He held onto his hat, clutched his case closer to his body, and looked out at the night sky lit up with man’s stars. He paused for a moment, a hint of doubt creeping up on him.
Suddenly, a gust of wind blew by, stirring something, waking something deep in the soul of the young man. The little hint of doubt was quickly brushed aside with the hopes of something new and exciting.
With an eager smile on his face, Dipper crossed the threshold of the train.
Bill tapped his long fingers rhythmically on the ebony table, his eyes following each of his capos as they silently filed into the room. Each pulled out their respective chair from the long table, waiting for Bill’s permission to sit. He smirked, enjoying this small gesture of the power he held over them.
He waved his hand, and at the simple gesture, the men settled into their seats. “Evening, gentlemen. Would anyone care for some refreshments before we begin?” Bill snapped his fingers, and almost immediately a butler who had been waiting silently in the corner with a tray of glasses and a bottle of gin walked over to them. A couple of the men nodded their heads, so the butler began to walk around the table, offering a glass to each of the men. Few declined, and once everyone had been served, Bill snapped his fingers again, and the butler left, a visible tremble of his body shaking the glasses on the tray.
“Now, let’s get down to business. 8 Ball, start us off, why don’t ‘cha?”
Simone Bonucci, nicknamed “8 Ball” for his dark skin and love of the parlour game, had been a capo since before Bill had become the boss, and his experience and skill in managing illegal gambling for the crime family previously had led Bill to put him in charge of nearly all of the underground casinos that the family owned.
“It’d be my pleasure, boss.” The man took a swig of his drink and stood up. “Our boys managed to track down that scumbag, Martinique. He’d been hiding out in some juice joint, blowing off the money he cheated out of us. After we took care of him, we persuaded the owners to part with some of their booze, to cover the cost of what Marty had stolen from us.” 8 Ball took another drink. “Folks are so much more agreeable with a gun to their head.”
Bill barked out a laugh. “If I had a dime for every time I’ve thought that, I’d be richer than Rockefeller.”
8 Ball smirked. “The way business is going, you just might be, boss. If you give us the go-ahead for the raid on Wendy’s place, our joints could be the only casinos for miles around. Folks wouldn’t have any choice but to gamble at our place. I suppose they could try to quit, though I’d be fairly surprised if they could.”
The suggestion brought a frown to Bill’s face. “Now, 8, why would we ever want to do that?” The cocky smirk 8 Ball had worn was wiped from his expression. “Wendy is a fine gal who knows how to run a business, and we’ve enjoyed a rather peaceful relationship so far. I plan on joining our businesses, this Friday in fact. I’ll be taking Kryptos and Keyhole with me to help negotiate the deal, so until you hear back from me, you won’t set foot anywhere near her.” Bill laced his fingers together and smiled coldly. “Understood?”
8 Ball clenched his jaw and said nothing, holding back his thought. And if Bill had noticed that, he too said nothing.
“Understood, boss.” he replied with a forced smile, then promptly sat back down.
“Now we can move on. Hectorgon, report.”
The rest of the meeting continued without much difficulty, with each capo reporting their bit. Each one was in charge of a different aspect,- a different ‘business’, to put it simply- of the crime family. Just as 8 Ball managed gambling for the family, so did the others. Kryptos managed the protection of the family’s information and money, and Keyhole managed the gathering of it. Hectorgon; the manufacturing and distribution of weapons. Zanthar; extortion and general intimidation. Teeth; bootlegging. Pacifier; bribery. And finally, Pyro, who managed the family’s prositution ring. Pyro had suggested adding a new kind of service, one involving a pole and considerable lack of clothing, to which Bill agreed with a grin, patting the man on his back for his seemingly endless well of money-making ideas.
It was Pyro who first approached him about starting the ring. The venture turned quite a profit, and after almost three months of the successful operation, Pyro tentatively came forward with a new proposition. Back then, they had only provided female prostitutes, but since men were their biggest clients, it didn’t seem to be a big deal. However, what Pyro suggested intrigued Bill. He had proposed that they hire male sex workers as well, ones who dressed like women. Bill remembered the man had begun to work up a nervous sweat as he frantically tried to explain that there might be some men who wouldn’t be able to tell the difference if the workers didn’t go through with certain acts, and that, well, perhaps, there would be some men who wouldn’t mind. Bill chuckled as he recalled Pyro’s visible panic when he had not responded immediately. The man had backtracked, trying to take back what he had said and tripping over his words, feeling that he had made a grave mistake.
Bill had held up his hand, silencing the trembling figure. He had looked him in the eyes, his own striking yellow irises staring into Pyro’s terrified brown. Then, Bill had cracked a genuine, face-splitting smile, and said, “Why just the crossdressers? Let’s hire any queer we can get our filthy hands on.”
Pyro’s expression shifted in a kind of confusion, then slowly mirrored Bill’s smile. An expression between two seemingly kindred spirits.
Safe to say, they trusted each other far beyond the trust they held in the family. They confided in one another.
Bill was pulled out of his memories with the sound of hushed whispers, bringing his attention back to the report. Then with a sharp nod, he dismissed them. 8 Ball looked at him with what the man might think was an invisible glare, but Bill didn’t avoid it entirely this time. He gazed pointedly back, and the capo quicken his pace towards the exit, caught off guard.
Bill sighed and looked deep into his glass.
It really wasn’t anything new. Just another day.